


A Boy, A Girl, And a Dog: The Leithian Script

by GammaCavy



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Huan Is A Good Dog
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1998-08-08
Updated: 2017-08-08
Packaged: 2018-12-13 02:06:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 154
Words: 585,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11749854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GammaCavy/pseuds/GammaCavy
Summary: The Tale of Tinuviel, dramatized script version. Originally by Philosopher at Large, acquired from rustbucket.net, now formatted and reposted here by me, notes and cast list intact.





	1. ACT I. AN APPOINTMENT IN MENEGROTH:THE THRONE-ROOM SCENE OF THE LAY OF LEITHIAN

A Boy, A Girl, & A Dog:

The Lay of Leithian Dramatic Script Project

aka “The Script,” “The Play of Leithian,” and “This Madness”…

**(with apologies to Messrs. Shakespeare and Tolkien)**

 

 

“For every minstrel hath his tune;  
and some are strong and some are soft,  
and each would bear his song aloft,  
and each a little while be heard,  
though rude the note, and light the word.”

—Lúthien Tinúviel to Morgoth, _The Lay of Leithian,_ Canto XIII **(J.R.R. Tolkien transl.)**

 

 

 

 

The Leithian Script —— Why?

Well, it's more fun than the Cliff Notes…

Seriously, it was forged out of a combination of several consecutive retellings of the story, set into the wider Arda Mythos context on the fly, to younger, teenage Tolkien fans who had either not read _Silmarillion_ or not lately; several particularly inane Usenet statements and a general tone of obliviousness cluelessness as to character motivations; and a free morning when I didn't feel like cleaning the house…

It had started as nothing more than the cartoon which accompanies it, the mental exercise of imagining how the throne room scene would appear if one were actually there to witness it having caused me too many fits of giggles not to inflict it on — er, share it with — others. Unfortunately, the rest of the scene insisted on playing itself out, and thus The Script was born…

Then, although it was only conceived as a one-off short sketch, I was urged repeatedly to keep going, which didn't happen until I finally figured out how to do this — it truly is a very complicated architectonic and stylistic construction, and not a simple matter of translation at all. Then a way to make it work, as a unified drama, occurred to me, and the madness went on…

Here I show you the ropes and pulleys, the gaffers and grips, making it all happen — that is to say, the textual citations, in-jokes, obscure/obligatory references, and terrible puns, along with interpretations & interpolations of Canon — and ultimately the answer to "Why?" such a project at all…

List of Abbreviations Employed Throughout:

  * JRRT - John Ronald Reuel Tolkien
  * LOTR - _The Lord of the Rings_
  * FOTR - _The Fellowship of the Ring_
  * TTT - _The Two Towers_
  * ROTK - _The Return of the King_
  * _Silm._ \- _The Silmarillion_
  * HOME - the "History of Middle-earth" series of ancillary/auxilliary works by JRRT, collected and annotated by his son Christopher.
  * LB - _The Lays of Beleriand,_ part of HOME
  * LL1 - the first Lay of Leithian fragment, contained in LB
  * LL2 - the second Lay of Leithian fragment, contained in LB
  * UT - _Unfinished Tales_
  * LT1 - _The Book of Lost Tales_ , vol. 1
  * LT2 - _The Book of Lost Tales_ , vol. 2
  * LR - _The Lost Road_
  * MR - _Morgoth's Ring_
  * _Shaping_ \- _The Shaping of Middle-earth_



ALL ACTS

Now, as far as The Script goes, overall I'm following the story and Canon as set forth in the 1977 _Silmarillion,_ which as far as I can tell from subsequent reading is close to, if not quite identical with, the unpublished 1930 Silmarillion for the story of Beren and Luthien. However, I also have made massive recourse to the Fragments of the Lay of Leithian, written out in the last half of the '20s, mostly, and found in _The Lays of Beleriand_ together with the earliest version of The Lay of the Children of Hurin, which I will refer to as LL1 and LL2, the latter being a revision of some of the cantos begun ca 1950. Generally speaking I will take the Lay Fragments as primary, though not always, when there are differences.

I have also utilized where I have found them relevant facts and information from elsewhere in the History of Middle Earth, where sometimes a small sentence or aside will provide vast insights into the connections or complications of the story. And, of course, there is the whole question of variations internally, which I treat by a) picking the versions I like best; b) acting as though the writings are actually translations of pre-and post-Atalantaean works recovered by Professor Tolkien, which have been mucked about with and partially mangled and partly forgotten and often rewritten, just like The Song of Roland and other real epics and romances of the Primary World. So The Script is, on one level, an attempt to harmonize these various rescensions of Canon, just as it is on another level an attempt to make the obscurer parts comprehensible to a modern audience.

Three things are important to remember: first, the  Silmarillion version of Beren & Luthien is complete in length, but not in detail; secondly, the LB versions are not complete in length (what I would not give for the lost 3.5 cantos!) but much fuller in detail; thirdly, there are hints and crucial elements developed in the adjunct notes and summaries jotted down as Tolkien developed the plot more fully. But the LB is very hard to work with, due partly to the typeface and partly to the masses of interpolated scholarly commentary, which are useful on one level, but do not make for easy or fluid reading. And it's poetry in a high-medieval style, like that of the famous  ["Ubi Sunt"](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wikipedia:Reference_desk/Archives/Humanities/2009_March_19) — which goes like this in part:

Were beth they biforen us weren,  
Houndes ladden and hauekes beren  
And hadden feld and wode?  
The riche levedies in hoere bour  
That wereden golden in hoere tressour  
With hoere brightte rode……  
Were is that lawing and that song,  
That trayling and that proude gong,  
Tho havekes and tho houndes?

which is not a style natural to us these days, (or most of us, at least) and requires some adjustment to be readable as a novel is to us. But oh, it has some grand stuff in it, and I at least enjoy "the character of its hero," and do not find it merely "a treasure chest of trivia," as the blurb on the back cover calls it.

He grew afraid amidst his power once more;  
renown of Beren vexed his ears,   
and down the aisléd forests there was heard great Huan baying.

Why did I choose to render it in a pseudo-Shakespearean format, modeled on  [Henry V](http://books.google.com/books?id=r9c-AAAAIAAJ&dq=henry%20v&pg=PA1) with the device of the Narrator, Gower the medieval poet-historian, on loan from that play? Partly because it's fun to do neo-Elizabethan verse (at least for me) and partly because it allows me to add commentary and make connections past what information would be available to the characters at any given scene. And because it bridges well the divide between the epic story and the flippant modern style I've adopted, and provides an almost-plausible (I hope at least) framework with which to counteract the synapse-shorting dichotomies — in  Henry V, Gower exists "outside time," speaking to the audience directly from the context of the theater group which is thus acknowledged to exist and to be merely portraying the events, and so the artificiality of the play-world is thus dissipated by recognition, and anachronisms and historical differences are likewise obviated.

In other words, Gower can talk about computer screens, and it isn't "wrong" any more than when he asks us to imagine that "this wooden O" is the battlefield of Agincourt or the hall of the King—

And so, I present:

 

**THE THRONE-ROOM SCENE OF THE LAY OF LEITHIAN**

**retold in the vernacular as a dramatic script** **(with apologies to Messrs. Tolkien & Shakespeare)**

 

Dramatis Personae & Cast, in order of appearance [this is how I'd cast them - you're free to supply your own actors, of course.]

 **The Human Bard Gower (appearing courtesy of The Rose Playhouse)** Derek Jacobi (appearing courtesy  Henry V)

 **Luthien aka Tinuviel, Princess of Doriath** Claudia Black (appearing courtesy  Farscape)

 **Elu Thingol, King of Doriath** Jeremy Irons (appearing courtesy  Brideshead Revisited)

 **Melian the Maia, Queen of Doriath** Emma Thompson (appearing courtesy  Sense & Sensibility)

 **Beren Barahirion, Human Warrior** Christian Bale (appearing courtesy  Treasure Island, Little Women)

 **Mablung, Captain of Doriath** Ronald Colman (appearing courtesy  The Prisoner of Zenda)

 **Beleg Cuthalion, Elven Ranger** David Niven (appearing courtesy  The Prisoner of Zenda)

 **Daeron the Bard, Elven Flautist** Lani John Tupu (appearing courtesy  Farscape)

 **Citizenry of Doriath** ( **nonspeaking parts)** as themselves (appearing courtesy of Mandos)

* * *

 

## Act 1: SCENE I

 **Gower** :

Now   
envision wide upon this meager screen,   
the lofty arches of deep Doriath,   
where Elu Thingol, gray King of Elves   
and Melian the Wise his wife   
whose birth precedes the eldest stars,   
hold high court before their host.   
    --Let thy mind   
make of our panel white and keystrokes black   
Shining caverns, enlumened all with bright   
lamps of white gems all fashioned fair   
upheld by dragons carved and gilt,   
and water flowing o'er the stone   
like to a grotto fashioned of the gods   
where birds do sing beneath no sun --   
    Here,   
into the shade of the holy trees   
Luthien Tinuviel doth lead her love,   
Beren the wanderer from out the woods,   
before her mother musing and infuriate sire   
before the assemblage of her friends and kin   
and doubtful Daeron that betray'd of love . . .

 **Luthien** :

Mom, Dad -- this is my fiance, Beren.

 **Thingol** :

Well, well, well.  So you're the fellow who's been camping in my woods this past year.  How did you get past the security system?

 **Beren** :

Um? [distracted by the spears/crowd/nightingales/jewels/waterfall/trees/Melian]

How . . .?  I, er, just, erm, kept walking, and . . . then I was here.

 **Thingol:** [thinking]

\--Yeah, right. [aloud]

So, --Beren, is it? --what do you do for a living?

 **Beren** :

Orcs.  Um.  I, uh, I hunt them.  Sir. [winces]

 **Thingol** :

Really.  And do you foresee a long-term career in this . . . admirable venture of yours?

 **Beren:** [desperate flippancy]

Well, I expect I'll be doing it the rest of my life.

 **Thingol:** [not amused]

And this should impress me why?

 **Beren** :

Well, my dad was a good friend of the King of Nargothrond, saved his life at the Siege of Angband, and they say I take after Da -- I might be useful to have around, is all I'm saying.

 **Thingol:** [biting sarcasm]

In case you hadn't noticed, this isn't Nargothrond -- or do I look like Finrod Felagund to you?

 **Beren** :

I, I don't know, sir; I've never met King Finrod --

 **Thingol:** [forced patience]

\--That was a rhetorical question, boy.  I'm saying I don't care who your friends-and-relations are, I want to know what you have to offer my daughter. I didn't raise Luthien to be a beggar or a wandering healer -- I expect her to take over the administration of Doriath after me.  We have lots of people who can kill Orcs, and with eons more experience than you've got, so I don't really see a place for your talents in our organization.

 **Beren** :

Well, my parents ran a realm too, not as big as this, but nevertheless --

 **Thingol:** [losing it]

Silence!  Impertinent puppy!  Can you give me one good reason why I shouldn't throw you into the labyrinth and delete the key?  Do you really expect me to believe that you've just been taking music lessons from my daughter in the forest?  I should chop you into pieces and chop the pieces into pieces! --unfortunately, you'd miss most of it --  

 **Beren:** [nervously]

Um, I know this isn't the best time to remind you, but Tinuviel did say you'd promised me a safe conduct . . .

[pause]

 **Thingol:** [lethally]

Who's Tinuviel?

 **Beren** :

. . .

 **Luthien:** [exasperated]

It's my nickname, Daddy.  Like yours is Thingol.  Because of my singing. And you did promise.  In front of witnesses.

 **Thingol:** [raising voice]

\--but as I was about to say, I stupidly promised her that I wouldn't kill or maim you (I can't think why, all she does is look at me and I give her whatever she asks for) but that doesn't mean I can't find other ways to keep you from getting at her, you empty-handed vagabond--

 **Melian:** [mindspeech]

Ahem. Elu.

 **Thingol:** [mindspeech]

\--Yes, dear?

 **Melian:** [mindspeech]

The good news is -- that he isn't a brainwashed slave sent here by our Enemy to assassinate you, kidnap Luthien or corrupt Doriath.

 **Thingol:** [mindspeech]

Hmph. What's the bad?

 **Melian:** [mindspeech]

That he isn't a brainwashed slave sent here by our Enemy to assassinate you, kidnap Luthien or corrupt Doriath.

 **Thingol** :

!?. . . !?

 **Melian:** [mindspeech]

He's just a boy who's fallen in love with a stranger he met in the woods.

[longish pause]

 **Thingol:** [mindspeech]

\--It was different for us...

 **Melian:** [mindspeech, sighing]

It's always different...

[Simultaneous w/previous exchange: Enter the two chief warriors of Doriath.]

 **Beleg** :

All right, all right, what's all the fuss?

 **Mablung** :

Daeron, old boy!  Fill us in!

[Daeron gives a guilty start and almost drops his flute]

 **Daeron** :

Erm.  Hullo, chaps.  It's that Man you were all out looking for. He just turned up.  --How did he get past you?

 **Beleg** :

How indeed?  We figured he'd jumped the gate and made a run for it.  Done a bunk, as it were.

 **Mablung** :

Right.  When was the last time anyone got past us, Strongbow?

 **Beleg:** [thinking]

Mm, seventy-four years ago.  That wolf light-cavalry unit down the cliffs on the other side.  Didn't get far, though.

 **Mablung** :

You sure it's been that long?

 **Beleg** :

Sure I'm sure.

 **Mablung** :

I don't remember all of that -- I think you've got an extra decade in there.

 **Beleg** :

No, that was the winter before the winter that the borders got four cubits of snow and five of those things with six legs and two heads.

 **Mablung** :

Anybody know what those things are?  What are they called, anyway?  Daeron?

[Daeron gives a guilty start]

You're the bard around here -- don't you know?

 **Beleg** :

What's wrong with 'those things with six legs and two heads?' or better yet, 'those dead things with six legs and two heads' --?

[Melian gives them a Look, and they quiet down.  The conversation regarding a suitable dowry is just concluding.]

 **Beren** :

So, if I brought back all three of them, and you had three daughters, would you let me marry all of them?  --Just curious, sounds like a real bargain on elf-princesses--

 **Luthien:** [stage whisper]

Beren!  Shush!  I don't know how long it would take me to get you out of the labyrinth -- it might take a hundred years!

[Beren hushes up.]


	2. Act 1: SCENE II

Act 1: SCENE II

 **Gower** :

Now   
let us turn aside from counsels of the great   
and cast our thoughts upon the parting of the twain   
whose love enduring should downcast   
the powers of earth and e'en the gods . . .

[The hall before the main gates.  Beren is pacing and ranting in nervous aftershock; Luthien holds his hand, anchoring him, compass-like]

 **Beren** :

I had it all planned out.  I was going to say -- ‘I've been engaged in a systematic program of destabilization targeted at the most vulnerable areas of Morgoth's regime, combined with a low-impact lifestyle which honors traditional Sindarin folkways and combines high efficiency with respect for Arda.'  That would have sounded halfway intelligent. And I completely lost it.  I must have been hyperventilating: I thought there was this -- glowing light around your mother.

 **Luthien** :

You could see that?  Most people don't notice.

 **Beren** :

Y--your mom glows.  --Why?

 **Luthien** :

It's only when she's using her Power.  She doesn't try to show off or act like she's different from Eldar, really.

 **Beren:** [confused]

You're an Elf -- but she isn't?

 **Luthien:** [surprised]

She's Maiar.  Doesn't everyone know that?

 **Beren** :

! . . . ! [shaking his head]

I thought it was bad enough learning your father's the king \-- now I find out your mother's a goddess \--! [starting to hyperventilate] 

**Luthien** :

It's okay.  I think she likes you.  The fact that you got past her Maze without going mad means you're Good.  --I pointed that out to my father.

 **Beren** :

I'm afraid it didn't convince him.

 **Luthien** :

He really isn't like this.  Well, he is sort of paranoid -- but he does have reasons for that.  Given that people keep ambushing and betraying and trying to destroy us -- and those are our relatives, not the Dark Lord's minions.

 **Beren:** [starting to rant again]

He doesn't think I have a chance -- but I can do it.  I made it through the borders; I can sneak into Angband.  Frontal assault didn't work because it's too obvious.  Well, and the Dragon and the Balrogs and the being outnumbered part of it, too.  --Maybe I'll go disguised as a slave.  They'll never expect anyone trying to get in, not out . . .

 **Luthien** :

Beren, you don't have to prove anything to me.  Let's just go. We can take care of ourselves -- we don't need civilization.

**Beren:**

No. Your dad's right.  I can't do that to you.  Argh!  Now I understand my parents' dilemma.  Poor Ma . . .

**Luthien:**

I should go with you.

**Beren:**

No!  If anything happened to you I'd kill myself.  You -- you can't imagine what it's like out there.  The -- the spider-things and the things with the eyes . . .

**Luthien:**

But it's okay for you to go.

[pause]

 **Beren:** [quietly]

It's got to be easier the second time. And I've been doing it for years.

**Luthien:**

Why don't you go ask Finrod Felagund for assistance?  He likes humans, and he owes your family.  At least he'd give you supplies and maps.

**Beren:**

Good idea.  I should have thought of that.  --Are you going to be all right? Are your parents going to make your life hell while I'm gone?

**Luthien:**

What are they going to do?  Lock me up in my room?  I'm not a child of ninety.

**Beren:**

I wish we had some way to contact each other.  Even a pair of those matching knives like in stories.  --You don't have anything like that here, do you?

**Luthien:**

No, that's magic, not reality.  --I should go with you.  You need someone to look after you --

**Beren:**

\-- _Tinuviel_ , I'm coming back.  No matter what happens, I'm coming back to you.

 **Luthien** :

I'm counting on it.  I'll be waiting for you, Beren.  Forever.

**Gower:**

And here we draw the curtain dark   
across our scene of parting and desire;   
Of all that follows after, legend and song alike recount,   
to keep in mortal mem'ry what the gods remember still --   
how Luthien the elven-maid, and Huan hound of heaven,   
with Beren for love brought down the walls of hell   
and freed the First-light from dark Morgoth's claws   
and wove into the workings of the worldis Doom   
a brightling strand that shineth yet, despite   
(or through) the feeblest efforts of the bards.   
      Thus   
asking your gracious pardon for this flight of fancy,   
having proffered in hopes of gentle diversion,   
we end this our humble file.  Adieu! 


	3. Act 1: EPILOGUE

** _Act 1: EPILOGUE_ **

[Outside the opening of the Caverns leading to the Palace. To either side lean the Captain and Bowman of Doriath; they are playing a game similar to 'Rock-Scissors-Paper' but with edged aerial objects.]

**Beleg:** [between throws, leadingly]

Oh, oh, wait -- I know what they are.

**Mablung** :

What?

**Beleg** :

In a word? --Fell.

**Mablung** :

Heh.

[Beren enters through the gates, slowly, looking backwards, oblivious to the knives being tossed to and fro.]

**Beleg** :

Careful there --

[In a flash Beren transforms from distracted lover to superwarrior, spinning round and drawing sword and dagger at once to ward against all comers. Seeing the Doriath Rangers he remains in guard position while he speaks.]

**Beren** :

What are you doing here?

**Beleg:** [reasonably]

Waiting.

**Beren** :

For what?

**Beleg** :

Just waiting.

**Beren:** [lowers blades but does not put them up]

You're here to see that I leave the grounds promptly and without any trouble, right?

**Beleg:** [shrugs]

Something like that, yes.

**Beren** :

Something exactly like that, I'll bet.

**Beleg** :

Clever lad. You'll go far, I shouldn't doubt.

**Beren** :

Don't.

**Mablung:** [sotto voce]

But will you come back again, I wonder?

**Beren** :

Nothing -- and no one -- is going to stop me. --I don't expect you to believe me.

**Mablung** :

So you're really off to infiltrate Morgoth's bunker? Defy the Lord of Paranoids himself, succeed where even Feanor (not to mention the Great of Arda) went down in flames?

**Beren:** [defensive]

Yup.

**Mablung:** [guessing wildly]

And you're what, all of fifty summers?

**Beren:** [still more defensive]

Twenty-five. I think. --Wish me luck, why don't you?

**Mablung:** [seriously]

Oh, we do. We do indeed.

**Beren:** [disbelieving]

Hmph.

[He turns and starts to walk off.]

**Beleg** :

Ah, not to be overly critical, but Angband's that way, not the way you're going.

**Mablung** :

**\--** Unless he's thinking of swinging by Nargothrond first.

**Beren** :

Clever fellow. Any final words of advice or farewell?

**Beleg** :

Hm...'Be careful'?

**Mablung** :

'Good luck'?

**Beleg** :

\--Yourself?

**Beren** :

Tell them that I won't come back empty-handed, and that they will see me again.

**Mablung** :

Beren.

[They lock stares. Pause.]

\--The light of Elbereth go with you.

**Beren:** [serious]

Thank you . . . Sir. --Look after her for me.

**Mablung** :

We always do.

**Beleg:** [sotto voce]

We try, at any rate.

[Beren looks round, pulls himself together, and vanishes into the forest.]

**Beleg** :

Did you see how he did that?

**Mablung** :

You neither, eh? --Twenty-five. [shakes head]

**Beleg** :

Think we'll see him again?

**Mablung:** [shrugs]

I'm no seer.

**Beleg** :

Same here. Definitely. Herself, as well.

**Mablung** :

You saw that too, eh? What do you think will come of it all?

**Beleg** :

Oh, death, destruction, woe and lamentation.

**Mablung** :

The usual, then. --This place is starting to get to me again. Up for a warg-hunt, Strongbow old chap?

**Beleg** :

Silly question. Whenever not?

[They leave, strolling leisurely. Luthien appears in the doorway.]

**Luthien:** [softly]

Beren, you've made me see time as a mortal woman does. It's been an hour already! How will I survive a day -- a week -- a _year_? Come back soon, my love, and safe, or I promise you I'll follow you to the ends of Middle-earth -- or the stars.

[fade to black]


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Philosopher at Large's notes for act one. Yes, they're long enough to rate their own chapter.

[ACT I. AN APPOINTMENT IN MENEGROTH:THE THRONE-ROOM SCENE OF THE LAY OF LEITHIAN](https://rustbucket.net/leithian/leithian_script_1.html)

The title of course refers to the traditional story "An Appointment in Samara" with its invocation of Fate and the ironic consequences of elaborate precautions to avoid it. It is told in Silmarillion how Elu Thingol, King of Doriath, in justifiable apprehension of the consequences of having scads of ambitious, powerful, talented, troublesome relatives and their entourages grabbing up territory on all sides, refused to open his borders to the returning Noldor and warned them against displacing the native peoples of Beleriand.

We are also told that he had had premonitions in prophetic dreams of doom and destruction concerning mortal Men and the future of Doriath, and so unlike others of the lords of the Eldar, refused to allow Men into his kingdom or into his service at all. Read the _Silm._ chapter "Of the Coming of Men into the West" to get a lot of backstory on the political situation of Beleriand (which is a lot more interesting than modern Earth politics, since we don't have Oracles and acknowledged Powers involved in the affairs of nations these days) and the foreshadowing of Doom in the conversation on all this between Melian and her apprentice, Finrod's little sister Galadriel…

Act I, being very brief, is really a quite straightforward take on the scene as presented in _Silm._ and LL1, my own interpolations and emendations being limited to two (besides the fact that I've "translated" the dialogue into the modern style) of significance.

The first is the presence of Mablung and Beleg at the Court — although they are not specifically mentioned, and given the rather unregimented style of Doriath could well have been anywhere in the realm, I chose to include them for several reasons. The foremost is to provide a foreshadowing/unifying to the end of the story, as they are, so to speak, "in at the kill" and involved deeply along the way — also, introducing them as ancillaries to the scene allows for a slightly less entangled version/vision of events than is available to any of the participants, including Daeron, whose wierd behavior we are told has been noted, if not understood, by other people in the community.

The second is assuming that the description of Beren in LL1 as making his dramatic exit and farewell to Luthien so abruptly before the thrones of King and Queen is more bardic traditional than historically literal — I consider it justifiable artistic license to give them a longer and semi-private leave-taking, as the Doriathrin aren't monsters nor is saying goodbye anywhere else in the story ever shown to be quick or easy any more than for lovers today — "There isn't enough room for all the truth in songs," is a saying I've heard, and any comparison, or simple consideration, of the needs of narrative compression will prove this.

 

Scene I

 

"brainwashed slave" — this refers to one of the major security concerns in _Silm._ ("Of the Return of the Noldor"), where it is described as Morgoth turning the power of his eyes on any of the Eldar he could take alive, and so daunting them "that they needed chains no more, but walked ever in fear of him, doing his will wherever they might be." This fact features majorly in the Nargothrond interactions, when the sheer number of freed thralls, and the fact that they're escorted home by Huan, makes it darn hard to ignore them or turn them back at the borders. It also features not insignificantly in the Gondolin story… It's my assumption that one of the uses of such victims, in addition to the canonical use as spies, would be as assassination attempts, (perhaps unwarranted and caused by too many viewings of _Manchurian Candidate,_ but I doubt it.)

 

 

"different for us" — referring to the story of Thingol's meeting with Melian and their subsequent marriage as related in _Silm._ and LL1. Er, it _wasn't_ that different, really.

 

 

"labyrinth" — Thingol does threaten to trap Beren in the maze of the Girdle, and hence avoid technically breaking his promise to Luthien, which Beren calls him on, (whether it would have worked or not, now that they knew he was there, is an open question), comes from LL1. Beren's compulsive mouthing-off to powerful people who mean him no good is Canon from _Silm,_ but even more amplified in LL1.

 

Scene II

 

Again, pretty obvious, I tend to think. For amendation, only the assignment of the suggestion/reminder to seek out Finrod Felagund for assistance to Luthien is really mine. Beren is certainly no fool, but the creative genius of the pair is Luthien, and particularly considering the stressfulness of the recent scene, it isn't a stretch to think her cool-headed enough to make the association for him.

 

 

"low-impact lifestyle" — what, you think that's funny? That is _exactly_ what he's been doing, and no more. (—Okay, it _is_ supposed to be funny…)

 

 

I get the impression that Luthien never talked about her family because she just assumed everyone in Doriath knew who she was, and that Beren assumed she was on her own completely, until the fateful moonlit evening when she says, "My parents want to meet you…"

"—You have _parents_? —Here?"

 

 

"my parents' dilemma" — Emeldir, called "Manhearted", would rather have stayed and died fighting in the defense of their homeland at the side of her husband and son — yet duty compelled her to take the last survivors of Dorthonion out of the war zone to shelter with her mother's side of the family in Hithlum. Included among those were her two nieces, Morwen and Rian, who will later marry Hurin and Huor of the House of Hador; they and their children of course are famous and infamous in their own rights; qv. the stories as told in _Silm._ of the Children of Hurin, and The Fall of Gondolin.

 

 

I wrote this before I was aware that there was a statement anywhere in HOME that fifty was the ordinary age for getting married right away, as early twenties in the present day and mid teens in past centuries — being aware that Elves age slower than mortals to begin with, and simply looking to find a fraction of millennia+ that would be equivalent to "too young" — and absurd given that Luthien is almost a millenium and a half old; so I should possibly change this. However, that is for Aman, after all, and might not be the same in Middle-earth.

 

EPILOGUE

 

"Fell" — this entire exchange refers to both the continual assaults on the outskirts of Doriath beyond the Girdle which accompanied Morgoth's unresulting efforts to see past Melian's defenses, and the horrible mutative effects which occurred along the northern borders where the residual traces of Ungoliant's time there not only corrupted the environment but interacted with Melian's power and created, we are told, still more hideous things which only grew worse as time went on. (They weren't half so bad a few generations ago when Haleth led her people through to Brethil, for example.) I don't know that any of them were multi-headed monsters, but in the vague descriptions of the half-seen creatures of Dungortheb it is implied that they had more eyes than creatures should, and not all of them were spiders…

 

 

The Captains of Doriath have had some encounters with mortals — Beleg, for example, took a relief force to help the Haladin during the aftermath of the Dagor Bragollach into Brethil some seven or eight years prior to this occasion, when Tol Sirion fell to Sauron — but as the Haladin live outside Doriath proper (obviously) and keep to themselves, even as the people of Doriath, at this point in time it is unlikely that they would be terribly familiar with Men, unlike the Elves of Fingolfin's House and of Nargothrond.

 

 

"Twenty-five" — Beren's age is never given in the stories themselves, and only according to early and rather doubtful chronologies is any mention made, from which it is said that he was thirty when he began the quest. However, according to the Silmarillion, the sixth generation of the Edain was not yet fully grown, when the Dagor Bragollach erupted, and as far as I can work out it is ten years, between the battle and Beren's arrival in Doriath — two years after the battle when Tol Sirion falls to Sauron, and Emeldir takes the children and other women left into the western mountains; four years after that when Sauron is sent in to personally deal with the Dorthonian Rebels, and Barahir is killed with his men; four more years that Beren wages a lone war against the Enemy, and then about a year and a half that he lives in Doriath, from his arrival after the winter crossing of the mountains to seeing Luthien for the first time in the summer, to the following spring when they meet, up to the end of summer when they are betrayed.

Hence I give his age as "about twenty-five" because that would make him fifteen at the Dagor Bragollach — any older, and I cannot see any reason why he would not also go with the muster to the Leaguer, like his cousins — and that would make the explicit statement that Finrod recognizes him without need of token an irrelevance not worth mentioning; obviously the King would recognize someone he'd met before. "About" because after living so long in the wilds without human companionship, no communal events or celebrations, calendars would be essentially irrelevant to him, and similar seasons flow together.

 

 

Beren's remarkable outdoorsmanship is repeatedly invoked in the Lay — he is described as being "elf-wise in wood" as well as "tireless on fell, light on fen," — and there is a supernatural aspect hinted at, in that he is protected by the trees, the free beasts and birds, and even by the obscure spirits of the place that inhabit the rocks and wilds of his homeland. This is of course something that deserves a great deal more consideration, and comparison to the archetypes both of folktale and mythology; but for the present I will only remark that for him to remain unobserved, though granted in a deserted border region of Doriath, for several seasons, and to be uncaught even when his presence is revealed by Daeron and the King sends search parties to arrest him, until he arrives voluntarily with Luthien at court, indicates that there is no exaggeration and that he is at least the equal of an Elven Ranger.

 

 

Doriath really does run in this rather informal way — after all, they have enjoyed an impenetrable security system for centuries upon centuries — and in the story of Turin it is related how Beleg would spend time at any of various lodges he had around the kingdom, or staying with friends, while in the account of the Nirnaeth it is told that after Thingol refused to send troops to the war where they would be serving alongside the House of Feanor, both Mablung and Beleg object that they can't just stay on the sidelines of history, so he says to the effect of "Oh, all right — just make sure you march with some other commander, okay?"

 

 

Luthien's final speech is _not_ a throwaway line. Remember this bit: it will come back to haunt everyone.

FRONTSPIECE — "Meeting the Parents"

(Some of the detail here is far clearer in the [full-resolution version for printing,](https://rustbucket.net/leithian/hires/act_I_hires.pdf) which will open in a new window, and is about 900 KB.)

This is the heart of it all — the original scene that endeavored to explain _why_ , just _possibly_ why, on the most basic level, Thingol and Melian might not have been entirely thrilled over their daughter's choice of prospective husband. Your brilliant, talented, grown-up daughter it never occurred to you not to trust on her own, shows up with a (significantly!) younger guy, who just happens to be homeless, jobless, broke, and living in your woods for the past year. The fact that for the past half-dozen years and more he's been a guerrilla warrior and besides owning no other property than the armor and weapons he's wearing, has no other skills to offer besides killing monsters is just going to be added insult — most parents are not going to be leaping ecstatically up to welcome him into the family, regardless of race and immortality issues, oracular forebodings, or anything else. Not in my experience, at least…

This sketch is a little rougher than the ones which followed, as it was only a dashed-off idea, essentially, and I'd never done a cartoon at all. But the intent is to convey the organic and woodland style of Menegroth, together with its brightness and glory, contrasted with the utter scruffiness of Beren and how far out of place he is there — at least superficially. And you may notice a slight ancient-classical influence in Melian's costume, as in Luthien's — this is deliberate, and refers to the archetypal antecedents of women of divine origin met in groves of nightingales and offering wisdom and song, or taking earthly lovers. Remember, JRRT was a trained and practicing Classicist before devoting his life to other projects…

Tulkas, of course, is the Power you want on your side when you need someone pounded but maybe not necessarily to go into too much detail about _why_ — the Wrestler is loyal, brave, enthusiastic, but he's not terribly much interested in the finer ins and outs of theory and so forth!

And yeah, Luthien does pretty much start out thinking that simply meeting Beren will be enough to convince her family of how wonderful he is — I wouldn't call her _dumb_ , myself, though, but rather that she expects the best from the people she loves, the same high standards they've raised her to believe in, and is sadly disappointed…

 


	5. Act II: The Sojourn in Nargothrond

THE SOJOURN IN NARGOTHROND FROM THE LAY OF LEITHIAN

 **retold in the vernacular as a dramatic script** **(with apologies to Messrs. Tolkien & Shakespeare)**

 

Dramatis Personae & Cast, in order of appearance [this is how I'd cast them - you're free to supply your own actors, of course.] 

**The Human Bard Gower (appearing courtesy of The Rose Playhouse)** Derek Jacobi (appearing courtesy _Henry V_ )

 **Beren Barahirion, Human Warrior** Christian Bale (appearing courtesy _Treasure Island_ , _Little Women_ )

 **Nargothrond Border Patrol** **Captain** Hugh Jackman (appearing courtesy _Kate & Leopold_)

**Steward of Finrod's Household** Alan Rickman (appearing courtesy _Sense and Sensibility_ ) 

**Curufin, Son of Feanor** James Marsters in sly, caustic and vicious mode (courtesy Mutant Enemy)

 **Celegorm,** **Son of Feanor** James Marsters in suave, charming, and gentlemanly mode (courtesy Mutant Enemy)

 **Huan of Valinor** Special guest appearance as Himself

 **Finduilas, Princess of Nargothrond, daughter of Orodreth** Gelsey Kirkland (appearing courtesy the Baryshnikov _Nutcracker_ telecast)

 **Orodreth, Prince of Nargothrond** Hugh Grant (appearing courtesy _Sense and Sensibility_ )

 **Finrod Felagund, King of Nargothrond** Kenneth Branagh (appearing courtesy _Henry V_ )

 **Celebrimbor, Son of Curufin** Alexis Denisof (appearing courtesy Mutant Enemy)

 **Gwindor, a Lord of Nargothrond** Ioan Gruffudd (appearing courtesy A &E's _Horatio Hornblower_ series)

**Assorted Nargothronders of both Houses: Rangers, Citizens, and Knights**

( **Caranthir, Son of Feanor,** only appears in conversation; but you may imagine Douglas Fairbanks Jr., courtesy _The Prisoner of Zenda_ , in that role.) -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

## Act 2: SCENE I

 **Gower** :

From Doriath's enchanted gloom   
let now your unfetter'd fancy roam   
to where the silver waters merge   
of Sirion, and the marshy verge   
of Twilight, and beyond   
across the rugged rainswept hills   
to Narog, and to Nargothrond:   
Hither wary Beren draws,   
with blood-won token ever shown   
to the sight, as yet unseen,   
of those who guard, in green   
of forest from enemy -- alone   
he comes into their hands; yet finds   
a gentler grasp and more courteous minds   
than welcomed him in Thingol's halls. . .

[Outside the Gates of Nargothrond. Enter Beren, escorted by the Rangers, but unbound.]

 **Captain** :

Forgive me, sir, but you must leave your weapons with us. It isn't permitted to go armed into the presence of the King.

 **Beren** :

Of course. Hold on a minute -- [He hands over his bow, quiver, longsword, shortsword and dagger]

 **Captain:** [relieved]

Thank you for being so understanding about this. Now if you'll just come this way --

 **Beren** :

Not done yet. [taking assorted dirks from vambraces, leggings, belts and backpack.]

 **Captain:** [staring at the mounting pile]

Oh...Is there _more_?

 **Beren:** [working poniards out of cloak hem and hand-guards]

Yup.

 **Captain** :

Is -- is that everything?

 **Beren:** [muffled, struggling out of his armor]

No, there are still the backups, but you'll have to wait a bit. [takes another several pounds of metal from undertunic, sleeves, waistband]

That should do it.

 **Captain** :

Your trustfulness -- astonishes one.

 **Beren:** [shrugs]

I'm here to ask for help. Weapons not going to be very useful for getting _that_ , right? And I seriously doubt there are going to be any Orcs around here to worry about.

 **Captain:** [affronted]

Certainly not!

 **Beren** :

Exactly.  But I have to say I'm a bit surprised at _your_ trust, myself.

 **Captain** :

? . . . ?

 **Beren** :

Well, you don't know that I am who I say that I am. I _could_ be a minion of Morgoth waving Barahir's ring about and claiming to be his heir. It -- is _not_ \-- an impossible scenario.

 **Captain** :

Ah. Well. I do suppose it's -- remotely possible, but --

[He is saved from the increasing awkwardness by the entrance of the Steward.]

 **Steward** :

I'm sorry, but the King is still tied up in meetings and he left strict orders not to be disturbed.  If you wouldn't mind waiting until he's free, you can make yourself comfortable in the antechambers, and someone will fetch you when the council's over.

 **Beren:** [overcome]

[nods]

 **Steward** :

Is there a problem, milord?

 **Beren:** [hoarsely]

\--No. Not a problem. I . . . I wasn't expecting such a civil reception.

 **Steward** :

We may be at war, but that is scarcely an excuse for neglecting basic courtesy.

 **Captain:** [drily]

\--Especially when it's been going on for almost half-a-millenium now. It's not as if anything's _changed_ lately.

 **Beren** :

Believe me, I'm not complaining, sirs.

 **Steward** :

Then, milord, if you'll be so good as to follow us?

[aside, to the Captain of the Border Patrol]

\--Are you _sure_?

 **Captain:** [shrugging]

So he says.

 **Steward** :

But--

 **Captain** :

I know.  --I know.  But mortals don't come back, or so he says -- and he _should_ know.

 


	6. Act 2: SCENE II

Act 2: SCENE II

 **Gower** :

Now for the mean, whilst under distant shade   
sadly in duteous piety doth pine the maid   
Luthien, waiting for her love (or tidings of),   
the son of Barahir finds ease, and welcome,   
if not from all in Nargothrond, at least from some—

[The Steward ushers Beren into the royal apartments.]

 **Steward** :

Please make yourself comfortable, milord. I only ask -- and please take no offenses, 'tis but for form's sake -- that you remain here and not wander before the King summons you.

 **Beren** :

Not at all. I don't imagine I'd want to trip your security system.

 **Steward** :

Precisely. What would you care for, while you wait? A change of garments? There's probably time for a hot bath, if you wish -- these councils often go far beyond what's planned.

 **Beren** :

Er, _food_ , actually.

 **Steward:** [blinks]

Of course. What sort pleases you best? Manchets? Subtleties? Viands spiced and minced--

 **Beren** :

\-- _Hot_ is fine.

 **Steward** :

Just -- _hot_?

 **Beren** :

If it's not too much trouble.

 **Steward** :

No, I'm sure the chefs can manage -- _hot_.

[The Steward leaves, shaking his head. Beren wanders about, looking at the artworks and Really Cool Stuff around the chamber, being careful not to touch anything.

[Room Service enters with a steaming tray and lays out a complete place setting before leaving. Beren looks at the table, looks at the chairs, looks at the state of his clothes. Makes a cursory attempt to brush off the assorted rust, mud, blood, and grass stains, shrugs, and sets the tray down on the floor instead. Sits down cross-legged and starts uncovering dishes.]

[Enter Curufin, alone, looking around for someone else.]

 **Curufin:** [noticing Beren]

\--Well, well, well, what have we here? Something the dogs dragged in? Looks like a wolf's-head to me.

[Celegorm enters]

 **Celegorm:** [flinging himself down casually into a chair]

I agree, brother. A thief at best, or possibly a revolutionary. Someone with little respect for law and order, I dare say.

 **Beren:** [blandly polite]

Yeah, that's what they say. Or so I'm told.

 **Curufin:** [sinking gracefully into another chair]

You're mortal, aren't you?

 **Beren** :

Mortal enough, to my enemies.

 **Curufin** :

 _I_ make the jokes around here. -- _Mortal_.

 **Beren** :

Go right ahead.

[He picks out part of the meal and starts eating. Curufin and Celegorm stare. Celegorm grins evilly and whistles. Sound of clicking on floor outside. Huan enters.]

 **Celegorm** :

You'd better run -- he hates wolves, and wolf's-heads, _outlaw_.

[Beren does not move.  Huan approaches and snuffles him; Beren gives him some of the meat from his tray.]

 **Beren** :

\-- Aren't you a good boy?  Want some more?

 **Huan** :

[wags tail]

 **Beren:** [scratching Huan's ears]

Dogs are great. Big dogs especially. --You don't really think I'd be in here without permission, do you? I'm waiting for your King.

 **Celegorm** :

Huan! Get over here.

[Huan reluctantly leaves Beren and flops down next to Celegorm with a sigh]

Not _our_ King. Not all of us here owe allegiance to the children of Indis. What are you, an emissary from the Kingdom of Beggars? Our hosts had better look to the number of spoons they have left when he leaves.

 **Curufin** :

I've heard there are primitive tribes in some of these ancient forests.

 **Beren:** [between mouthfuls]

That one was pretty funny.  Not first-rate, but mildly amusing nonetheless.

[the Sons of Feanor talk as though he has not spoken]

 **Celegorm** :

Yes, don't they rub mud in their hair?  And they're supposed to be short, too.

 **Curufin** :

But they paint their faces, and I don't see any paint on his face.  Of course, it's hard to tell with all that dirt...

 **Beren** :

You know, _I_ heard Elves were supposed to be incredibly eloquent, and wise, and perceptive on top of that.

 **Celegorm** :

If you're not a barbarian, why are you sitting on the floor eating with your fingers instead of a knife?

 **Beren** :

Ah, because--

 **Curufin:** [talking over him]

This is called 'furniture'. _That_ \--

[pointing]

\-- is a 'table'.  One sits _at_ it to eat, not _next_ it.  On these things called 'chairs'.  They're really quite the rage now in civilized society.

 **Beren** :

Chairs . . . You know, I think I remember those.  We used to have some when I was a kid.  --They burn really well when you can't go out to cut wood because there's a horde of Orcs in the way.

 **Curufin** :

Insolent mortal, do you have any idea whom you're addressing?

 **Beren** :

No, but I expect you're going to tell me.

 **Curufin** :

I am Curufin, formerly of Valinor, and this is my estimable brother, Celegorm.

 **Beren** :

\--Oh.

[aside]

( _Damn!_ )

 **Curufin:** [smugly]

Ah, you've heard of us, I see?

 **Beren** :

 _Everyone's_ heard of the Sons of Feanor.

 **Celegorm:** [preening]

Look at that -- we're renowned even among mortals, brother.

 **Curufin** [suspicious]

What exactly do you mean, _everyone's heard_ of us?

 **Beren** :

Let's just leave it at _renowned_ , okay?

[aside]

(-- and leave out the 'psychotic obsessed losers' part . . .)

[He waves a small piece of meat sneakily behind his back.  Huan gets up and starts to come over to him.]

 **Celegorm:** [sternly]

Huan! Down!

 **Huan** :

[whines]

 **Celegorm** :

Whose dog _are_ you, anyway?

 **Beren** :

I'm no man's dog -- or Dark Lord's.  --Sir.

 **Celegorm** :

I _was not_ speaking to you.

 **Beren** :

Good.

 **Curufin** :

You've quite the opinion of yourself, haven't you?

 **Beren** :

I know my limitations.

[The Sons of Feanor scowl, trying to work out if this is supposed to be an insult.  Beren tosses the meat to Huan, who catches it.]

 **Huan** :

[tail thumps]

 **Celegorm:** [angrily]

Stop feeding my dog!

 **Beren** :

Maybe you should take better care of him. [throws another piece to Huan]

Then he wouldn't be so hungry.  --Would you, boy?

 **Huan** :

[loud tail thumps]

 **Curufin** :

So, I assume all this . . . _artistic slovenliness_. . . is just an affectation?

 **Beren:** [swallowing]

Come again?

 **Curufin** :

Well, you're turning up your nose at the finest venison there.  It isn't as if the hounds didn't already get their share at the kill.

 **Beren** :

I don't eat meat any more.

 **Celegorm:** [flabbergasted]

Why ever not?

 **Beren** :

I only hunt Orcs these days, and other things that fall into the general category of _fell_. And before you go there, _no_ , I don't eat Orcs. Or wargs, or spiders.

 **Curufin** :

You didn't answer the question.

 **Beren** :

Orcs kill anything that moves -- and eat them, too, unless under strict orders to bring back prisoners alive.  For one, it's a way of maintaining a difference between myself and what I hunt, when -- as you've so kindly pointed out -- in terms of civilization I haven't much footing left. For another, I can't help but identify with _anything_ hunted by Orcs. It seems wrong, somehow. Treacherous, even -- I couldn't begin to tell how often I've been warned of a patrol's approach by bird-cries or fleeing deer.

 **Curufin** :

So now you're equating us with _Orcs_ , no less.

 **Beren** :

I never said _that_.

 **Curufin** :

But you _implied_ it.  By implication, as it were. Implying that those of us who _do_ hunt, and eat what we bring down, are no better than Orcs, and no different.

 **Beren:** [slightly exasperated]

 _No_.  It's a personal choice.  I don't impose it on anyone else.  I don't expect anyone else to have my reasons for it.

 **Celegorm** : [horrified]

So what _do_ you eat?  Berries and, er, _roots_?  You're not a farmer, are you?

 **Beren** :

Well, before things got too bad, people used to leave stuff out for me, not obviously, but the occasional 'forgotten' loaf or cloak or or boots or wheel of cheese or leftover . . . leftovers. Not much, but it helped make ends meet.

 **Curufin** :

I hate to destroy your idealistic illusions, but bread is made from eggs, you know.  And eggs are animals.  You do know that, don't you?

 **Beren** :

That depends on the bread. Seriously, though -- not all eggs hatch, even in the wild.  So far as the intent goes, I'm not trying to destroy a bird, just to sustain my own life, though I might end up doing so by accident.  A small difference, maybe, but a real one.  _I_ think.

 **Celegorm** :

Well, going by that logic, it isn't just Orcs that eat whatever they can catch. Pretty much any animal will hunt and take prey, even beasts that are mostly herbivorous, like mice.  I don't see your objection, myself.

 **Beren** :

True.  But I'm not an animal, either.

[Celegorm is fairly certain this is an insult directed at him, but is distracted from responding by Huan's willingly being lured away again.]

 **Celegorm** :

 _No_!!! _Bad dog_!!! _Down_ , Huan!!!

 **Curufin** :

I can't believe we're arguing moral philosophy with a mortal barbarian.

[suddenly suspicious again]

Orodreth? Is that you, playing some kind of bizarre joke?

[He attempts to dispel illusion; since it is not an illusion, Beren's appearance does not change.]

 **Celegorm** :

You spoke in the past tense. What do you do for mealtimes _now_?

 **Beren** : [becoming more enthusiastic as he goes on]

Well, there's turnips, there's parsnips, there's feral edibles of all kinds around the old homesteads. A lot of the land used to be under cultivation.  Cattails, you can prepare them all kinds of ways if you know what you're about -- a lot of different kinds of edible marsh grasses, in fact.  Then there's pine-nuts in the forest in autumn, hazelnuts, -- _berries_ , yes; wild-sunflower and thistles, the roots and heads can be steamed and they're really quite good; and there are always mushrooms. --If you know what you're about, again, and don't poison yourself. Even in winter you can find wood-ears and boil them --

 **Curufin:** [fascinated in spite of himself]

_Wood-ears?_

**Beren** :

Those fungus that grow on trees and stick out like ears.

 **Curufin:** [remembering to sneer]

Impressive.  Quite a lot of work, for an abstract principle.

 **Beren** :

I don't say it's easy. But I figure if the Sindarin clans can do it, then I can manage it too.

 **Celegorm** :

Oh, so now you're putting yourself on the same level as the Kindred, are you?

 **Beren** :

You guys really _do_ have issues, don't you?  _What_ is your problem?  You look like you have it pretty good here: you're cousins of the King, right?  You don't have to worry about somebody deciding that that reward sounds a whole lot better than 'Thanks, gotta run, you didn't see me,' or finding _your_ cave full of Orcs waiting to ambush you.  _Back off_ \-- it's not like I'm here to threaten you, after all.

 **Curufin:** [suspiciously]

What exactly _are_ you here for?  And who are you anyway? You look sort of familiar, but I can't place you.

 **Beren** :

I really think that in prudence as well as courtesy the King should hear my business first. --Sir.

[Before things can escalate, Finduilas enters with a parchment in hand.]

 **Finduilas** :

Oh, _there_ you are!  Can I have your autograph, milord?

 **Beren** :

? . . . ?

 **Curufin** :

\--What are you about, cousin?

 **Finduilas** :

Isn't it _wonderful_?  This is the mortal who saved my uncle at the Dagor Bragollach!

 **Beren** :

No, er, that -- that wasn't me, that was my father.

 **Finduilas** :

Oh.  _Oh_.

[frowns]

Well, I'd still like your autograph. Can I see the famous ring?  Do you know, everyone's speculating on why you've come. We're all _madly_ curious. You _must_ tell us!  Oh, if you'd please sign it at the edge, then I can draw your picture in the rest. -- _Huan_ , go away, you'll smudge it!

[Beren is overwhelmed; the Sons of Feanor exchange Significant Glances]

 **Curufin** :

Finduilas, darling, don't humiliate the poor fellow.

[Finduilas gives him a confused look]

You can't expect everyone to have had your advantages of upbringing.  I doubt very much he's even literate.

 **Finduilas** :

Oh, I'm -- I'm so _sorry_. I didn't mean to --

 **Beren:** [gently]

It's all right. I do know my tengwar. And I'll be happy to give you my name, though I'm not sure why you'd want it.

[He takes the pen from her]

 **Finduilas:** [very hesitant]

Um, it -- it goes the other way round, milord.

 **Beren** :

On the other hand, it _has_ been a long time.

[He changes the pen over and spells out the runes of his name, very carefully.]

There. Does that look right?

 **Finduilas** :

If your name is Beren, yes.

 **Beren:** [grins]

 _Whew_.  Shouldn't have boasted before I did it, eh?

[Finduilas dares to smile.  He doesn't sneer at her. She is encouraged.]

 **Finduilas** :

Is it true that you're here to organize a new Siege of Angband? They're saying you're the one that Morgoth was hunting all last year -- no, the year before -- and that he fears you more than anyone else in the world!

 **Beren** :

Well, I -- I wouldn't say _that_ , necessarily --

[An Elven-lord enters, to be enthusiastically greeted by Huan]

 **Gwindor** :

Down, boy! --Did you find him, Faelivrin?

 **Curufin** : [grins]

 _Faelivrin_.

[She blushes as she points out Beren.]

That's so _cute_.

 **Finduilas** :

Oh, _stop_ _it_.  --Gwin, can you _believe_ it? You were right last winter, when you wouldn't believe the reports he'd been killed.

 **Gwindor** : [stammering]

My lord -- it's -- such an _honor_. I never -- the stories, the songs, the way you always managed to get out of every trap  

 **Beren** : [almost as much at a loss for words]

You're both . . . very kind . . . I think -- I think you make too much --

 **Gwindor** : [enthusiastic]

\-- What's it _like_ , being a legend?

 **Beren** :

. . .

 **Gwindor** :  [oblivious]

A champion of the oppressed -- the Man most hated by the Dark Lord himself!

 **Beren** :

Mostly -- _tiring_.

 **Gwindor** :

I would love to be like you! To think of it -- wreaking vengeance on our Enemy, obeying no rules, beholden to none, fearing nothing, alone against impossible odds, hunted by implacable foes, with a price on your head worth a king's ransom--

 **Curufin** :

I _said_ he was an outlaw --

 **Beren** :

\-- Actually, _I_ never saw myself as an outlaw. I kind of thought of it that I _was_ the Law, in Dorthonion. They were transgressors. I punished them. They outnumbered me. That didn't make Morgoth rightful lord of Beleriand.

 **Gwindor** :

I really liked the way you would use an Orc-chief's own battle-axe to hew him and just leave it there. That was such an insult! -- did you mean it to symbolize that their evil deeds would turn against them and destroy them, just as their own weapons had?

 **Beren** :

Um, no -- that was because axes are really heavy and I didn't need one. The less extra weight to slow me down the better. I could always count on another axe with the next one.

 **Gwindor** :

Ah, _practicality_. So -- what was the most exciting part of your career?

 **Beren** : [after a long pause for thought]

The sky.

 **Gwindor** :

The _sky_ \--?

 **Beren** :

Yeah, when I was waiting in ambush most of the night, or stuck in a swamp waiting for night, the way the branches and reeds would frame the sky was . . . it's hard to explain, but . . . it would keep changing, and every change would be perfect, and so _slow_ . . . and then all of the sudden a bird would fly across, or a shooting star would --

[gestures vividly]

and then it would be still again, calm like deep water, but still moving slowly all the time, the way a lake moves all the time in different ways under the surface.

[long pause]

 **Gwindor** : [not sure what to make of this at all]

Oh.  That -- almost sounds _Sindarin_ , really.

[The Sons of Feanor exchange glances.]

 **Finduilas** : [with a defiant look towards them]

I think it sounds beautiful.

[confidentially to Gwindor, emboldened]

You know, darling, since _he_ wasn't dead after everyone said he must be, then perhaps Gelmir's still alive, and if it's true that Lord Beren's going to help lead a strike force against Angband, maybe he could _rescue_ him . . . ?

 **Gwindor** : [controlled but clearly exasperated]

Faelivrin -- you _weren't there_.  You _don't_ understand. My brother _could not_ _possibly_ have survived. --I don't want to talk about it any more.

[Finduilas looks hurt]

 **Beren** : [serious]

People do come back from the unlikeliest chances. But I did hear the Dagor Bragollach was like no other battle on earth.

 **Curufin** : [wearily]

Little cousin, reconcile yourself to facts, and do not attempt to raise your sweetheart's hopes with well-meant foolishness. He's bones and dust on the Thirsty Plain, and none of us will ever see him again this side of the Western Sea.

[smooth shift to sympathy, at Gwindor's glare]

\--I do apologize, my lord.

 **Beren** : [low voice]

He's in good company. A lot of my family's out there, too.

[Gwindor gives him a grateful look.]

 **Celegorm** : [mock outrage]

You _do_ think well of yourself, don't you?

 **Beren** :

That wasn't what I -- Never mind.

 **Curufin** :

Besides, what if he did somehow survive? That would mean he was a slave in Angband, and would you really wish that on anyone you loved?  Even if he did somehow escape, he'd be no more than one of those brainwashed wretches that tried to assassinate your father and uncle in past days.  He wouldn't be allowed to enter the domain, let alone return to live here. --I'm dreadfully sorry, children, but it is the truth, and one must not live on delusions.

 **Finduilas** :

Oh, you're _hateful_!  I wish you'd never come here.

[To Beren]

\--Not _you._

[She storms out.]

 **Gwindor** : [with a stiff and formal nod]

My lords.

[to Beren, with a deeper bow]

My lord.

[stalks out after Finduilas]

 **Celegorm** : [leans back in his chair, grinning broadly]

Young love . . . Sickenin', ain't it?

 **Beren** :

Oh -- I wouldn't say so.

[Enter, almost immediately upon his words. the Steward, along with the Ranger captain, several more Border Guards, and a number of other warriors of Nargothrond.]

 **Steward** :

Sir, it will be just a few more moments. I do apologize, on behalf of King Finrod, as I'm sure he would himself, were he here.

 **Beren** :

That's -- that's fine. I thought for a moment you'd decided I was here on false pretenses and were coming to arrest me.

 **Steward** :

Oh no, I'm so sorry. It's only that everyone wanted to see you -- all the lot from the Plains, for old time's sake.

 **Beren** :

Oh.

[rises and bows]

Gentles, I -- I am honored . . .

 **Warrior** :

The honor is entirely ours.

 **Ranger** :

Your father used to talk about you.

 **Guard** :

It seems like we've known you forever.

 **Beren** :

I -- I wish I could offer you something, instead of coming as a beggar. But I can't even share refreshments, because I'm afraid what I didn't finish, Huan has.

[Mysteriously on the other side of the room now, Huan grins and thumps his tail.]

 **Captain** :

Well, you two didn't finish the wine, did you? That's all the refreshment one needs!  Rinse out those bowls, men, we don't need cups.

[aside, to the Steward, as the rest crowd around to shake Beren's hand]

\--Remember when all we had was our helmets?

 **Steward** :

I'd almost succeeded in forgetting that.  What it was like not to remember what sleeping in a bed was like, or what hot food tasted like, or -- holy stars -- hot water!

 **Captain** :

Oh come, you know those were the days!

 **Steward** :

Days of hell, you mean.

 **Captain** :

Perhaps so.  Perhaps so.  But brightest the stars on the darkest nights. --You'll surely drink a toast to the Edain?

 **Steward** :

Of course!

 **Celegorm:** [annoyed]

This party seems to be happening without us, brother.

 **Curufin:** [quietly]

Let the little people enjoy themselves.

[Beren is beginning to hyperventilate, barely staying this side of fight-or-flight]

 **Captain:** [noticing]

Are you all right, milord?

 **Beren** :

Sorry.  I haven't been around this many people in weeks.  I haven't been around this many people who weren't trying to kill me in _years_.

 **Captain** :

Everyone!  Move back!  Give Lord Beren some breathing space!  More manners, less enthusiasm, and we'll all have a more enjoyable time.

 **Beren:** [quietly]

Thanks.

[The King's entourage enters, bodyguards, petitioners, clerks, and Orodreth all trailing along behind Finrod.  Beren resolutely shoulders through the mob.]

 **Orodreth** :

Grinding Ice, but I thought that session would never end!  Why couldn't you just let it go till next season, Finrod?

 **Finrod** : [weary frustration]

\--And then next season it will be the season _after_ , and then the season after that. I've gone that route before.  I don't care _what_ inspiration struck him, if he's going to drop everything and start working on plans for a giant orrery instead of the arbalest, then I first of all want to know about it and _next_ I want to know who's lined up to replace him! Some things are more impor--

[stops dead]

_Beor . . . ?_

[his voice trails off]

 **Beren:** [holding out the ring]

Sir.  Your Majesty.  My father once was of service to you, and -- this ring I have    -- as proof -- though I know it isn't conclusive --

[he falters under the King's stare and falls silent]

 **Finrod:** [ignoring the ring altogether]

You're _Barahir's_ boy.

[He grips Beren's shoulders.]

\-- You look just like him.  My home -- is yours.  What do you need?


	7. Act 2:  SCENE III

**Gower** :

To such a kingly welcome as, though well-deserved,   
lost Dorthonion's lord hath scarcely dared whereof to hope,   
Beren now is come, and here in royal rooms, and served   
  by Finrod Felagund himself, he finds him rest, and dares to open   
(as only to one other e're before) the hard-defended chamber   
of his inmost thought.   
Hearing his mind, the Lord of Caves   
wondering greatly, considers all his words, spoken and unspoken,   
deeming him here a sign of fortune, or doom, nor that he raves   
when of his mad and main-wrought quest he tells -- how broken   
never will his given vow and pledged love ere be, while Sun   
and Moon cross 'twixt heaven's stars and the Endless Sea. 

[Finrod's apartments. Beren, somewhat less disheveled, reclines before the fireplace watching the flames. Finrod is seated across from him on the floor. A carafe is between them; each holds a wineglass. As the camera moves it is revealed that Huan, asleep, is serving as backrest for Beren.]

 **Finrod** :

\--More?

 **Beren** :

Sure.

[Finrod pours. Beren holds up & admires before the light. When he speaks his words are slower than usual, but not slurred: exhaustion, not drink, has overtaken him.]

Thanks. --This is amazing stuff. I'd expect I'd be unconscious by now . . . I can't remember when I last had wine; it's got to be six or seven years, I guess. It's the strangest thing: I can barely move, I couldn't fight now to -- hah -- save my life, and -- you know, it doesn't bother me at all. My mind is perfectly clear.  I think -- I think this must be what _safety_ feels like.  If I ever knew it before, I must have forgotten a long time ago . . . Where was I?

 **Finrod** :

You were explaining why you remained behind when the last contingent of refugees departed.

 **Beren** :

Oh, right. --You sure this isn't boring you?

[Finrod shakes his head]

Okay. --So then Da says, to him, "What did I tell you?" and Old Man Galthrin says, "You said _Orcs_ , me lord -- you said nothin' about any _Trolls_!" -- I guess it isn't that funny.  But it was at the point where there was practically nothing left for us to defend, and yet the less there was, the less we were willing to give it up.  The land itself . . . was getting _strange_ . . . along the edges, and farms just . . . disappeared, from time to time.  Not burned, just _gone_ , like old ruins.  But the survivors wouldn't give up, and we couldn't abandon them.  Finally -- and this had been going on for a long time, it didn't just come out of nowhere -- Ma said that Dorthonion was dying alive, that the only way to survive was to cut out what hadn't been too touched by blight and transplant it somewhere new. And Da said, "But the roots aren't dead yet, Em."  And she just looked at him, and -- I knew.

 **Finrod** :

Did you really think you could save anything by staying?

 **Beren** :

Da was no fool. He wished me to go with her because he thought I'd be safer that way, but he told me that _she'd_ be safer if I was there to look after her. Ma wanted me to stay with him because she figured we'd both be safer looking after each other, and she didn't really think they were going to make it. We drew lots; I got Da's arrow.

 **Finrod** :

What did _you_ want?

 **Beren** :

Dorthonion healed. -- Not one of the options, though.  That was, hm, two years after the Dagor Bragollach? Three? Dunno.

 **Finrod** : [winces]

I'm sorry.  Do you know if they made it through?

 **Beren** : [shaking his head]

I've heard rumors now and then. Nothing reliable.  I think  -- I think -- I'm pretty sure she's dead, regardless.  I -- she only left because of the younger children.  Once she'd seen them safe in Brethil -- assuming there's anywhere safe in Middle-earth -- I think she would have come back. Or tried to.  That was the plan, though she didn't tell Da that.  Seven years, though . . . she was one hell of a fighter.  I don't think they took her alive.

 **Finrod** :

That sounds . . . plausible.  I heard much of Emeldir from your father during the War.  He used to say I'd be better served by her, because then I'd have wits too, as well as a wielded sword at my command.

 **Beren** :

That sounds like Da.

[chuckles]

\--When we still had the fort, one of the things I hated worst--? Repacking the hedge.  Worse than mudding up the walls in winter. Doesn't matter how much you wrap your hands, you still end up looking like you lost a fight with a wildcat.  Couple times I tried to pull rank on some of the younger kids: hey, _I'm_ the chief's nephew, you're just a couple of thanes, _you_ go shove thorns into the barrier, _I'll_ stand guard on the tower. Besides, I'm a better aim. --Actually got away with it. Twice, I think.

 **Finrod** :

Did they report you to her?

 **Beren** :

No -- she found them at it and pried the truth out of them. Then she called me out.

 **Finrod** :

Called you -- _out_?  As in a duel?

 **Beren** : [nods]

She said if I was remanding her directives and changing the order of battle, then that obviously meant I thought I ought to be in charge of the fort.  And in that case she was going to answer the challenge, because she had accepted the charge from the Lords of Dorthonion and she wasn't yielding it to Man nor Orc.

 **Finrod** :

What did _you_ say?

 **Beren** :

After "Ma, _wait_ \--" and various assorted exclamations of pain?  Let's see -- "I'm sorry, Hathaldir; I'm sorry, Dagnir; everyone, I'm sorry for failing to give you the respect owed by your ruling House." Then I was allowed to stitch myself up. I _thought_ she broke my collar-bone, but I could use my arm after a week, so it wasn't that bad.

 **Finrod** :

Weren't you -- _angry_ , with her?

 **Beren** :

Oh, yeah. I was furious. After I stopped shaking I went down to yell at her --

 **Finrod** : [incredulous]

\--After you'd just just lost a sword-fight with her?

 **Beren** :

Why do you think that's funny? Something else would have come up and we wouldn't have gotten it out of the way.  And there she was, doing my work, with her hands all torn up from the hawthorn branches. So I just started helping her as best I could. And after a bit I asked her why she didn't just make me do it, instead of busting my shoulder in front of everybody. And she said, "You can't _make_ people do anything, kid. The best you can do is show them how to _want_ it." So then I said, "But when _you_ tell people what to do, they do it." And she says, "That's because they want to." And I said something stupid, and she came right back with, "Well, if they want to not have their heads broken more than they want not to do their jobs, then they're still wanting it, right?"

[sighs]

So then I asked why she didn't make someone else want to do _this_ for her, and she just gives me this Look.  And then she said, "You never, _ever_ , ask someone to do what you're not willing to accept yourself."  And I was too dumb to stop, and I said, "But aren't you too important to do this?" And she points over at the gatepost next to us, and she says, "Your grandfather pulled that lodgepole out of the forest when the last one was hit by lightning, because it was tall, but not too broad, straight, sound but not too heavy, and of a bore with the last one.  That's what it is to be chosen leader. Occasional lightning and all. Or Orcs, as the case may be."

[Huan stirs and whines sleepily, setting his head down with a grumble]

And then about a fortnight after my Da comes home, and my uncle's not with him.

 **Finrod** :

Did you ever think of going after her?

 **Beren** :

I didn't know where to start.  And there were still people who wouldn't -- or couldn't, by then -- leave.  I thought -- I thought she'd try to find her way back, I left runes and checked all our haunts on my rounds, but . . .

 **Finrod** :

Why did you leave?

 **Beren** :

It wasn't a conscious decision at that point.  I hadn't slept in days, they were everywhere beating the woods for me, all my permanent camps were staked out, the only thing I could do was keep moving . . . why do the deer move when there's famine and the hounds are after them? Aside from natural disinclination -- which some people would disallow as a valid motive -- I suppose -- in so far as I was capable of any kind of rational judgment -- that I realized that being run to earth, cut down and butchered by Orcs wasn't going to serve anyone's purpose but Morgoth's.  I think -- I don't think I was completely sane. Not as men mean it. There was a _clarity_ to it, but not _meaning_.  _I_ was, _the_ _world_ was, _they_ were. _I_ _was_ where they _were_ _not_.  -- Far past the point where any sense of duty or hope remains.

 **Finrod** : [very softly]

That point you reach when you're so tired that you just want to lie down and _stop_ \-- but the body drags on like a hound on a leash until flesh fails and falls, and then the spirit burns to madness until somehow one cannot bear its pangs and staggers on again.

 **Beren** : [suddenly alert]

You . . . _do_ understand . . . ?

 **Finrod** :

We have no songs that celebrate it. We _endured_. That's all. You must have heard -- the legends. The Grinding Ice, the Crossing -- _words_ , for something beyond words.

 **Beren** :

'Beyond words' . . . where there are no words for it, there is only -- itself.

 **Finrod** : [lost]

Think of the worst night of the harshest winter you've ever known: to me that would, I judge, be as a brisk morning for you. The Sun is always present, even when we cannot see her, and the world is always warmed. But in the Night Without Stars we had nothing -- only endless, crushing, devouring cold, until all that is left is loathing for one's self, for very life itself . . . when the only light is that of other souls . . .

[Silently Beren props himself forward and fills the King's glass once more. Finrod drinks it off in one go.]

 **Finrod** :

I'm sorry. This is gloomy hospitality.

 **Beren** :

More wine?

 **Finrod** :

Please.

[Beren refills both glasses and slides back against Huan.]

[More brightly:]

Is it true that the price on your head was equal to that that's been set for my cousin Fingon?

[Beren shrugs]

 **Beren** :

That's what they said. Since nobody ever collected on it, it's hard to say if that was just talk, or if they would have actually paid out.

 **Finrod** :

That's rather a signal honor, to be counted the equal of a Noldorin King.

 **Beren** : [manic grin]

I should have thought of that in Doriath.  That might have impressed His Nibs a bit more than -- 'Um, hey, my _relatives_ were heroes.'

 **Finrod** : [troubled]

He wants you dead, you realize that.

 **Beren** :

 _Oh_ yeah. -- He said as much. In some detail, too.

[shakes head]

Not that I really blame him -- I mean, look at it from their point of view:

the King's daughter of Doriath shows up one fine evening with this inarticulate loser in ripped camouflage and says, "Guess what! I've found my soulmate, Dad!" I _knew_ it was a bad idea. And then I tried talking and I should have just kept my mouth shut. It was pretty funny, actually, at least if you weren't _us_.

 **Finrod** :

You're too harsh on yourself.

 **Beren** :

Oh, you weren't there. It was _bad_. -- It was _worse_ , actually.

 **Finrod** :

But surely your lineage, your legend, your House's service with my own, all would count for _something_ , even with Elu. I've been a friend of his for ages -- he's paranoid, but with perfectly good reasons, and he's not blind.

 **Beren** : [shakes head]

Like I said, it was doomed from the beginning.  And really, his reaction was entirely justified, and more than he knew.  Yeah, lords of Dorthonion and all -- but that was a long time ago.  I'm not the same person I was. [points]

See that arch up there? I could get up there, and no one would be able to see me until it was too late, because I could cover the doorway without offering a target. And if _I_ could, someone else could do it. Even though I _know_ I'm safe here, I'm aware of that. Not like I could do anything about it just now, but I can't help _noticing_. But it isn't just that. I couldn't talk for _months_ , even after I got to Doriath. I was not . . . entirely sane. I -- don't think she told them that.  In fact I'm sure of that.  So, hoo boy, it could have been worse. --Cheerful thought, huh?

 **Finrod** : [seriously]

You'll have to reconcile with him after this is all over, you know.  You can't take Luthien back to Dorthonion, and even if you both come here to live, it isn't as though you can legitimately cut off all contact with her family, even if Luthien's angry enough to do so.  And then there are political connections, too. I have to think of them, Beren.

 **Beren** : [deadpan]

Well, you've already convinced me of the need to apologize and be nice to your two noble kinsman, so we can enlist them into going along with the program until we get to Thingol's with the jewel, and since the other half of that plan hinges on you talking him into being gracious enough to then make a gift of it, thereby keeping the Sons of Feanor happy, and not homicidal, (and incidentally at the same time delivering the most staggering insult possible to them which we won't tell them about, and making up for a couple few centuries of general oneryness and rude behavior to Thingol on their part) -- yeah, sure. I can probably manage not to mortally offend Tinuviel's father next time. So long as you do the talking, I'll do the keeping-quiet.

 **Finrod** : [more serious and admonishing]

And you _will_ do this, will you not? _All_ of it?

 **Beren** : [still deadpan]

You don't think I'd be crazy enough to jeopardize my whole life because the Sons of Feanor are a pair of arrogant bastards who for some unknown reason took an instant disliking to me?

[pause]

 **Finrod** : [awkwardly]

I have -- hm -- noticed a certain -- er, how can I put this tactfully? -- _intransigence_ in your people, over the years.

 **Beren** : [grins]

\--Stubborn as rocks, that's us. Goes with the territory, I guess.

 **Finrod** : [fascinated]

Really? Do you think _that's_ it? Something to do with geography?

 **Beren** : [confused]

I don't -- I don't know. Maybe. I was just using a figure of speech.

 **Finrod** : [musing]

\-- Haleth was like that.  Wonderful child, but one had to be careful not to agree with her too closely, or she'd take it all wrong.

 **Beren** :

I'm not _that_ bad. I don't think. --Hey! You _knew_ Haleth? As in _the_ Haleth? _Lady Haleth of Brethil?_

 **Finrod** :

Yes, she was having a run-in with Elwe, as it happens.  Or Elu, as he calls himself now.  Life's funny like that.

 **Beren** :

It makes a little more sense if he's like the rest of the crew, but I never understood why she wouldn't take up Lord Caranthir's offer of shelter.

 **Finrod** : [drily]

Obviously you've never met Caranthir.

 **Beren** :

? . . . ?

 **Finrod** :

\--Let me put it this way: _I_ _don't_ _cross_ _him_. -- _Ever_.  No, that wasn't the incident I was referring to. Why? Because Haleth was an intelligent and perceptive young woman and was not fooled by Caranthir's charming ways and words.  Ever wonder why they showed up a week late, _after_ the lord of the land was killed, and the heir, when they were practically in his backyard?  Caranthir knew them for efficient fighters, and wanted them grateful, and leaderless.  And he has not, so far as I can tell, the slightest compunction about using mortal Men as a screen for his more -- _valued_ , shall we say -- troops. --I don't know that for a fact, of course. That's just my reading of the events.  And the way he spits when he hears her name. No, I was referring to the -- tenor, of her exchanges with Elu over that unused property of his.  It was a rather, er, _heated_ crossfire to be caught in.  A little tact might have made a great difference.

 **Beren** : [recognizing the hint]

There was  . . . not really . . . it was too late for tact by then.  --Doomed from the beginning, I'm afraid.  Everything I said made it worse.

 **Finrod** :

Well. [sighs]

I can probably patch things up.  It still might even be wiser for us to go back and talk to Elu and to Melian -- you did say she was more favorably disposed towards your suit? -- and try to put this nonsense out of the way.

 **Beren** :

 _Tinuviel_ said that.  I -- couldn't tell. Maybe. She didn't look like she wanted me eviscerated, but I wouldn't say she looked _happy_. But it doesn't matter. I can't go back without it.  I'm sorry.  I _can't_.

 **Finrod** :

I'll not press you again on that, then. [blandly]

Are you sure you're not related to the Haladin?

 **Beren** : [grins wryly]

Not as far as I know. --I still can't believe you knew her. _Wow_. She lived almost as long ago as Beor. That's --

 **Finrod** : [worried look]

Beren -- I _knew_ Beor.

[pause]

 **Beren** :

I know. --I know.

 **Finrod** :

But do you _understand_ , Beren?  Luthien, whom you charmingly persist in calling, _not_ inappropriately, Tinuviel, but which I cannot imagine endeared you further to Elu, had already seen _Ages before_ your ancestor was ever born. You think _me_ ancient beyond belief -- yet _she_ is even older, though you see no difference in our years. Can you begin to comprehend how strange it is to us, to think of one of us finding her match in a mortal Man, whose entire _life_ is over and forgotten even, in the passing of one of our measures of time?

[Beren looks at him in distress; Huan grumbles softly in his sleep.]

Even though, since our Return, time has fled faster even for us, the urgencies of war making us care for the coming of winter and the haste of summer, for messages and meetings and councils marked by the passing of days, and hours even, and not weeks -- still it is not for us as it is for you, and cannot ever be so. How can you _begin_ to measure the compass of her thought, who saw the first Sunrise of the world, when you have not lived a single twelve-twelvemonths' span?

[Finrod's expression is sympathetic but urgent, attempting to convey his fears. Beren turns away abruptly and stares fiercely into the flames.] 

**Beren** : [low but clear]

I heard a story . . . long ago, when I was a boy, but it was there everyday somehow, always behind the surface . . . about one who came out of darkness, to where we lay dull and almost speechless, and gave us words, and thoughts, and the knowledge of ourselves, and _song_.

[Finrod bows his head and is silent.]

\--So Tinuviel came to _me_ , when I was lost and alone and almost without name, and I can no more hold nor measure her than I could measure the stars of the Burning Brier, or take the Sickle in my hand, but without her I am blind and deaf and dumb, and I could no more live without her light than theirs!

[stops himself]

Forgive me -- I spoke without thinking. _Again_.

 **Finrod** : [very quietly]

Forgive -- that you have learned so well? --No, Beren, I will not question you in this again, nor insult you, nor her through you. I thought I had seen all things, known all that mortal or Elven mind might do, and here is a new song that I've never heard before -- but that does not make it an ill one. More wine? Or shall I take your glass?

 **Beren** :

Thanks.

[frowning]

It seems strange -- wrong, somehow. You shouldn't be waiting on me. --Sir. _Sire_. I'm sorry. I _do_ know the right way to behave.

 **Finrod** :

\--Please. I should _hope_ that if I am a good enough host to put you at your ease, that I would not then be offended by your informality! And this is hardly burdensome service, my friend.

 **Beren** : [with a wry smile]

\-- _Friend_.

 **Finrod** :

\--If I may presume so much.

 **Beren** : [softly]

I'd hoped to meet with courtesy. No more than that. With duty, and civility at best -- at least a formal welcome, the bare necessities, a guide along the beginning of my road. I dared presume no more -- I'm not my father, nor my uncle, I've done nothing for you or yours. I never thought -- to find -- a _home_.

 **Finrod** :

 _Nothing_? Beren, you, alone, have done more in your short lifetime than many Elves have accomplished in a hundred years. Your efforts against Morgoth, tying up so many of his forces, for so long, spreading such fear among them and setting such example for the enslaved and oppressed -- not for your people alone, though you might not have realized that fact, but for every creature friendly to the Light!

[Beren cannot quite believe this is not mockery. Finrod's expression convinces him otherwise.] 

**Beren** :

I should give you back your ring, Sire.

 **Finrod** :

Keep it for your children. The debt I owe your family is beyond measure.

 **Beren** : [raises eyebrows]

\-- _Optimist_.

 **Finrod** : [earnestly]

With you here to inspire, to lend your ability and legend to the cause, what will we _not_ be able to achieve? We are stultifying here, Barahirion, to a degree you might not believe, seeing our rigorous defenses -- but that's all we've done since the last engagement ended. Small battles, _little_ skirmishes, no one dares to do more. Not us, not Morgoth. But little by little, he accomplishes by sheer inertia, and we are defeated without a blow, because _others_ fall to him.

[becoming more agitated]

Oh, we plan -- we prepare -- but what have we actually _done_? I can't even get a weapons development program to fulfillment, not even after Dagor Bragollach -- you'd think that people would see the need, see that he surely won't be resting on the successes of his biomechanoids and chemical weapons. I shudder to think of what he must be coming up with while we waffle over the symbolism and cosmology of warhead shapes, and squander the resources set aside on designing the world's largest planetarium!

 **Beren** :

Er . . .

 **Finrod:** [in full rant]

Oh, I know all the arguments -- that a perfect design, in perfection of harmony with the heavens, cannot but ensure victory; that the disregard of celestial balances is what doomed us before, that tiny inefficiencies in the cosmic pattern create massive chaos down the line. Grinding Ice! do I ever know them. And know a smokescreen when I see one, too. We lost too many, last time. It isn't the people who were _there_ who cannot bear to think of renewing the attack: it's the ones left behind. We survivors would go back in an instant, and not stand around waiting for him to come out, if we had the means. [He grips Beren's shoulder]

We will be rekindled with your presence, and renew the battle, and my people will see what they have been blind to all these years in ease and hiding, and together we will accomplish such deeds for the Light as Arda will never forget.  --But that's for later: you're exhausted. We'll speak more when you've rested. --Good night, Huan. Rest well, my friend.

 **Beren** : [thumping Huan's neck]

Won't Celegorm be upset if he discovers his dog is here?

 **Finrod** :

Undoubtedly, if he notices. Huan roams most of the time as he pleases. He's older than I am, and quite capable of deciding what he should do without my say-so.

 **Beren** :

But he still belongs to Celegorm . . . ?

 **Finrod** :

So Celegorm thinks.  Huan's his own dog, so far as I can tell, and does pretty much as he thinks best. -- In that he is not unlike a certain Man named Balan I once knew, and his descendants. Remind me to tell you about the time your many-times-great-grandfather forcibly convinced me that accelerated healing is not always an adequate substitute for cautery and stitches.

 **Beren** :

What happened?

 **Finrod** : [raising an eyebrow]

A skirmish, an Orc-scimitar, a long journey still to take, and no time for foolishness like rest or medical attention.  I was not entirely sane at the time, either.  Are you sure you'll be comfortable? Just on the tile like that?

 **Beren** :

Oh, yeah. --It's _flat_. And dry. --And there's no _down_ to fall, either. So long as Huan doesn't stand up, I'm good -- and probably even then. I don't know about not having my weapons to hand, though.

 **Finrod** :

Would you be more comfortable with your gear? I can send for it --

 **Beren** : [shrugs]

I don't want to make trouble.

 **Finrod** : [mildly]

I _am_ in charge here: it won't be a difficulty.  --It would be a strange thing indeed if I could not trust the son of Barahir of the house of Beor in my presence armed, or on my doorstep!  I'll fetch your weapons for you.

 **Beren** :

No, please -- it's not worth the trouble.  I'll be fine. [smiles]

That'd make your two noble kinsmen shake their heads, I bet. I can just imagine what they'd say.

 **Finrod** :

That I give such trust to mortal men, or to your preference for sleeping under arms?

 **Beren** :

Both. Either.

 **Finrod** :

They've forgotten what it was to live in the field -- not that they ever truly did without the comforts of home when they could, you'll hear some -- _interesting_ \-- stories if you listen closely around here -- but they're also annoyed that you don't seem to be sufficiently impressed by the Eldar.

 **Beren** :

I -- [bites his lip in frustration]

Sir, I'm sorry, I mean no insult to Nargothrond, or to your folk. It -- it's beyond words here, for one. For another -- I've grown up all my life hearing of the greatness of Felagund's court, and now I'm here, and I'm amazed.  And for last -- I've hiked here from Doriath. I'm starved as much for shelter and kindness as a stray hound for his meat. More than that -- way beyond my ability to take in right now.

 **Finrod** :

Do you think I don't know all that?  Don't let it trouble you.  _I_ at least remember what it is to sleep in a swamp, in one's armor, grateful for a few inches of water to hide in under a burning sky, and kind hands holding one out of it as one's wounds are bandaged. Nargothrond is not insulted by your presence, Beor.

 **Beren** : [with a worried look]

I'm -- I'm not . . .

 **Finrod** :

I know you are _yourself_ alone, (however confused you might have left some today.) I meant it in the general, not the specific sense.

 **Beren** :

But -- I've given you you no vow of fealty, sire.

 **Finrod** :

Ah, the word is still confused in the translation. Funny how such things persist.

 **Beren** :

I'm afraid I don't understand . . . ?

 **Finrod** :

You translate it "vassal", and I am not entirely sure how mortals understand the word. As _we_ use it, it is more, and less, and other, than a contract of law, or a bargain of power. It means . . . "one in whom one has complete reliance," -- one who can be entrusted with a great work and more, needing no supervision. The words are but recognition of what is. Vows will not hold one to duty in the end.  And it means, as well, the other half: that the trust is mutual, that the duty is given but for duty, and that faith will be kept in turn.

[he looks away, then meets Beren's eyes]

Ultimately -- it means, when all else fails, that one may send a vassal to his death, but _never_ without good reason. _Never_ from pride, or willful ignorance, or carelessness. _Never_ a duty given without regard for the servant's honor. -- Lest in turn the liege turn traitor, and the bond be broken.  But you know this already, son of Barahir and Emeldir, brother's son of Bregolas, lord of Dorthonion, -- whether you name it or not.

[long pause]

 **Beren** :

I hope I will earn this trust, then.

 **Finrod** :

You will _never_ fail me, my friend.

 **Beren** :

Is that your -- your Foresight, sir?

 **Finrod** :

No. That's merely judgment.  Now take your rest: I must excuse myself for preparation of our plans -- which means, unfortunately, as many meetings as it does maps!


	8. Act 2:  SCENE IV

**Gower** :   
In hope most high of endlessly-awaited strife,   
long mused, longtime abetted, longer dreamed of yet,   
King Felagund renews his ancient works, recalls to life   
long-stilled ambitions, to o'erthrow and set   
in one fell stroke great Morgoth's pivot-hold,   
back from its strangling press in sortie bold.   
Like a master-painter he works over his design,   
now adding here a stroke, now there a line,   
now at a sudden inspiration swift-casting off   
and in one grand wide-sweeping unguessed move,   
turns inside out or back to front what was,   
building in space, in time, in Fate unshaped, to cause   
the End long-purposed far beyond the Seas.

Meanwhile Beren the traveller, rested of travails,   
finding himself a stranger in uncharted realm, though fair,   
essays his own adventures, where for guide hath only tales;   
(but never was there journey yet he feared to dare,   
in the Dark Wood, nor yet the Mountains of Despair.) 

[A solar (or what would be a solar were it not underground)-- that is to say, a large, pleasant, brightly lit dining chamber/living room/meeting space off the main assembly hall, where some are taking breakfast, some playing quiet music some chatting; but there is a nervous undercurrent that manifests in cheerfulness.] 

[Finrod's Steward enters. Beren, accompanying him, halts before continuing and checks 'both ways' to be sure that all avenues of ambush are clear, then steps quickly through. This gets some Looks. He is washed and dressed in clothes clearly not his own, both for quality and fit, and appears less barbaric, though the results of getting pine pitch in one's hair are not disguisable. More at odds with the tailoring is the fact that he has limited his accouterments to some dozen sidearms, belted openly over his garments. The overall effect is rather unique.] 

**Steward** :

I'm so sorry we could not fit you better -- anything short enough was too narrow across the shoulders, and the alterations were rather hasty.

 **Beren** :

Please -- you don't need to keep apologizing, sir.

 **Steward** :

You gave us quite a turn, not being there.

 **Beren** :

Sorry. I woke up and found I couldn't sleep where I was any more.

 **Steward** :

On the floor?

 **Beren** :

Under a roof. The arch was more -- familiar.

 **Steward** :

Ah. I -- see.

 **Beren** : [smiling]

You _don't_. --From above, it's like a tree. The ceiling is too high for a house, but too low for the sky. _My_ caves were never chosen for their spaciousness.

 **Steward** :

\--Indeed. [moving on]

There is a variety of foodstuffs available which will satisfy your dietary requirements, but I fear they are not labeled nor in any way distinguished in their arrangement at the buffet --

 **Beren** :

Again, I'd rather you didn't worry so much about my needs. _I_ certainly don't.

 **Steward** :

Are you sure? I can ask the chefs to make up a list --

 **Beren** : [innocently]

Or -- I could come forage around in the kitchens, if that would be easier.

 **Steward** :

Stars, no! [drily]

You're remarkably cheerful, milord.

 **Beren** : [smiling broadly]

Well, I've been awake for one-twelfth of the day already, and nobody's tried to kill me yet.

 **Steward** :

That is, I concur, an _excellent_ reason to be pleased with life.

[He shows the way to the 'groaning board' which holds is an array of foodstuffs so varied and plentiful that Beren cannot even be surprised at it, any more than one is surprised at the number of colored leaves in autumn.  He fills a golden plate with fruit and pastries and cheeses -- and also fills his sleeves and sash with several kinds of flatbreads. The Steward is too polite to say anything, but he does notice.]

 **Steward** : [shaking his head]

It seems that we have run out of glasses already -- I will have to speak to the staff.  I'll fetch yours: what would you prefer, Lord Beren? We have spring water, well water, rainwater of different hours' vintage; there is also juice, in the modern fashion, both corrantine and grape, and this harvest's damson, which I personally recommend. There, is as well, watered wine, in any combination of wines or waters, in the old Valinorean mode, if you'd rather the traditional instead.

 **Beren** :

Whatever you have is fine.

 **Steward** :

All _together_ \--?

 **Beren** :

No -- I meant -- whatever was most convenient.  You decide.

 **Steward** You really don't care at all, milord?

 **Beren** : [encouraging]

That's right.

 **Steward** :

I _do_ understand, young sir -- but I wish that I did not. May it please you, choose whichever seat you would: we do not stand on ceremony in the Hall of Hours, and everyone is free to take what place the soul desires. I'll return with your beverage shortly.  I trust I may presume upon your forbearance to delay long enough to chastise the kitcheners for their duties' neglect.

 **Beren** : [graciously]

You may.

[The Steward bows and leaves him with a somewhat ironic-rueful expression. Beren tries to sit at the table, but cannot get comfortable in the chair: after several attempts to reposition it to where he is able to relax, he shakes his head. Laughing at himself, he picks up his plate, circling the room until he finds a convenient alcove and perches there.  He does not seem to be aware of the stares which follow him.]

[Someone has forgotten a goblet on the ledge, which is made of crystal and has for decoration a fully-sculpted version of the emblem on his ring, the two gold serpents winding up the stem and the gold wreath encircling the lip of the glass, but all the texture is completely covered in the clear shell blown around the ornamentation. Beren picks it up and examines it, astonished by the fineness of detail and its fragility. The Captain approaches and leans over with a most conspiratorial manner.]

 **Captain** : [manic whisper]

\--It's called 'glass'. One drinks from it. We make it out of _sand_.

[Beren gives him an alarmed look; he maintains the earnest expression for a long moment, then dissolves into snickers, cuffing Beren on the arm.]

Did he _really_ say that? About furniture?

[Beren nods, the laughter becoming contagious]

They've been going around repeating it as though they think it makes them sound clever. --What a pair of gits!

 **Beren** : [looks around, then whispers confidentially:]

Don't tell anyone, but I've forgotten how to use the stuff.  I couldn't find a way to make the table-chair thing work.

 **Captain** :

What, those things? They're designed that way, so you won't sit there and clutter up the area all day. -- No, I don't know.  That's just my theory. One of Celebrimbor's early projects -- gorgeous as water, but as comfortable as a pile of rocks.

 **Beren** :

 _Less_ , I thought.

 **Captain** :

You didn't think people were sitting on hassocks and rugs and column footings over there to be artistic and create an elegant tableau, did you? --Though around here one never knows . . .

 **Steward** :

There you are, milord. I thought you'd vanished again.

 **Beren** : [soberly]

No openwork vaulting in here.

 **Steward** : [deadpan]

I am certain some could be arranged, but probably not before lunchtime, I'm afraid. --Is that an empty glass beside you? Let me take that back and show them. Here is _yours_ , milord. I brought the damson juice; I trust that it meets with your approval.

 **Beren** : [tasting]

It does.  It's excellent. _Thank_ _you_. [sets the goblet aside and takes out his eating-knife.]

If you will forgive me, sirs -- I'll eat in your presence, for as Da always said, if people _will_ drop by at mealtime they'd best not expect me to stop for them -- but I would no less than my folks that you stay, and join me if you'd like, for my mother's table never lacked another place.

[He offers choice of what's on his plate: they are visibly moved.]

 **Captain** :

No, I've ended my fast hours ago. But I thank you, Lord Beren.

[The Steward only shakes his head.  Beren begins to cut the little Lady-apples into halves but halts when an imposingly-regal individual approaches them, and his two companions at once come to attention.]

 **Captain** : [salutes]

Your Highness.

 **Steward** :

My lord Barahirion, may I make known to you our good King's brother and coordinator of the realm's defenses --

 **Beren** : [putting aside his meal -- Prince Orodreth --

 **Orodreth** :

Please -- do not rise.  I've no wish to impose upon you after the rigors of your journey! I only wished to say, at outset -- how much -- without delay, that is -- that I admire your many valiant efforts in the field and have always hoped and prayed for your continued success -- that is, when of course report more than insubstantial rumor has arrived, since the course of reliable news from out of the North has naturally dwindled in past years -- Not that I am blaming you in the _least_ , my lord Beren, far to the contrary -- Rather I wanted to express my sorrow for your grievous losses -- and to express my gratitude for your own good works, on behalf of all our peoples. -- I also -- as a father -- would like to thank you for your _kind_ indulgence to my daughter's fancies -- though, in truth, were it not for the exigencies of my job I'd have likely been asking for your autograph the other day as well! Her fiancee hasn't stopped talking about you these last two days either -- prepare yourself for much curiosity, my lord. Nargothrond wishes to thank our hereditary champion -- not least impressive for the fact of your mortality --

 **Beren** : [as Orodreth appears to be waiting for something, uncertainly:]

\-- You're welcome?

 **Orodreth** : [a touch relieved]

You do me honor, Lord of Dorthonion.  I trust I'll see you presently in council?

 **Beren** :

You know more than I do, I'm afraid, Your Highness.

 **Orodreth** :

Ah. I did not mean to put you on the spot. milord. Now if you'll forgive me, I've got to run--

[Apparently by accident, the Steward half turns to bow in reply and simultaneously tread on the Ranger Captain's boot as Orodreth takes off.]

 **Beren** : [staring after Orodreth]

Was that supposed to make sense? Or am I still asleep? Which I gather from his words lasted rather more than one night, and I'm not surprised at all. That's gotta have been good for another three years . . .

 **Captain** : [lowered voice]

He lost his nerve. Left our final position of defense to Morgoth's top commander after a battle significant in its utter absence, and fled back to Nargothrond with the gates wide open. The only thing he _didn't_ do was wait to give Sauron the grand tour of the place.

 **Steward** :

You haven't talked to the people who came back from there. It was something beyond reason, something which sent everyone there into the same funk as the Night of Darkness. I doubt that anyone could have held out longer than the Prince did.

 **Captain** :

Do you think the King would have neglected to at least tear the place down before he left? Not left it standing there for our Enemy to use, and give him for free the best terrain in the region! -- All right, I'll stop.

[to Beren]

But that's what's behind his apology, lad. After Tol Sirion fell, the Enemy's troops were pretty much able to plough through us wherever they wanted, having a fine base of operations to work out from, and we were no longer able to control them in Beleriand at all.

 **Beren** :

Oh. _\--Ohhh . . ._ [frowning as he begins to understand, and put many things together. Perhaps he would ask more, or say something, but Celebrimbor son of Curufin approaches, wearing a somewhat distracted expression. (The actual source of his apparent rudeness is as much inventorly preoccupation as awareness of his own exalted heritage, but this would not be obvious at once to a bystander.)]

 **Celebrimbor** :

Has any of you lot seen my glass? I think I forgot it over here . . .

[The Steward hands it to him with a Look.]

I know, I know, I'm sorry -- I was writing in my tablets and I've only got two hands --

[checks]

I say, is that the famous Ring?

[He seizes Beren's wrist and yanks his hand up for a better look, apple and all, leaving Beren staring in astonishment at the eating-knife in his right.]

 **Beren** :

Ah -- _excuse_ me?

[The grandson of Feanor looks at him with mild surprise as though not anticipating him capable of speech. As the expectant pause extends and the other Elves look at him with disapproval, Celebrimbor blushes in realization of his error and clears his throat, releasing Beren's arm and bowing formally.]

 **Celebrimbor** :

I was wondering -- might I examine it more closely, please? I've a technical interest in the metal arts.

[Wordlessly Beren removes the Ring and passes it to him.]

 **Celebrimbor** :

Amazing, how such a trinket can summon _kings_ to do one's bidding...

[When done he returns it and is about to leave, but notices the Looks he is getting from the Steward and the Captain.]

Thank you, er, Barahirion.

[moves away to the far side of the solar and his friends.]

 **Beren** : [amazed]

It's like I didn't even exist.

 **Steward** :

Don't let it trouble you, milord.

 **Captain** :

They're all like that -- _Shiplords_. Unless you can do something for them.

 **Steward** :

Actually, Lord Celebrimbor is _not_ the worst.

 **Captain** :

It would be very difficult to be worse than his father.

 **Steward** :

His uncle is always civil, at least to me.

 **Captain** :

That's because _you're_ the one in charge of organizing hunts. Don't flatter yourself: Celegorm is not a nice fellow. My men served as beaters for him once. Do _not_ ever get between him and the game.  It's always accidental, he always apologizes for nearly running you over -- and then he does it again.

 **Beren** :

 _That_ was Curufin's son? I wouldn't have guessed.

 **Captain** :

You had something he wanted.

 **Beren** :

There aren't any _more_ of them around here, are there? I've promised to be civil to them, and I'd like to be prepared . . .

 **Steward** :

No, that's the lot of them. But they have a sizable retinue here.

 **Captain** :

In other words, _don't_ assume that anyone you meet is not a partisan of theirs.

[grim chuckle]

Heh.  I wonder if the Master-Smith realizes how close he came to having his arm stabbed just now?

 **Beren** :

Oh no, I wouldn't have struck: there weren't any threat indications from him. But it was kind of a dumb thing for him to do. --Are they all that biased against us?

 **Steward** :

Well, there's Caranthir, but . . .

 **Beren** :

\--So I've heard.

 **Steward** :

Maedhros isn't nearly as bad as the rest, and Maglor is fairly decent too.

 **Captain** :

They've still got attitude problems taller than Taniquetil.

 **Steward** :

There's no call for blasphemy. And we'd have no cavalry without them.

 **Captain** :

True. I am very grateful for the cavalry. I don't think they care much one way or the other about mortals, though.

[leadingly]

Oh, and don't forget Amrod-and-Amras. . .

 **Steward** : [drily]

 _That_ , certainly, would be impossible.

 **Beren** :

I'm afraid I don't remember my kin speaking anything of them--?

 **Captain** :

They probably wouldn't. Hardly anyone ever sees . . . _them_. -- That _is_ rather the point, isn't it?

[the Steward grimaces. Beren looks from one to the other of them.]

Oh, _go_ on, tell him. We don't need to worry about impressing The Beoring, of all mortals!

 **Steward** : [sighing]

The story -- and recollect at all times that this is no more than a story -- is that Amrod was forgotten aboard the stolen ships when Feanor decided to burn them. You know of all that miserable affair from your history, I presume? Or whilst certainly not not _all_ , at least the general outline?

[Beren nods.]

Moreover, your cousins were born at a birth, as I recollect --

[Beren nods again]

\-- and I never had the slightest trouble telling them apart, milord. Now the first we knew of that ship business happened when King Finrod began scouting out the reaches of Angband to aid in the strategies of the siege, and sent to ask permission of the lords of the North to traverse their lands with surveyors. I was received civilly enough, and gave my speech before Lord Amrod, who listened and asked questions and then said he'd have to consult with his brother, who was out hunting, and would undoubtedly want to speak with me himself on the morrow when he got back. So they put me up at the lodge and the next morning I asked if I could see Lord Amrod again, because there were a few points I had perhaps not laid out as well as I might and wished to clarify.

"No," their steward replies, "he's Amras today." I was sure I must have misunderstood and spent breakfast wondering what I had misheard him say, when I was summoned again to the lords' hall, and there was -- so far as I could tell -- the same individual with whom I'd spoken previously. Yet his manner, his dress, his bearing, his voice even, were all different. They introduced me to him as Lord Amras, and he insisted that I tell him all my message as I had told his brother. I trust I do not flatter myself when I say that I maintained my composure throughout, but I must confess that I was not prepared for the explanation which I received after from my counterpart in the lords' household, under some considerable pressure.

 **Captain** :

 _And_ which you said you weren't sure you believed, either.

 **Steward** :

Do _you_ want to tell the story? --All right, then. Apparently, and this is only hearsay, but it fits the evidence, and subsequent reports -- when Amras died on board the ship, his soul was unwilling to return to the punishment that awaits us who rebelled, and his brother was unwilling to let him drift alone and houseless on this Shore. So, being twin and so much the same in flesh and spirit, Amrod gave way to his slain sibling and yielded his body to the other's will. But Amras, no less without precedent, and grateful for the gift, cedes back control in fair measure and with perfect accord, and so they both walk -- or ride to hunt, more like -- in Middle-earth.

[Beren is speechless]

Now, _either_ this is simply a bizarre joke, which the youngest sons of Feanor and their household enjoy perpetrating on their more distant relations, and they both live but choose not to appear together before outsiders; or it _is_ the case that the youngest son was killed, and his surviving twin went mad and now plays his part, which would explain why I could not tell any difference in 'their' presences; _or_ \-- it is true as I was told.

 **Captain** : [snickers]

Or -- it's true -- _and_ they're _both_ mad. Equally plausible, eh?

 **Steward** :

Don't laugh: it isn't funny, it's horrible and tragic.

 **Captain** :

It's horrible _and_ funny, Edrahil. It adds that last little missing touch of the surreal to the whole grisly mess.

[starts laughing again]

"He's _Amras_ today" --sweet Cuivinen!

 **Beren** : [appalled]

Can that _happen_?

[The Steward raises his eyebrows and shrugs.]

 **Steward** :

Dark and powerful spirits have been known to seize the careless and unwary Seeker, or exchange recently slain dwellings with a living. But that's uncommon, at least among our people, and involuntary. I've never heard of such a willful sharing of one home between two Eldar souls -- yet I can't think why it should be _impossible_.

 **Beren** :

I think -- I think that's the scariest thing I've ever heard.

 **Captain** :

I keep telling myself, every time it comes up, that it's really rather moving to think of such devotion and unselfishness and brotherly love. So far it hasn't worked very well.

 **Beren** : [still rather shaken]

That beats every ghost story I know. If my cousins had heard about that when we were kids, I would never have slept a night for the nightmares. . . . But you know, what would be worse, is if _you_ thought it was normal.

 **Captain** : [blandly]

Well, actually --

[The Steward rolls his eyes resignedly; they are broken in upon by the arrival of several of 'the lot from the Plains']

 **Captain** :

Oh, sound the retreat, here comes the horde!

[He gestures them down]

Serried rank, there. Don't crowd our guest.

[Suddenly tongue-tied, they look at Beren in embarrassment. Seated in the arched alcove, flanked by an Elven-lord and an Elven-warrior, with petitioners kneeling before him, he looks rather like a primitive image of Orome, though he would never guess it himself.]

 **Ranger** : [awkwardly]

My lord Barahirion --

[gasps, enthusiastic]

\-- Do you have 'Dark Battle' there?

 **Beren** : [setting his hand on the hilt of his sword, surprised]

Yes -- How do _you_ know ...?

 **Captain** :

Legend, lad, _legend_ \-- get used to it.

 **Ranger** :

Might we see the blade?

 **Beren** : [uncertain, looking to the Captain]

I've peace-bonded it -- Sir?

 **Captain** :

I'll stand warrant.

[grins at the younger Ranger]

You're less likely to do accidental damage than _some_ people I could mention here.

[Beren unlashes the hilt from the scabbard and offers it correctly, hiltwise, to the Elven-warrior first, who hefts it, nods, and passes it on to his subordinate.] 

**Ranger** : [awed]

_'Dark Battle' --!_

**Beren** : [plaintively]

It's just a sword. The balance is good and the span suits my height. There's no aura to it that I can tell, no runes woven into it.

 **Steward** :

It is Dwarf-work, though. It came from here, like your armor. Beor's eldest son chose that blade; the hauberk was a gift to your great-grandfather Boromir when the grant of Ladros was made. Prince Aegnor said at the time that he'd gladly give even more to anyone willing to take that damp, drizzling wasteland off his hands, and that anyone who was going to defend it needed mail that wouldn't rust.

[Beren shakes his head, amused at his own surprise]

 **Guard** :

Excuse me, my lord, but -- why is your scabbard covered in wolf-skin?

 **Beren** :

Hides the smell of the metal. Until it's too late. I had a cape to match for winter, but that didn't survive the journey, used it for bug-bait . . .

[shakes his head, trying to forget about that part]

 **Soldier** :

My favorite story's the time when you challenged that Orc-captain to single combat.

[Beren looks blank]

The one they called 'The Butcher'? Gorgol, it was?

 **Beren** :

Um, no -- I shot him from behind. A lot.

 **Soldier** :

But there's a song --

 **Beren** :

I didn't make it. [pause]

I wouldn't be at all surprised if everything that any of us did was also ascribed to me. That happened to Da when he was alive. And everything that the hidden resistance efforts did as well, they said was me. --Which was their right. I _was_ responsible, after all, being their Lord, for what was done in my will, even if not with my explicit orders, and the blame mine to take for it.

 **Guard** :

But you did burn down that supply depot, did you not? That command center at Drun?

 **Beren** : [shrugs]

Fire arrows work great for that.

 **Captain** :

Shot from _where_? There's no cover around Drun, unless the landscape's changed considerably in the last twelve-score years.

[Beren gives him a reproachful look. Innocently:]

I'm just saying--

 **Ranger** :

\--Did you really wound the Lord of Wolves?

 **Beren** :

Oh. _That_. --Maybe.

[makes a face. To their expectant looks:]

When they sent in the wolfpacks initially there was a command group riding in the middle and this one guy in black armour who was taller than anyone I've ever seen, yourselves included. Black with spikes, of course. But I don't know if it was him or one of his minions -- if _I_ was him I'd use a minion, and shift into a warg like they say he does. I just don't know: scary-looking-black-iron versus recurved, reinforced, yew/horn laminate and a straight-down shot not usually much of a contest, but I barely winged him. I swear the air rippled when I loosed and it was like shooting into water. So maybe it _was_ Sauron after all.

 **Soldier** :

The _air_ moved?

 **Beren** : [shrugs]

I wouldn't believe me either. But I don't usually miss, not when I've got a wide angle and an elevated blind to work from.

 **Soldier** :

No, he could do that. I'm just amazed you weren't obliterated after.

 **Beren** :

I was in a stand of oaks.

 **Guard** [to the Ranger, whispering]

\--Did that make sense?

[the Ranger shrugs. Aloud:]

My lords, I do not wish to signal any disrespect to the Edain, but I fail to see how that could protect one against the Lord of Abominations?

 **Beren** :

I -- think the land protected me. The trees --

[they are more confused]

 **Steward** :

\--The land?

 **Beren** :

It never betrayed me the way it betrayed others.

 **Soldier** :

How could the _land_ betray one?

 **Beren** :

It ate people. Farms. Beasts. Cattle strangled in vines in the open field. Hillsides disintegrated under a man's heel and pitched him down in the midst of his foes where the track had been solid an hour earlier, and no rain.

 **Steward** :

But would you not say that was the work of the Enemy?

 **Beren** : [thoughtfully, shaking his head]

I think the land went mad. I think we drove it crazy, fighting over it, holding it so hard and with such hate and fury on both sides, till it savaged all of us like a wounded hound unable to tell the difference between friend and foe.

 **Soldier** :

And why not _you_?

 **Beren** :

I can't explain. Perhaps -- no, I don't _know_. I _tried_ not to take without making thanks, not to damage as I went. I never _resented_ it. That's -- that's why I'm alive, though. I was the only one who could skirt through the Nightshade without being affected by it. It was depressing, but it only made me sad, not insane. There were trees that I knew I didn't dare touch, and others that would tolerate me, but I didn't abuse their hospitality, so to speak. And then there were some in Dorthonion that welcomed me, that I knew I could sink pegs into to aid my climbs and that I'd sleep in without fear of any harm -- times when I swear the leaves turned to screen me from Orc-sight, when the roots folded fast about me against the wolfpacks and I never feared being trapped in the earth or thought to move to hide myself better. Oaks were particularly good to me. And beechgroves were always safe.

 **Ranger** :

But -- you're a _mortal_ , milord.

 **Beren** :

So I've been told. But the woods and hills have never threatened me.

 **Soldier** :

Is that how you were able to carry off so many legendary exploits?

 **Beren** : [clearly still very uncomfortable with that 'legend' bit]

Part. After my father died I only cared to do as much harm as I might to our ancient Enemy. I did things that've been called impossible because no one thought they'd be attempted, and didn't guard against me. Then they guarded against what I _had_ done, --not what I did next. And since they'd manage to make sure that I had nothing else to do, no other responsibilities to look after, no one else to worry about, I could put a lot of work into the planning, give the execution free rein. It wasn't like there was anything they could do to me, except catch me. And against that it's a good idea to have as many psychotic mutants and demon wolves as angry with you as possible, because then they're not going to stop and say 'we should really take this guy back home for questioning, we'll get double the reward then'--

   [shakes head]

There was a legend running wildfire given the _name_ 'Beren,' but there was no one left to call me by that name . . .

[aside]

. . . or to answer.

[Silently the Royal Guard who is present holder of Dagmor slides forward and lays the sword down in front of him on the ledge; Beren gently traces his fingers down the flat of the blade.]

 **Ranger** :

But were you not assisted in your revenge?

 **Beren** : [confused]

By who?

 **Ranger** :

By the men of his shield-band, your companions in all fortunes? --Dairuin? --Gildor? --Arthad?

[With each name Beren slowly takes a knife from his bandoleers and places it on the stone ledge in front of him next to the sword.]

 **Guard** : [unable to stop asking, but knowing what's coming]

\--Urthel?

[click -- a knife]

\--Radhruin?

[click -- a fifth]

\--Ragnir?

[click -- the sixth]

 **Soldier** :

Gorlim?

 **Beren** : [voice eerily calm]

I have nothing of his.  He -- died elsewhere, and I -- never found his body.

[checks]

No -- I'm wrong.  I take that back.

[takes up the little eating-knife]

He told me this was Elvish work, and lucky, when he gave it me at Sun-Return the first year I was old enough to hold blade. Since the cut I immediately gave myself didn't get infected, the luck seems good. I think there's a rule that you have to cut yourself with your first knife, and hide it from your parents...

 **Captain** : [softly]

It has the rune for keenness in it -- a clean cut rarely festers.

 **Ranger** :

Your cousin Baragund?

 **Beren** : [sets down two daggers side by side at once]

With his brother my cousin Belegund, dead one beside the other, halfway back to the camp. If the Orc-arrows hadn't been poisoned they might have lived at least enough to warn the others, but the patrol kn-- thought to take out the sentinels first.

[sets down another blade]

Dagnir, almost of an age with me;

[and one more]

Hathaldir, who should have gone with the children and the wives, but wouldn't.

[He then unbuckles the leather straps that held the sheaths about his forearms.]

That's Ironjaw,

[lays down another band]

that's Bellsong,

[followed by a third]

and Star. My father's hounds, and mine.

[A long silence]

 **Steward** :

You are _the_ _last_? Of all Dorthonion's warriors? All your father's household _at once_ , save you? All who were at the Dagor Bragollach with us, and their sons, but for you alone?

 **Beren** : [incredulous]

Did you not understand? I thought it was made clear --

 **Steward** : [equally distressed]

No. And yes. --And _no_. It is still difficult for us to comprehend the brevity of human life, but we accept it -- but ten years is small even in mortal reckoning, and the shield-guard of Dorthonion of younger years for the most part, and is is beyond my ability to believe that Belegund your kinsman, who carried me out of Serech on his shoulders, and shared the last of his water with me in that furnace -- is gone from Arda as last year's leaves.

 **Beren** : [hoarsely]

But in wartime a _day_ is long, and 'sunset may be a dirge where the morning was a dance.'

 **Soldier** : [low voice]

My lord -- we have not known full war these several years, and save the Dagor Bragollach and the times immediately following, not since long before then.

 **Beren** : [comprehension arriving in full]

 _That_ is why your Prince apologized to me. --Not to me, to _Dorthonion_. Our realm died -- holding your borders against the North.

[Silence; no one dares to speak]

Well. I'm glad -- I saw what we saved.

 **Captain** :

My lord, forgive --

 **Beren** : [interrupting]

\--Let it _go_! --My friends. We never sent to you for aid. We never asked for help. It was our duty, as we saw it, and our will, and the song's done and over with.

[he is breathing hard and his fists are clenched on his knees, and they wait tensely; then he shakes it off and begins wrapping the collars around his arms and replacing the weapons with perfectly steady hands.]

 **Beren** : [pleasantly]

I'll be pleased to dwell here, when I've done what I came for.

 **Steward** :

Will you, my lord?

 **Beren** :

Yes. So long as you allow freedom of the woods to -- my House. I know _I_ can't live underground all the time.

 **Steward** :

I speak with complete confidence of the King's will when I assure you that you -- and yours -- will ever be free of Nargothrond.

[it's clear from this that Beren's mission is no secret to him at least]

 **Ranger** :

When the nomads come through High Faroth again, it would be interesting to hear what they have to say about that notion of the land sensing the doings of Men, sir.

 **Guard** :

You're right, it really does sound akin to something the Turned Ones would say.

 **Ranger** : [officiously]

You shouldn't say 'the Turned,' that's quite rude. _Laiquendi_ is permissible, but _Lindar_ is better -- that's what they name themselves, 'the Singers.'

[the Ranger Captain smiles slightly at a well-learned lesson]

 **Beren** :

Er -- who are the nomads, and where is High Faroth?

 **Steward** :

The Green Kindred -- some of our people who never followed the Call, even so far as these lands. They build nothing, make no permanent shelters, kill no living thing for food or sport -- will not even cut live wood -- and their only arts music and woven adornment. They're very strange.

[Beren carefully says nothing. Realizing]

Forgive me -- that was not what I meant to say --

[breaks off]

 **Captain** :

They're the reason you were born in the North, lad. Your folk came with axes and ploughs and the Singers begged our lord to send you elsewhere, or they'd not be answerable for what happened after. --I don't think they'd have a problem with _you_ , though. They won't stay in the area during Autumn, during hunting season but other times they come through what we call the Hills of the Hunters, that range of high country above the rivers -- you might have seen them, though the rains were pretty dense lately, I don't know how well --

 **Beren** : [enthusiastic]

I _saw_ those -- they reminded me of home, of the uplands by Aeluin. _Beautiful_ country. I'd like to explore it someday.

 **Captain** :

We'll have to take you on patrol up there, when this . . . business of yours, is over. Introduce you to the tribes and the Eldest Voices.

 **Beren** :

I would be much grateful, sir.

[the shadow is gone between them]

 **Steward** : [sighs]

Well. I should return to my work.

 **Captain** :

Making sure Himself doesn't forget to eat?

[The Steward nods. His eyes are haunted and his confidence is vanished.]

 **Beren** :

Sir. . . My lord Edrahil . . . ?

[the Steward looks at him gravely]

Would it please you to keep this?

[He offers, again correctly point-inward, Belegund's knife]

My sword-brother, heart-brother, my kinsman is honored in your remembrance of him. If it would mean anything to you . . .

[The Steward takes the knife and bows deeply. He fastens the sheath to his belt before replying.]

 **Steward** :

You do me honor, Lord of Dorthonion. I'll see you at the King's table, after times.

[He leaves them]

 **Beren** : [quietly]

I'm sorry to trouble you all. That wasn't what I came here for.

 **Captain** :

We know.  -- You're taking this remarkably calmly.

 **Beren** :

I've had five winters, and more, to accustom myself to the fact of our doom. None of this is really new, even -- I just never thought about it all at once like this.  Some of it I've already faced through, and the rest of it -- will come back with nightfall and I'll meet it then. Now -- is meanwhiles.

 **Soldier** :

I remember that being the way of your people, my lord. [softly]

It seems very strange to us.

[long pause -- not hostile but filled with mutual regret and incomprehension -- broken by the entrance of Lord Gwindor, sans the Princess, but with a couple of other citizens of Nargothrond as Beren once again tries to finish breakfast.] 

**Gwindor** :

Gentles -- my lord Beren --

 **Captain** :

\-- Where's your better half, lad?  And what about your practice, eh? We missed you at the pells.

 **Gwindor** :

They've kept us busy running to the archives and subarchives all night. Fael--

[blushes and goes on self-consciously]

\-- _Finduilas_ is still there, but she wanted me to make sure that Lord Beren was being properly looked after.

 **Captain** :

Well of course he is! --I imagine your friends were just a little curious themselves -- not to mention jealous?

 **Gwindor** :

That too, sir.

 **Lady** :

How amazing! I've never seen a mortal before.

[she turns his chin to better see his face; again Beren is amused rather than offended by Elven foibles, fortunately.]

He looks almost like a person, doesn't he?

 **Lord** : [oblivious to the Looks they are getting from the veterans]

Indeed he does, my dear. --What news do you bring from Doriath, sir?

 **Beren** :

? . . . ?

 **Captain** : [coldly]

 _Someone's_ been talking rather a bit more than they ought. Now I know it wasn't me, and I'm fairly certain it wasn't Edrahil, and I'm _reasonably_ sure that His Majesty isn't the one either.

[narrows his eyes at Gwindor, who somehow manages to look both hangdog and stiff-necked at once.]

Pah, what am I saying? This is _Nargothrond_. If a whale sneezes in Brithombar Harbor, everyone knows about it in the Caves by nightfall -- even if it didn't happen. As the King well knows.

 **Beren** : [awkwardly]

Excuse me, but my business is now the King's, and for _him_ to make public when he feels the time is right.  I'm sorry -- no offense meant.

 **Gwindor** : [sudden realization]

You must have had to cross Dungortheb! Is it as dreadful as rumors have it? Can you tell us about your adventures there?

 **Beren** :

 _No_. [relents slightly]

To tell you about it I would have to remember it, and I will never, _ever_ visit that country again.

 **Lady** : [surprised]

Do mortals also know the Living Memory? I thought _not_ \-- or so I'd been led to understand.

 **Beren** :

I don't know about other mortals. I only know that _I_ am never going there again.

[awkward silence]

 **Gwindor** : [desperately changing subject]

So -- my lord, how do you find Nargothrond?

 **Beren** : [relieved]

Beyond all description. The reports don't do it justice. I've only seen a tiny bit of it, of course.

 **Lord** :

Is it finer than Thingol's place? I've never been there.

 **Beren** : [tactfully]

Ah . . .  it's a lot more . . . _detailed_ , than Menegroth.

 **Lord** :

But do you find it _better_?

 **Beren** :

Well. I -- That's hard to say, I -- didn't see very much of Menegroth at all.

 **Lord** :

But, given what little you've seen of Nargothrond, compared to the little you saw of Doriath, which would you say is the superior construction?

 **Beren** : [trapped]

. . .

 **Lady** :

Darling, don't be tiresome. You can't expect him to be able to explain such things -- they're not in the mortal understanding.

[Beren raises his eyebrows; the Rangers look affronted on his behalf.]

 **Beren** : [more patient than sarcastic]

I _did_ grow up speaking Elvish at home --

 **Lord** : [aside to his companions]

Well, after a fashion--!

 **Beren** : [ignores this]

\-- it's as much or more my native speech as Taliska.  I don't answer because I don't want you to think me ungrateful, is all.  I -- and this is purely a matter of my own preferences, not anything to do with which is finer overall, or whether I am even fit to make those kind of judgments -- I have to say, that I liked _what I saw_ of Menegroth better.  It's like the forest becomes stone as you go down into it, not like you're going into a cave really. There are all kinds of animals carved into a kind of illusion of life, and then there are ones I've never seen and don't recognize. I think maybe they're from Aman, but I never got the chance to ask.  So I found Menegroth preferable, for that reason.

 **Lord** :

But how could you in any way find the wild woods superior to a work of art like our glorious citadel?

[before Beren can correct him]

I know, I know, ' _preferable_.' What's out there that's not in here? Explain what's so amazing about the wilderness.

 **Beren** : [unthreatened, accepting challenge]

All right.

[thinks for a moment]

I saw this thing once: pine needles after the winter like a red pelt around the roots, patched with sun and snow in spots of white. --All of the sudden they leapt up and danced away before my eyes.

 **Captain** : [to self]

Hah. That's good. --That's very good.

 **Lord** :

Did a strong breeze come up and blow them away?

 **Beren** :

Nope.

 **Lady** :

 _I_ think it's a metaphor.

 **Beren** : [encouraging]

Could be.

 **Lady** :

One tree, considered as a paradigm for the passing of the seasons, elided to a metaphorical instant?

 **Beren** :

Mm . . . 'fraid not.

 **Gwindor** :

'Red pelt' -- is it a fox under the trees?

 **Beren** : [regretfully]

No, not quite.

 **Ranger** :

It's a spring fawn called by its mother, correct?

[Beren nods; the court folk frown, smile, discuss amongst themselves]

 **Beren** :

And then one time I saw something else:  a brown leaf on a dry branch uncurled itself and spun away on the wind, becoming red and gold as it went to join the last year's leaves.

 **Lady** :

Oh, it's a _time_ paradox, I'm sure -- about mortality, am I correct?

 **Lord** :

No, I think it's like the last one. Some kind of natural phenomenon again.

 **Lady** :

Forgive me for rejecting your supposition, but it _must_ be a mortal version of that saying about blossoms never returning to their branches.

 **Lord** : [shaking his head]

I think it's a kind of butterfly. I've seen them whilst out hunting in the forest -- they resemble a dead leaf, and then they unfurl their wings and reveal such manner of bright colors inside. You must have noticed them, surely.

 **Lady** :

But butterflies don't _uncurl_. --You did say 'uncurl,' not 'unfurl,' did you not?

[Beren nods again]

 **Lady** :

So which is it? An insect? Or an image of the forward rush of Time that cannot be turned back in its stream?

 **Beren** : [kindly]

You're both right. The 'brown leaf' is the shell of the creature whose past generations are all dead in the winter, and when spring comes it splits and unrolls itself all wet, and when it dries out, it flies down to the forest floor looking for food in the new flowers. I don't know what your name for them is, but we call them _gledewings_ , because the hidden side of them looks like a hot coal. But we also say it's a sign of the gods -- the Hidden Fire that moves all Ea, and the Butterfly that Elbereth put into the stars to remind us that Life is ever stronger than Death.

 **Lord** : [astonished]

Indeed! -- wherever did you learn all that?

 **Beren** :

In the woods behind my house. --And from my parents.

 **Gwindor** : [sharply]

I'm not sure why you're so surprised. All his family's been as quick-witted as fell-handed.

 **Lady** :

We only came here after the Dagor Bragollach. It merely seems as though it's been longer, Gwin.

 **Beren** : [who has gone off in a bit of a reverie]

And then this other time, not in the woods but on the heath, there was a sudden rainstorm that blew over, and on the granite outcrop where I was lying, the dip in the stone filled with water about as deep as a hide's thickness, and I saw in it the sky blue as a field of flax-flowers in the days before the harvest, and sun and moon both in the sky together and the Heavenly Arch, all at once.

[silence]

 **Lord** :

I can't even begin to guess.

 **Lady** :

Don't you think it's a parable of the deceptiveness of surface appearances?

 **Lord** :

No. What _does_ it mean, Lord Beren?

 **Beren** :

Huh? -- Oh, no, that's just something that happened. I thought it was really great. It kind of made up for the rest of the day.

 **Lady** :

Getting rained on?

 **Beren** :

Getting shot. I was in too close and I think they cracked a rib. One of those 'Things To Remind Yourself: Mithril Stops Arrowheads, It Doesn't Stop Momentum.'

 **Lady** :

    [to her consort]

I _still_ think there's some deeper meaning in that last one.

 **Lord** :

    [to Beren]

It really _should_ be a riddle -- it isn't _appropriate_ to stop at _two_ , you know.

 **Beren** :

I'm sorry. I just thought of those now, and somehow the third one never made it to the dinner table.

[to the subsequent odd looks]

It's a saying--? Which I guess you don't use. I'm afraid I don't know what it means, either.

[catches the Captain's sleeve and draws him down to whisper:]

Sir, I understand you're set to guard me. Would you please disarm me, or else send all these folk away, because I swear I'll savage the next person interrupts my meal --

 **Captain** :

Everyone! _Be off_. Get back to work, get to your posts, _find_ some work to do or keep the gossip-weave lengthening. Milord is _not_ a spectacle to gawk at.

[Chagrined, the Ranger and the other veterans leap to attention and hurry away.]

 **Lord** :

I say, can he talk to us like that?

 **Gwindor** : [dry voice -- embarrassed by his friends]

Well, it certainly _seems_ that way. My lord -- I'll see you at Council presently.

[He drags his companions away]

 **Beren** :

Thanks. --Sorry.

[He sets to in hopes of clearing his plate without other incident]

 **Captain** :

 _I_ was remiss.

 **Beren** : [between mouthfuls]

You can talk, I can listen. _Am_ I so much weirder than my ancestors?

 **Captain** :

Well, let's see. Old 'Fetters' sent his top commander _and_ an army of wolves into North Beleriand because the Orc-bands wouldn't go after you any more, and no one, friend or foe, would even try to claim the king's ransom on your head. So many stories are told about you that they can't all be true -- only the more improbable ones, apparently. And you wonder why people want to come and have a look at you? Oh, and you're a veritable child in our reckoning, to top it all.

[pause]

 **Beren** : [rapidly folding cheese strips into some of the flatbread]

I must be rather disappointing, then.

 **Captain** :

You're not mortal _enough_. Not to _them_ , who have only rumor and theory of mortal ways to guide their fancies, and not to _us_ , who have known your people long and in many weathers -- you're too much like one of the Green Kindred for comfort, and yet there's no mistaking you for anything but a Man.

[debates, then continues:]

Then there's the fact that you scarcely need a guard -- were you not so polite, I've no doubt you'd hold your own against the throng. Nothing seems to daunt you -- though after your experiences, not so surprising.

 **Beren** : [swallowing]

Oh, I _daunt_ , all right.

 **Captain** :

Well, you don't show it. It's as if you've inherited all the stubbornness of all your ancestors, and then some -- _and_ all their courtesy. It's disconcerting.

 **Beren** : [frowns]

' _Intransigence_ '.

 **Captain** :

? . . . ?

 **Beren** : [scraping up the last crumbs from his plate]

What the King said.

 **Captain** : [wryly]

He _would_. He does love the words. --Do you want more?

 **Beren** : [making sure that his extra bread is secure]

No, I've got provisions. Is there a fountain around, sir?

 **Captain** :

There's one by the chronometer.

 **Beren** : [looks blank]

Ah.

[apologetically]

\--I'm afraid that's a word I _don't_ know. 'Time --'?

 **Captain** :

'Measurer'. Another of Celebrimbor's Workings. Come on, I'll show you.

[Beren drops down from the alcove and walks beside the Ranger Captain, not _quite_ as though he owns the place, but certainly as quietly as the Elf.]

 **Captain** : [noticing]

Hm. You _wanted_ to be heard, then, when we took you.

 **Beren** :

I wanted not to be shot. I think there's a difference, though I couldn't say what.

 **Captain** :

We'll have to find a Sage and ask.

[A small group of people are seated near the fountain, Celebrimbor among them, discussing something that the son of Curufin is demonstrating by means of an elaborate diagram in the air. Ignoring the Nargothronders, who drop the discussion and stare at him, Beren plunges his hands into the spill and drinks that way.]

 **Celebrimbor** : [piqued at being interrupted]

Er -- there _is_ a cup there, Barahirion.

 **Beren** : [innocently]

A what?

[keeps the straight face for a second, then grins]

 **Celebrimbor** :

Do you mock me, sir?

 **Beren** :

No, my lord -- only myself.

 **Celebrimbor** : [annoyed]

Where is the purpose in _that_?

[Beren shrugs; Celebrimbor snorts and turns away in dismissal]

 **Captain** : [undertone]

There's another way you differ from your forefathers -- I've not seen that subtle and eccentric humor in the Beorings ere now. You must have it of your mother's kin?

 **Beren** :

No -- the sarcasm and the having-to-have-the-last-word comes from the Hador side. You probably just never noticed when Da and Uncle Brego were doing it, because they never stopped. I'm not as good as they were; I always give it away.

[long pause]

 **Captain** :

I think -- I think that perhaps there has been more gentle humor at our expense across the ages than ever we knew.

 **Beren** : [blandly]

Why, sir, who would dare to make jest of the Elves?

[gets a Look]

See, I wouldn't have done that if you were one of us, on account of not wanting my head shoved in the water. Unless it was summer and not raining.

 **Captain** : [bemused]

Mortal customs . . . how strange, to take delight in being thought _less_ of -- but I can think of _some_ who'd be improved by it --

[a small chime sounds]

That's the summoning -- you should see this, as you slept through the last five.

[steers Beren towards a large and complex artifact of crystal and metals and lights which is in subtle motion -- think Myst & sequels, only more so. A crowd has already gathered around it in expectation.]

 **Beren** :

What is it?

 **Captain** :

It shows the heavens small, in all their moving, and six times a day it calls the sixth, so that anyone on this level can hear it. You'll find nothing like it elsewhere in the world.

 **Beren** : [a little more loudly than he meant to]

But what use is it?

[gets uncomprehending stares from bystanders]

Don't you always know where the sun is, and the stars, as we do not?

 **Captain** :

Well, yes -- but one loses track indoors. And it's helpful for arranging meetings, or keeping them to sane durations. It also shows the turnings of the year, and the Great Years, and many other motions of the sky.

 **Beren** :

I still can't see what we would do with such a thing.

 **Celebrimbor** : [who has come over to see the mortal be impressed]

But isn't it a necessity in agriculture, to know when the proper times for, oh, planting and, and _harvesting_ are? Or when to breed the animals and to feed them?

 **Beren** : [raising his hands helplessly]

Yes, but -- the world just _changes_ \-- outside at least. It comes as it comes. You don't need a -- a -- _sculpture_ for it.

 **Celebrimbor** :

What about for the War? Setting up ambushes for the enemy at the right time, or in the field, to coordinate your troops so that you could all strike in unison?

 **Beren** :

I'm not qualified to say -- I never took the field that way, except in practices. It wouldn't have been very helpful for _my_ work -- too large, for one thing.

 **Celebrimbor** : [sighing]

It doesn't have to be that large or that ornate. I mean _in principle_ it could be a useful thing.

 **Captain** :

No, actually, _not_ all that useful. Not without being able to see what the rest of the field is doing, both ours and theirs. I can see a lot of disasters happening if you assumed that everyone was going to move at once -- and then they _didn't_.

 **Beren** :

Would that be possible? I thought scrying was kind of almost useless for practical purposes. But if you could see -- or especially _talk_ \-- then you could actually avoid patrols -- coordinate groups -- warn --

[breaks off]

 **Captain** : [covering smoothly]

My lord, what ever became of that project of your grandfather's? Wasn't he working on a device that would allow one to both see and hear, and be seen and be heard, across great distances?

 **Celebrimbor** : [bitter]

No one was interested. They'd rather ride halfway across the country, never mind that it would take days, or sail to the islands, and speak face to face. They thought it was pointless and _he_ lost interest. Now, of course, -- but it's too late. I don't know what became of his notes, and I was only peripherally involved in the Workings. There were some prototypes, but I've not seen them here. I think they were forgotten --

[The Measurer achieves its zenith and the full carillon rings out, interrupting them. Constellations appear, the Moon and Sun rise and sail past, flowers open, animals and birds come out and make their circuits, ships cross before them, towers rise and fly banners, horsemen ride over their bridges, and finally the stars come out once more before it all folds away again to its quiescent state, and the satisfied crowd moves off.]

I'm still not quite happy with that last, but I've not thought of anything better to end it with.

 **Beren** : [laughs out loud with delight]

So _that's_ its use -- it's just _beautiful_. Like a fountain. --Or a reflection. --Or a star.

[The inventor's expression goes from affront to confusion]

 **Celebrimbor** :

I assure you, it's more work than _that_ \--

 **Captain** : [aside]

\--More work than the _stars_?

 **Celebrimbor** : [snide]

\-- but even a fountain is _useful_ \-- as I think you'd admit?

 **Beren** : [oblivious to the tone]

Nah, you don't _need_ a fountain -- you could just have the water pour out into a bucket. It doesn't need a frame like a hall-door and a throne for the water with different levels so it sounds like a real falls almost. Your -- chronometer -- could you make it be something different each time? Or -- hey, what about this? Couldn't you make it show _stories_ , like a tapestry? Only solid, but moving --

 **Celebrimbor** : [sharply, almost savagely]

\-- Do you think yourself our equal in art, for having mastered the brute skills of battle and slaughter beyond the usual mortal aptitude for such things?

[pause]

 **Beren** : [unthreatening, as if to a very angry dog]

No, my lord. I wouldn't begin to understand what you've done here, in another year, or ten.  I only meant to say what I would make -- if I had any skill at all for the making of things -- which I have not. Save traps and ambushes. I cannot make anything of beauty -- only dream of it.

 **Celebrimbor** : [mollified, a touch embarrassed]

It isn't anything much. I've got a knack for it . . . I'm sure you could learn _some_ skills, if you put your mind to it.

[dismisses him from consideration again, goes back to his seminar]

 **Captain** : [exasperated]

I'm sorry. You can scarcely think us very Wise --

[Beren shrugs it off]

Would it please you to tour the rest of Nargothrond, or as much of it as we'll have time for?

 **Beren** :

Might we go to the kennels, sir? I'd most like to see your hounds.

 **Captain** :

Of course. I confess that the city often overwhelms me also, and all of us who range the woods by preference. The dogs may be importunate, but they'll ask you no impolite questions, at least!

[checks]

Your pardon, milord -- I spoke too soon. The King summons us to council.

 **Beren** :

I heard nothing.

 **Captain** :

I would be very troubled if you had. Please -- come this way.

 


	9. Act 2: SCENE V

**Gower** :

Little knowing of the ways of the older world   
wherein kings contend with craft and cunning,   
(hailing from a simpler land, a simpler folk   
of speech plainer, of ways hardier, making   
no purpose of the twisted paths of curled   
intrigue, nor seeing need for suchlike works)   
Dorthonion's young scion ventures forth   
onto a field of battle where hidden lurks   
such attack as ne'er might he foreguess.   
\-- His skills at secret warfare are all plain:   
the ways of stealth, of hiding, of leading 'stray   
the clamoring foe, the hungry beast, with main   
force to smite, or with speed to flee;   
treason knows he indeed, too well -- still   
e'en there the patterns plain and black   
of heart tormented and body wracked   
ask no unanswerable questions of the soul.   
How indeed shall he prepare, defend, when fire   
out of the ancient Ages past spills wide,   
when words wake fear, and greed calls forth desire--? 

[At the entrance to the throne room -- via one of the smaller side doors, not the wide and fancy main entrances, that leads in behind a colonnade -- the Captain is about to usher Beren in when he stops suddenly.]

 **Captain** :

What's wrong?

 **Beren** : [quickly lashing the peace-strings around his sword-hilt]

I forgot to safe my blade again. --Do you need to check the knots?

 **Captain** :

\-- _Why_?

 **Beren** : [shrugs]

"A stranger, armed, in the King's presence" . . . ?

 **Captain** : [dryly]

Seeing that it was he who ordered your weapons be returned you, I rather think it's all right. But if your scruples insist . . .

[he gives the hilt an experimental tug]

Safety's on just fine. Come on --

[gesturing Beren through. They pass through the colonnade and out across the apse-like area of the upper hall, Beren trailing along behind, staring up at the carvings and the vaulted ceilings and the way that natural formations have been employed as some of the columns. The Captain pauses to wait for him, amused.]

 **Beren** : [awed]

How long did it take to make all of this?

 **Captain** :

Well, so far it's taken about two and a half Great Years. That of course includes work on the rest of the place, you understand, not just this hall.

 **Beren** :

And your Great Years -- one of them's what, a hundred-forty-four years?

 **Captain** :

That's right, twelve-twelvemonths. But it isn't done yet. Never will be, I expect. He keeps tinkering with it -- like that bit over there, that's new, I don't think it's been there a score yet. Between that and all the other projects he's got going, I'm betting it'll be at least another Yen. --Maybe longer. Of course, if it was ever _done_ he'd have to start a new one, you know.

[Beren frowns, trying to fit this into his worldview. They reach the central axis of the throne room, coming in right along the dais to where a large table has been put lengthwise across in front of the throne itself and about which around sixteen chairs are set.

Arrangement of council:

Inner side of the table, facing into the hall:

    The King is seated at the middle, presiding over a group of counselors, which includes his brother Orodreth (to his right), the Steward (on his left, assisting), Finduilas (on her father's right), Gwindor (to her right), Guilin his father (at table's end), the Commander of Nargothrond's Cavalry (to the Steward's right) with the Soldier from the Fens as his aide (right) and an empty chair on the end.

Outer side:

    To the left of the empty place on the opposite side is Curufin, beside Curufin the Master of the Defensive Illusions, then his Aide (to the left across from the Steward), another empty place, and three high-ranking Counselors, at least one of whom should be cast as female, befitting a Kingdom headed by Galadriel's wisest brother. The table is on the lowest and widest tier of the dais, as in the schematic below (assume the dais is slightly curved, despite the ASCII.)

There is also an Honor Guard present, two stationed by the throne, two behind the King's chair (they are among the Guards present at the Relief of Serech, as is one of the two beside the throne.]

   _-----_   
G   ||Thr||   G   
   --   --   
\------------------------------------   
    
 

\---------------------------------------------------   
    G   G   
  Gw  Fs  Or  Fi  Ed  CC  Wr   
Gu [Ce]

  C1  C2  C3  [B] Ai  Mag  Cu

\----------------------------------------------------------------- 

 **Finrod** : [rising in courtesy]

My lords -- my lord! Have you enjoyed your rest, and found welcome in my citadel?

 **Beren** :

Indeed yes, I've at last seen something truly Elven in my stay here, sir -- that Measurer that sings and shines.

 **Finrod** : [genuinely pleased]

It's wonderful, isn't it? --And have you found Nargothrond pleasant, to see it waking?

[there is a touch of Elvish -- or artistic -- vanity when he asks:]

It's never as fair as Menegroth, but it _is_ beautiful, is it not?

 **Beren** : [solemnly]

Yeah. It's a nice big place you've got here.

[The King, appreciating the joke, grins; the Counselors look rather taken aback.]

 **Finrod** : [all business again]

How well do you ride, Barahirion? Have you much skill with horses? It may affect our schedule.

 **Beren** :

Well. None with horses -- but a lot with mountain ponies.

 **Guilin** : [dismay]

\-- _Ponies_.

 **Beren** :

Don't laugh, my lord: it's harder than it sounds. They're carnivorous, and prefer the flesh of people. Men or Elves, makes no difference, I was told.

 **First Counselor** : [skeptically]

_Carnivorous?_

[Finrod covers a smile with his hand.]

 **First Guard** : [whispering]

 _I_ remember those little hellspawn. We should have sent _them_ to fight the wolves.

 **Second Guard** : [whispering]

I thought they _were_ wolves.

 **Finrod** :

Still, you'll want some training both to accustom yourself to the height and pacing of the Valinorean breed, and to staying in line with the rest of the "alquantar." If I recall correctly, your way was to run like a pack of hounds and over whatever or whoever's before you. Effective, _very_ inspirational to keep up one's best speed, but not really a good idea with lances. A fortnight should do it, I think.

 **Beren** : [jaw drops]

Sire -- I don't -- I _really_ don't think I could learn to ride with your swan- flight in two _years_ , let alone two weeks -- forgive me, but I've never used a long-spear from horseback, we always would ride and dismount to fight -- and I've not ridden in seven, eight years --

 **Finrod** : [dismissing his panic]

Oh no -- you just need to be able to stay aboard and not crash into anyone on the turns. You're not going to take part in _charges_. It's merely a matter of coordination, you already know the basics, and you've got perfect balance. You'll do fine.

 **Beren** : [resigned]

All right.

[aside]

I'm going to _die_. --Or _wish_ that I had, at least.

[aloud]

Do I get to ask why?

 **Finrod** : [deadpan]

Certainly not.

[pause]

I'm going to _tell_ you in a minute, so why bother?

[Confused looks from most of the others who aren't used to mortal-style humor.]

My friends, my good counselors, those among you who have not yet made the acquaintance of The Beoring -- may I present to you the son of our people's great friend and far renowned in his own right, Beren Barahirion, House Beor, rightful Lord of Dorthonion, whose cause is well-known to all present here.

[Beren bows to the Council, deeply embarrassed by the introduction]

Beren, sit down, if you please -- when my good kinsman returns from his summons I'll conduct a full overview of the plan we've devised, less the more technical aspects that won't mean anything to you. In the meantime if you'd care to examine the maps, you may get a better feel for what we'll be talking about. Oh, and if anyone here has questions regarding the data we've been using, now's the time to ask, as our Chief of Intelligence is here now as well and his scouts have supplied most of it.

[Beren gives the Captain a startled look; the Captain innocently gives him his best I'm-just-a-simple-Ranger expression. A little nervously Beren goes to the empty place at the end of the table, where the chair is already pulled out.]

 **Curufin** : [dryly]

Don't push it, Beoring.

[sees Beren's confusion and sighs]

I've been given to understand that your rustic background and long removal from anything slightly resembling civilization account for your uncouth behavior and am willing to make admissions -- but my brother is not quite as patient as myself.

 **Beren** :

? . . . ?

 **Curufin** : [exasperated]

That's _his_ place. Anchor seat, next to me, focal point -- ring any bells?

 **Beren** :

  Oh. Oh, I'm very sorry, I wasn't trying to be rude --

[goes to empty chair at center, across from Finrod; the Captain pulls it out before he can struggle with it and squeezes his shoulder before going over to talk shop with his counterparts. The maps on the table are not merely parchment, but are "active" with scalar projections and live indicators, like the topograph projections in Myst only much prettier. Fascinated, Beren keeps running his finger through the intangible array; when the Army Commander and his Aide get up to join the discussion on the other side of the table about seasonal cover along the watershed, he notices Curufin staring at him.]

 **Beren** : [wry]

I think this is what you call a "map," right?

 **Curufin** : [a trifle drawn despite himself, almost genuinely playful:]

That it is. --Ever seen one before?

 **Beren** :

Not like _this_ , I haven't.

 **Curufin** :

Not quite so blasé about us Firstborn and our accomplishments now, hey?

 **Beren** : [doing his darnedest to earn the trust put in him]

Your son's amazingly skillful, my lord. That -- chronometer of his is truly the finest work of craft I've seen. You must be very proud of him.

 **Curufin** : [grimacing, and totally sincere for once]

He doesn't apply himself. He could do so much _more_ if only he would concentrate on his own projects and not try to run all these other mentoring programs at the same time. But he's got no focus and people take advantage of him for it.

 **Beren** :

Well, it's good of him to take the time to teach, though.

 **Curufin** :

At the expense of perfecting his own art?

 **Beren** :

I thought that's usually how crafts work, whether handcraft or lorecraft.

 **Curufin** :

Among _your_ folk, perhaps, where there's such a short time limit to accomplish both the practice and the transference. Among us it's a sign of mental, even moral instability, not to carry a thing to completion.

 **Beren** : [nods]

I can see how that would work.

[frowning]

Would it be impertinent to ask you a question, my lord?

 **Curufin** :

Well, that rather would depend on the question, I should think.

 **Beren** :

I've noticed you wear an unsheathed long-knife, unlike anyone else here. Is there a reason for it?

 **Curufin** :

Yes. Angcrist would cut right through anything I tried to keep the blade in.

 **Beren** :

Even mithril? It's truly that sharp?

 **Curufin** :

It is. --I think your kind would call it "magic."

 **Beren** :

But isn't that really dangerous? Couldn't you rig some kind of, oh, framework around to at least have a barrier so people wouldn't hit it by accident, so you wouldn't cut yourself? Like a fire-cage only smaller? I mean, we do have that tradition of the Vow of the Unsheathed Sword (though that's more one of those things in songs and tales really) but it just seems awfully risky to me.

 **Curufin** :

I think you're assuming that the same conditions obtain to the Kindred as to Mortals, with regards to kinesthesia -- perception of motion -- and physical awareness. _We_ are conscious of ourselves, and all earthly things, in a way I doubt you can begin to imagine. Neither I nor anyone else is going to brush against it in absence of mind.

 **Beren** :

So what happens if you trip? It still seems dangerous to me.

 **Curufin** :

Eldar don't _trip_. Or do _anything_ by accident -- my lord.

 **Beren** :

That must be nice.

[He is completely sincere, but Curufin gives him a suspicious look anyway]

And I suspect it's a lot more intimidating that way, too.

 **Curufin** : [guarded approval]

You're not as dumb as you look, boy.

 **Beren** : [grins]

That's a good thing, I guess?

[Once again Curufin has to resist the impulse to join in, not mock, but succeeds admirably nonetheless. The King, however, notes Beren's restraint and good will with approval, though Beren doesn't notice.]

 **Curufin** :

 _Quite_. --So, do you think this mad plan has a chance of succeeding, or are you just going along with it for lack of better ideas?

 **Beren** :

Well, I -- don't know what the plan is yet, so I can't say whether it's mad or not, my lord.

 **Curufin** :

Trust me, it's a mad plan. I've spent the better part of the last half-millenium involved in this, as I assume you know, and they don't come any crazier than this. If it couldn't be accomplished with thousands upon thousands of troops and virtually unlimited support, I seriously doubt that anything less has a prayer of succeeding.

 **Beren** :

It's all about doing the unexpected. If they think you might do something, then your enemies will guard against it. If you've done it before, they'll put twice as many guards around to make sure you don't do it again. If you go around the other way, they stand there scratching their heads wondering what hit them, and then they put guards over there. I've seen it countless times. Seems silly, but no one can be everywhere, and if you can't imagine something, you can't imagine someone else doing it either.

 **Curufin** :

Well. You're quite the strategist, aren't you?

 **Beren** : [sighs]

Unfortunately.

[Celegorm enters and goes straight to his brother's side]

 **Celegorm** : [aside to Curufin]

\-- _All_ of the Hindmost, or Sindar. None of _our_ people are on duty.

 **Curufin** : [low voice]

Interesting. _Most_ interesting.

 **Finrod** :

Is something wrong, cousin?

 **Celegorm** :

No, no, everything's fine, old chap. Carry on.

[takes the place at the end of the table]

 **Finrod** :

Thank you. If everyone would please be seated . . . ?

[The knots of individual discussion break up and the council members take their original places; the Captain returns to Beren's side of the table and takes up station behind his chair. (This makes Beren a bit twitchy because although he knows it's an honor, he's not used to having or allowing anyone behind him.)]

To sum up _very_ quickly for you, the plan is to set out from here and move northward (again, very quickly,) with the lightest accoutrements possible and in three flights, each slightly staggered from the other, each advanced by half-a-day before the next. When we arrive _here_ , we'll kite across the valley of the Sirion to ford here, angling back upwards there, and vectoring past Tol Sirion altogether to hit Serech higher up here, where the flats are covered with shallow water but it's not soft enough to bog us down, splash through to the edge of the plain and form one Great Wing to rush straight across -- and over -- whatever's before us to Eithel Sirion. I'm sure you and my cousin will have a great deal to talk about before we regroup for the infiltration part. We'll ride straight through each night and rest by day as we must, and take care not to get tangled up in any engagements but leave them in our dust. Or mud, depending--

 **Beren** : [interrupting]

\--Is that possible?

[blushes]

\--Sorry. --Your Majesty.

 **Finrod** : [unfazed]

 _I_ think so.

 **Beren** :

I mean, what about the horses?  _We_ can go all day, but they can't, can they? Not without us changing mounts, right?

 **Finrod** :

The Valinorean horse is not like that native to Middle-earth.

 **Someone** : [not loud enough to reveal which of the Council but definitely Noldor]

 _Either_.

[The Captain shoots a got- _your_ -number Look down that end of the table.]

 **Beren** :

And when we get there?

 **Finrod** :

You'll have a bit more to do than staying on then. We've some scaling devices to assist us and of course all will be stealthed, but we're still going to have to manage the climbing work ourselves along with despatching all sentries and resistance we encounter. The goal will be to encounter as little as possible -- it's a snatch-and-grab operation, not a havoc mission. And we have minimal data on the interior of Angband, except for some antiquated descriptions dating back to the last successful engagement with Morgoth, which are certainly inaccurate and misleading.

 **Beren** : [frowning at the animated displays on the maps]

So essentially we're sneaking into the Enemy's fortress via the mountains and trying to get as close to the target as we can without being noticed, figuring out a route as we go, and we don't know what the terrain looks like, only we know that it isn't like what it used to be?

 **Finrod** :

Essentially.

 **Beren** :

Got it. How are we going to locate the jewel?

 **Finrod** :

Well, "down" is said to be a good direction, as far as Morgoth is concerned, and Lords Celegorm and Curufin have attested that they can perceive within a farther distance-range than any other Elf the presence of the Silmarils, so we shouldn't have to spend too much time--

 **Celegorm** : [interrupting]

Wait a minute, _wait_ a minute, what do you mean, "Got it" --? _He_ says "We're running blind into the midst of the greatest concentration of enemy forces to be found," and _you_ say, "Got it" --?

 **Beren** : [shrugs]

It's what I do, my lord.

 **Celegorm** :

Oh, you're the outlaw! --I didn't recognize you, all cleaned up.

 **Beren** : [solemnly]

Amazing stuff, that hot water, my lord.

[to the King]

\--The only thing I'm not sure about is how you said everything will be stealthed and how we're going to be avoiding most of the trouble along the way. I know what _I_ would mean by it, but I was getting the feeling that it meant something different.

 **Finrod** :

Those are the technical aspects which are not going to require you to do anything at all. Each flight will have a full complement of Illusionists and Seers to forestall observation and anticipate enemy contact--

 **Beren** :

Got it.

 **Finrod** : [to his Commander]

A question, Lord Commander?

 **Cavalry Commander** :

Yes. One. Does he _have_ to come with us?

 **Finrod** :

 _Yes_. No sense in leaving any unnecessary legal loopholes. I enjoy an argument as much as Elu does, but priorities have to stay in proper order. Don't worry, it'll work out.

 **Celegorm** :

Cousin Finrod, could we go over those technical aspects in rather more detail? I confess freely, I'm a simple soul, and I prefer plain hunting and plain dealing, as well as plain fighting -- this talk of scribbling back and forth and stealth confuses me.

 **Finrod** :

Certainly. Master of Illusions, would you be so good as to attend and correct me if I've ommitted any of the necessary elements in --

 **Beren** : [breaking in]

Oh there was one other thing -- how are we coming home? Won't they be waiting for us?

 **Curufin** :

Not more than usual, my lord, seeing as that we'll be returning by the way of our siblings' holdings in the East, and thence to Doriath.

 **Beren** : [nodding]

Got it.

[Finrod, carefully expressionless, sets to an intense technical discussion with the Mage and Celegorm over diagrams] 

**Aide** : [to Beren, curious, not trying to be rude]

Is this how it goes at mortal councils? Interruptions and absence of formality and all?

[Across the table Finduilas gives Beren a sympathetic grimace]

 **Beren** :

Um, yeah, except there was usually more table-pounding.

 **Guilin** :

 _Table_ - _pounding_?

 **Beren** :

Yeah.

 **Gwindor** :

\--I'm sure it's figurative, Father.

 **Beren** :

No, it was loud, mostly. After my aunt died things got a little quieter 'cause Ma wouldn't put up with beer in the tablecloth or on the floor, but it was literal all right.

 **Curufin** : [innocently]

Care to give us a demonstration, eh?

 **Beren** :

Oh, no, I think I'll pass -- I see your drinking-ware is mostly glass, and I hear that's fragile stuff.

 **Curufin** :

Pity. --These cultural survivals from antiquity are always so fascinating.

 **Beren** :

All right, how about when we get back? Only we need ox-horn vessels full of beer so we can do it properly.

 **Defense Aide** :

 _Beer_? That's that foul drink you people make out of bread, isn't it?

 **Beren** :

Er, not really. It has grain and yeast and water for ingredients, but -- different recipe.

 **First Counselor** : [grimly]

I remember King Finrod tried making some once.

[Bleak expressions of remembrance on those attending to the discussion]

 **Beren** : [interested]

Was it any good?

 **Orodreth** :

If by _good_ you mean, "palatable", the answer is a most definite _no_ , my Lord Barahirion. If by _good_ you mean "similar to the original pattern", then I cannot say, as I was never able to force down enough on our visits to Brethil to make any sort of accurate observations as to its flavor.

 **Beren** :

Oh, _Brethil_. The Haladin might be valiant warriors, but they make wretched beer -- it's mead, actually. For _real_ ale you have to start with mountain stream water and sweet grain from Ladros.

 **Orodreth** :

I have on occasion imbibed both, and -- I fear I could distinguish no difference whatsoever, milord.

 **Cavalry Commander** : [impatiently]

Gentles, _is_ this in any way, shape, form or nebulous parallel relevant to the discussion at hand or the matter thereof?

 **Beren** : [deadpan]

I thought you folks wanted to see how mortals do this council thing. That's probably enough. --So what do you want me to do? Am I actually going to be riding in the angle?  Which rank? Front or back?

 **Cavalry Commander** : [mincing no words]

That depends on how horrible you are. I'm saying at the outset, primaries or heart, because I want you where you'll bring down the fewest when you fall off.

 **Beren** :

Oh, good. Fewer to step on me, right?

 **Cavalry Commander** : [nods]

That too. We'll see how you do. --And what the King says.

[bitterly]

Ponies!

 **Celegorm** : [calling from background]

Well, what's your final verdict, brother? Advise me with your shrewd counsel -- should we go along with this, or is it suicidal madness?

 **Curufin** : [thoughtfully]

Everyone here knows I think it's insane. Just for the record. But -- I am reminded by the Heir of Dorthonion that the unexpected may well succeed, and that _daring_ is usually more than adequate to carry the day against an unprepared -- or overprepared -- adversary. And cousin Finrod's plan is certainly as daring as it is well-prepared.

 **Finrod** :

Thank you, cousin.

 **Beren** :

If it's any consolation, my lord, the ground is very steep where I grew up, and the terrain quite rugged. I'm used to difficult conditions.

 **Cavalry Commander** :

Scant. I'm _not_ happy at all about letting a mind-deaf mortal near my horses, you should know. I'd far rather have you ride pillion as per when we take the archers to the front, but you're too coarse-boned for that with the distance we have to to cover. If you're rough with them in practice I will find ways to make you regret it, though.

 **Beren** :

I _used_ to be passable. Long time back I could even do the shooting-from-the- saddle thing and get maybe one wolf in three.

 **Cavalry Commander** :

 _Really_.

 **Beren** :

Really. All right, maybe it was closer to one in four. It was kind of a showing- off thing, more than anything else.

 **Cavalry Commander** :

Forgive me if I appear skeptical, but that would require use of both hands, would it not? What about your _reins_?

 **Beren** :

What about 'em? I knotted the leathers so we wouldn't trip on them.

 **Cavalry Commander** : [clearly unconvinced]

 _Indeed_.

[His ADC tries to get his attention]

\--Yes?

 **Warrior** :

Sir -- _Huan_ trusts him. And Barahir was always good to the little fiends -- even though _I_ wanted to beat them, because they _Just_. _Don't_. _Listen_. And they're _wicked_ , even if they're not Evil.

 **Cavalry Commander** : [eyeing Beren]

Hmph.

 **Warrior** :

Not _all_ bad, though -- at least the "not listening" part -- a mind-linked rider terrified out of any pretense of rationality on an already-terrified steed is a very, very bad combination. And a mountless courier's precious little use in a redoubt scenario when the nearest help's Stars-know-where. Vicious half-wild mountain ponies having to be head-wrestled at all times, at least don't care if they've just lost their own rider, or whether their master is having Premonitions of Cosmic Doom, or pick up the images from all down the line of things past Elven, let alone equine, contemplation -- they just want to get away from the fires and maybe get a few good bites in along the way.

 **Cavalry Commander** : [shrewdly]

I've never heard you talk about the Battle from a personal standpoint.

 **Warrior** :

Very sorry, sir. I thought I was being impersonally-abstract enough.

 **Finrod** :

. . . So does that answer all your remaining questions, then? Have I left anything out that you can see?

 **Curufin** : [looking at his brother, not at the King]

I rather think so, myself -- and you?

 **Celegorm** : [answering the other question as well -- We'll go for it]

Oh yes, absolutely.

[standing]

There's just _one thing_ in all this that you're forgetting, kinsman.

[draws his sword and clangs it down on the table in front of them, declamatory:]

"Be he friend or foe or demon foul of Morgoth Bauglir, be he mortal dark that in after days on earth shall dwell, shall no law nor love nor league of Gods, no might nor mercy, nor moveless fate, defend him for ever from the fierce vengeance of the sons of Feanor, whoso seize or steal or finding keep the fair enchanted globes of crystal whoso glory dies not, the Silmarils. We have sworn forever!" 

[Dead silence. All are as if in shock at the first overt invocation of the Oath in centuries which is now loosed again into the World. Only Finrod is completely calm and unaffected by it]

 **Finrod** :

My lord my cousin, I thought we had settled this matter to honor's satisfaction for all concerned.

 **Celegorm** :

How could we possibly have settled it, when it's not even begun? But we _will_ settle it.

[The Sons of Feanor segue back and forth seamlessly between Good Cop/Bad Cop and Smart Chap/Simple Chap routines throughout the "debate" -- and shamelessly.]

 **Curufin** :

Not that this insanity has a hope of success, of course -- but on the off chance that whatever whimsical force exists to unbalance the plans and careful calculations of thinking Elves is ruling this hour, we want to make our position perfectly clear. There can be no compromise on the matter of the Silmarils. Not even to temporize, not even temporarily. -- _If_ that's what you really intend. Cousin.

 **Finduilas** :

I should think you'd want even one of them out of Morgoth's control, no matter who got it, just because of what he did to your father! And it's for a good cause. You should be ashamed of yourselves!

 **Curufin** :

Be quiet, Sparkly, and let the grownups talk.

[to Gwindor, preemptively:]

Sit down, pup, and learn to control your temper if you don't want to go West early --

[to Guilin, before the rest of the Council has a chance to get offended]

I do apologize, good sir, but the role of impetuous youth at High Councils is to watch, listen, and learn in respectful silence from those older and wiser than they -- or so I've always believed, gentles.

 **Second Counselor** : [evidently has resented the kids' presence at sessions]

It's good to hear _somebody_ saying that, finally.

 **Finduilas** :

 _Father_!

 **Orodreth** :

Your comments are offensive, Curufin --

 **Curufin** : [interrupting, coldly:]

\--But correct. The fact that you are offended by them is irrelevant.

 **Celegorm** : [lazy smile]

After all, it isn't as though you can exactly throw us out now, is it?

[There is a silence, Finrod expressionless, the rest looking apprehensive but generally in agreement]

 **Beren** :

Wait, wait -- _why not_? What exactly do you two _do_ around here, anyway? Except help out the King's huntsmen, sort of, when you feel like it?

 **Steward** : [urgent]

My lord, _please_.

 **Captain** : [aside-but-loud-enough-to-be-heard-by-everyone]

\--Good question, actually.

 **Third Counselor** :

Your question, sir, is as rude as it is ridiculous. There are the sacred rules of hospitality, that are surely even known to mortals, which forbid the refusal of shelter to any guest -- and so much the more when guest is also of one blood and family.

 **Beren** : [shakes head]

No, gentles, I'm sorry but I'm not seeing it at all -- when times got harder, we had a lot of people staying with us, and most of them were kin some ways or other, and they always were expected to do their own chores and contribute to the general running of things. Anyone who wouldn't abide by the house rules could just go build their own fort someplace else. Too much at stake to play dumb games over how the wood gets stacked or the blankets folded or the dinner cooked -- or--

[glances at Finrod]

\--who stands what watch.

 **Master of Illusions** :

You do not understand, Edain: after the Battle our losses were so great that without their forces joined to ours we would have been sorely pressed to defend our borders and to also maintain the city as it requires -- it's not as easy as you might imagine -- and their assistance has proven indispensable.

 **Beren** :

Oh -- you'd be surprised what turns out _not_ to be indispensable after all, after you haven't got it any more.

 **Celegorm** :

 _I_ think -- that anything this important -- ought _not_ to be decided in secret. Shouldn't the folk of Nargothrond be allowed to at least know what arrangements their master is making for the disposition of their future?

 **Curufin** : [silk-smooth]

I think my elder brother is correct.

 **Steward** :

 _I_ do not see, my lords, that there is any need to advance the schedule for the public hearing --

 **Second Counselor:** [interrupting]

As a matter of fact that strikes me as an excellent idea. The more minds, the more vision and clarity brought to the matter, the more fresh air can only sweep through, would you not agree, Sire?

[All look at the King]

 **Finrod** : [blandly]

Oh, by all means -- if we're going to have a coup, let us do it _properly_.

[He signals to the Guards to go open the main doors and bring anyone who cares to come in from the solar and corridors. As the hall fills he rises and goes to stand in the center of the lowest tier, but as though he's barely stopping himself from pacing; throughout the next part, as the battle for power builds in intensity, he becomes increasingly more fey and for longer intervals, like a high-voltage line with an intermittent short (which is a rather scary thing to witness, even when it's up in the transformers of a high-tension line)--if anyone else were operating under halfway normal conditions they would _not_ be crossing him now.]

 **Beren** : [whispering, to the Captain]

What's His Majesty up to?

[The Captain shakes his head -- he does not know either. When the assembly hall is is mostly full the King claps his hands loudly and addresses the populace at large:]

 **Finrod** : [ploughing straight through and not allowing interruption]

All right, my people, pay attention! I'll be exceedingly surprised if anyone here hasn't _some_ idea of what we've been working on these past hours, but listen up and you'll hear it plain, unencumbered by ornament -- or even much in the way of organization. If you don't already know, then know this: the Man who saved my life in the Dagor Bragollach is dead, but his son lives and comes to remind me of my debt to his House -- a debt we _all_ owe to the House of Beor, who stood so long at the forefront of our borders against the North. He's here seeking aid for what sounds like a quest out of a bard's story, only it's the stark truth: to gain permission to wed the princess he loves, and who loves him in return, he has been set a task impossible to mortal Men.

[Beren grows increasingly embarrassed throughout]

No one here can have forgotten the story of how your King and commanders were saved in the darkest hour of the retreat from Ard-galen by mortal valor, when had not Barahir of long inheritance of friendship come riding with his shield- guard and at great cost of their own blood broken the Orc-leaguer about us and delivered us from the Fen of Serech. Few here can have failed to hear of the legend of his only son, whose name is terror to the minions of the Dark and whose deeds are bitterest gall even to the Necromancer who has galled us so these several years.

[there is a lot of low-level discussion going on in the crowd during this, of approving tone]

But there are limits to what valor alone can accomplish, as alas we know! and without our help The Beoring will surely fail, for the condition assigned him is to bring back one Silmaril from Morgoth's stronghold. I grant you it's an incredibly difficult challenge, and not guaranteed of success, but I've devised a plan that makes it at least doable, with minimal likely risk of casualties and discovery, which would break Morgoth's teeth in insult and in his repute in the eyes of his captains, sowing the chaos which he so loves to sow among us his foes, -- and which satisfies honor of all parties, in all points -- or would, had not the former Lords of Aglon-and-Himlad suddenly and at _very_ late hour discovered cause to balk.

 **Celegorm** : [breaking in as the King pauses to assess the situation on several levels]

What our kinsman Finrod is leaving out is the following: the princess in question is no mortal, but one of our own -- no less than the daughter of Elu Thingol and Melian the Maia of Doriath, who instead of responding to such an insolent demand with the severity it should have incurred, chose this roundabout, more feelings- sparing way of saying -- not in a thousand years. Changes things a bit, doesn't it?

 **Curufin** :

Moreover, your King attempts to trade upon our honesty and honor by pretending that he will arrange a merely formal bartering of jewel and girl and once the exchange is done the gem will be returned to our rightful custody. Frankly, since everyone knows that no one on this earth will ever give up a Silmaril voluntarily, I'm surprised that he's attempting to enlist our support in an outrageous attempt to have us cheat ourselves, but then no doubt he thinks us all no more than fools and children by comparison to his _legendary_ wisdom -- the wisdom that more than halved Nargothrond's fighting force in the execution of his long-thought strategy of the Siege!

 **Captain** :

Oh, _please --!_  

 **Finrod** : [ignoring them]

\-- My cousins, on the other hand, who have been living here these ten-odd years as my guests, are now apparently trying to change their status from guests to hosts, and would like to convince you that they'll do a better job of it than I.

 **Curufin** :

Our concern is solely for the people of Nargothrond.

 **Captain** : [loudly]

 _Which_ people? Yours? -- or _us_?

 **Curufin** : [patronizing]

Don't worry -- you'll still have a job.

 **Captain** : [as if changing the subject]

You know, I remember hearing about a couple of field commanders who insisting on carrying a _mosaic floor_ everywhere, to go in their field headquarters. Made themselves remarkably popular with their support staff and logistics people, not to mention the poor slobs who had to carry the thing.

 **Beren** : [amazed]

 _Mosaic_? That's _stone_ , right? Little stones? How on earth . . .?

 **Captain** :

On panels, and in boxes, with a lot of effort. --Did you bring it back from Ard-galen, milords? No? How many lives did it cost, of soldiers and horses too tired from hauling it to run when the fires came? That wasn't a small pavilion, as I recall. Was it worth the price to impress everyone with how organized and successful your House was? Didn't work, you know. You still had to move in here and sponge off of us. I'm sure _they_ were really impressed with your _care_ for them. Going to look after Nargothrond the same way?

 **Celegorm** :

I'm sure I've no idea why you think we're interested in taking charge here. We _are_ the eldest heirs of Finwe, and we don't exactly need any other addition to our prestige.

 **Curufin** :

However -- in the event of incompetence and lack of leadership, failures of judgment, absence of vision, even -- dare I say -- abandonment of wisdom, we would of course stand ready to ready to supply whatever assistance might be required, to the best of our ability.

 **Celegorm** :

And I must say, we've seen Morgoth's mercy of leadership today, or any of the rest of it -- _except_ the incompetence. We've heard a great deal about responsibility to mortals -- but what about responsibility to _Nargothrond_?

 **Curufin** :

After all, it was only their _duty_ after receiving the Grant of Ladros, was it not? not to mention your House's generosity in deeding them the northlands in the first place. It is not as though the mortals were the _only_ ones to lose kin in the late battle against Morgoth.

[Finrod's expression goes from furious to murderous; Orodreth closes his eyes, pained; Guilin frowning nods in agreement; there is a lot of crowd consensus at this. Unable to listen any more, Beren jumps up and strides halfway across the dais, staring off into the darker apse. Unfortunately, it's hard not to hear.]

But that is, ultimately, of little concern to _us_. It's ancient history, so to speak. What concerns us -- concerns us all! -- is the Future. What becomes of Nargothrond -- of the Noldor -- of all the Kindreds, if Morgoth's ire is roused from the past decade's slumber and provoked in such an outrageous manner?

 **Celegorm** :

In one word -- _war_.

 **Curufin** : [gesturing offhand towards Beren]

Do you want your children to end up like _him_? Homeless, kinless, friendless beggars living without even the rustic community of our Dark-Elven kindred? Savages scarcely to be distinguisted from the beasts of the forest where they dwell -- or worse yet, _thralls_ slaving away in Angband as payment for the rash presumption of having chosen to defy the Lord of Fetters?

 **Celegorm** :

And don't imagine that he won't retaliate -- there's no possible way old Fetters is going to take _this_ one quietly. There will be hell to pay, quite literally, after the fact -- and for a _long_ time thereafter. --This is assuming of course that the mad plan is even executable, that it won't simply result in the loss of all involved -- their lives _thrown_ _away_ in an action with nothing in return.

 **Curufin** :

 _Obviously_ if there were any hope of it succeeding we would _certainly_ be the first to offer our support -- but we hold our responsibilities as guests of Nargothrond no less sacred than your duty of hospitality extended so freely towards ourselves. If the leadership of the realm forgets duty towards you, may you not then in good conscience seek good leadership? If your overlord chooses for you a path that is wrought of disaster, leading only to destruction, is it not your duty to take heed for your families, your lives, your lore? And make no mistake, this path leads to destruction.

[Getting into full demagogue cry here]

If you have no care for yourselves, consider your children -- your sons dead in battle, gone for what might as well be forever, or hurt so badly that they fade regardless of the breath remaining in them, your daughters injured in the wrack of war, trapped in the mindless wreckage of battle that spares not beauty, the flames and the falling walls, your life's work both living and breathed forth in art all gone, or ruined past repair! Think on your friends and far kinsmen doomed to endless war, the heartbreak of civilizations shattered and lore forgotten, the songs silenced, the harpstrings mute forever, the holy words lost for good, the fountains running red with blood and black with ash, empty the halls where children children sang, no sound but that of innumerable mourners, and afterwards a scattered and a broken people, remembering not even their own true names, wandering lost in forests of shadow and terror, with neither cirth nor tengwar to bear the memories of wisdom to after generations, becoming even as than the Turned Ones, as though you had never been anything more -- is this the future that you want? Because it certainly isn't the one _I'm_ hoping for!

[it's clear this is having the desired impact on everyone present, the imagery at least, if not the implied politics]

Because what _I_ hope for, for Nargothrond, which is now my adopted home as it is your own, is a future in which the great works you have already accomplished here in such short time, with such heroic effort in a land that might have been entirely new for all the untamed wilderness that surrounds us, all the beauties you have made -- are nothing. That's right -- _nothing_. -- _Not_ because they are destroyed, but because they are _nothing_ as compared to what we _will_ create in the days to come! I do not wish to insult you by naming you _cowards_ , too ensnared by the webs of fear and memory of Darkness to go on -- rather I wish to praise you by naming you _wise_ , wise enough to move onward in new directions entirely, free of the shackles of hidebound tradition and outworn custom. Let us stand together, friends!

[he pauses, panting, while general acclaim begins to rise in volume]

 **Steward** :

Lord Curufin?

 **Curufin** : [extremely wary, but hopeful -- winning the King's right hand lord over   would be the coup of the coup, so to speak]

What would you like to contribute, my Lord Edrahil? I know that your work must give you a particular awareness of the value of civilization and the need for cooperation in caring for and preserving it.

 **Steward** :

I think no reasonable person could disagree with any of the sentiments you've so eloquently expressed just now. But, my lord, I cannot tell from your words whether you are endeavoring to convey that our King's endeavor will lead to war against Morgoth -- which _is_ the state that currently obtains, _not_ peace -- or to war against Doriath, stars know why, unless you're planning on starting one, -- or to a civil war of your following in Nargothrond against the House of Finarfin. --Or all three. In all my years' service in my capacity as Herald I never yet heard such a discordant mix of half-lies and half-truths and serpentine redoublings of one across the other -- save when we received the occasional bribe-and-threaten from across the Leaguer. Would you care to explain in as simple language as is possible for you, so that I can render it into plain Sindarin for the benefit of everyone else?

[Curufin looks at his older brother with a You-want-to-take-this? expression]

 **Celegorm** :

War is war. --As you ought to know. The end result's the same -- burnt cities and mourning widows -- _wherever_ it happens, or who's involved.

[This oblique and shameless reference to the Kinslaying shuts Finrod's partisans up for the instant, dumbfounded]

 **Beren** : [finally turning to speak]

\--Look, this is crazy. I'll just do like I was originally going to do, and infiltrate Angband by myself. I'm not going to start a civil war here!

 **Celegorm** : [dropping the good-will act]

If you _dare_ to claim what's ours, we will hunt you down to the ends of Arda, mortal.

 **Beren** : [shortly]

You're welcome to _try_.

[to Finrod]

Sir, with your leave I'll take your intent for action and consider the debt paid, and leave myself to remove the occasion for trouble in your realm.

 **Finrod** :

That's not possible, I'm afraid.

 **Beren** :

Sure it is. As the party collecting I should be the one to say when it's fulfilled, shouldn't I?

 **Finrod** :

Not for _that_. --You've never held command in your own right, or ruled over your own organization, and there are vast, vast differences.

 **Beren** : [stiffly]

That may be true, Sire, but I am still as responsible for my own actions.

 **Finrod** : [smiling dangerously, speaking not just to Beren]

\--No, Barahirion, you _do not_ understand. This is not like your Northern woodsmen, when your father made suggestion that they abandon their homes and holts for the safety of your hall, and they instead thinking, "I cut this clearing out with my own hands, and my parents before me, and theirs before them, and when fire has burnt or storm has shattered we have rebuilt, and now we have laid down our lives to hold it, and surely we can keep on doing so, and if not, well then--," chose rather to face the night and perish.  These are _my_ thanes, _my trusted ones_ , who have taken my name and my glory to shield them, while they dwell in the halls I hewed for them, and have been glad enough to own themselves Nargothronders while I asked nothing of them. _This_ \-- is our hedge of thorns.

[Sees that Beren understands, sort of. To the Counselors and Commanders:]

Well, then -- you're supposed to be the wisest of the wise, what do you in your vast wisdom say to solve this dilemma? What a choice! between on the one side the manifold calls of honor, of duty, of friendship, of all the years of service given and accepted from the House of Beor, of my own long service to build you a home of safety and repose, of the task of our people to waylay and harass the Enemy, all these things, so many reasons _for_!

[There is silence from his Chiefs of Staff]

And what have we on the other side? A pair of freeloaders and the rag-tag of their glorious Host, who left us _waiting_ on the wrong side of the Sea just a short while back, or have you completely forgotten about that? Are we not still the greatest Elven dominion _this_ side? Or are you completely intimidated by the Feanor mystique? Or have my cousins cast a glamour over you, that you'd sooner be shamed before both Kindreds and the Powers themselves, than lose _their_ favor?

 **Guilin** : [sternly]

Sire, neither are you _nor_ your House themselves Powers _either_ , and it is ill- behooved of you to issue ultimatums and demand loyalty tests as though you believed yourself a god. We are not _children_ \-- nor mortals -- to be lectured so by the son of Finarfin: we, no less than yourself, are Noldor of high degree!

[There is a lot of loud public agreement to this. Finrod freezes in the middle of starting to answer, his expression shocked but filled with comprehension of the Pattern. A longish pause.]

 **Celegorm** : [snorting]

I rather think that says it all, cousin?

 **Finrod** : [ironic smile]

So this is how the game goes, eh? Winner takes all? Like that game where you change all the tiles over at a go, white to black, not contending square by square, foot by foot for the mastery but at one fell swoop shifting the play of power from opposer to victor? Very well. The board is yours.

[to the rest of the hall, his face very taut, his voice harsh with control:]

 _You_ \-- may do what you please. This set is ended, and you'd best find yourself another harper to play for you from this day forth. _I_ \-- have no choice. My faith has been given, and if I refuse to keep it I might as well have died in Ard-galen. King or no king, _I_ hold my life a gift of worth enough that I will repay it at whatever cost to myself -- and if you are the sort of people who would feel otherwise, receiving such a grant, then I am pleased to part from you!

[a general outcry, all at once:]

 **Orodreth** :

Finrod, you don't mean what you're saying --

 **Steward** :

My lord --

 **Guilin** :

These are wild words, Sire --

 **Third Counselor** :

Your Majesty, consider well before you stoop to folly --

 **Finrod** : [interrupts them all]

What, you will have me here a tame and captive King, to follow when it pleases you, and dismiss when it doesn't? You will call me your lord, and _pretend_ to obey my rule, and let me work to order your lives when you can't be troubled to it yourselves, but when I ask anything of you in return, -- or not in return, but merely in duty -- _then_ you will turn deaf ears to me, pretending the inconvenient demands haven't been made?

[shouting:]

\-- _NO_ , _I say_ \--!

[takes off his crown and slams it down on the floor -- it rolls circularly along the dais with a ringing sound. Continues, not shouting, but still quite loud:]

Let us at least have it _plain_ , gentles, without a false plating of silver over casting of lead! If you will not trust me, then you will not trust me. No one here may say truthfully that I don't take counsel, that I do not consider the well-being of all, or that I haven't ruled you well all these centuries. Or why haven't you complained before this day, then? But comes a time, in peaceful hall as in field of war, that counsel must cease and deeds begin. Since you will not _allow_ my leadership, _I_ cannot allow you to claim it.

[to Beren -- very formally and calmly]

My lord of Dorthonion, I beg you to accept my apologies for failing in my assistance to you. But where one had planned to go, alone, _two_ shall surely stand better chance. I cannot pledge any more than this, my own sword and strength to your aid, -- though I had hoped at least that I'd rate better than _nothing_ for a retinue!

[looks around the hall, not really seeing any of those present]

Will _none_ of you come with me, then? For the hope of glory, if nothing else, or from vanity, so that Nargothrond will have some tiny crumb of pride left? Or are you _all_ cowards now? Did every scrap of moral integrity and courage get burnt in the Dagor Bragollach as well? Must I be evicted from the refuge I built for you with nothing and with no one to take my part?

[The Steward rises and moves to stand beside him.]

 **Steward** : [gently]

Sire -- you had only to ask.

[Finrod gives him a Look of exasperation and apology, still shaking with fury]

 **Captain** : [as quietly]

Actually, you didn't.

[over his shoulder, louder]

\--Lads? For the old songs' sake?

[The two Rangers who were present the night of Beren's arrival and this morning come forward with the Soldier and the Guard, ignoring the "don't be insane" remonstrating of friends and colleagues in the crowd.]

Anyone else? It's no different from any other mission: you'll either be coming back or faring-forth -- there aren't any _safe_ times, when arrows miss and axes don't cut, you ought to know that by now!

[The Cavalry Commander's aide rises and shoves back his chair -- his chief gives him an angry look, and the Warrior stares down his CO and goes across to stand beside the King. He is joined by the three Guards who were at the Fens -- the other turns away from his friends' expectant looks. Gwindor jumps up, and is grabbed on the one hand by his father and the other by hs fiancee, who assail him silently with pleas until he sits down, biting his lip in shame, head bowed.]

Is that it?

[The Captain looks around at the volunteers, raises an eyebrow]

Just like old times, eh, Your Majesty?

[Finrod gives a short bitter laugh]

 **Steward** :

My lord, what arrangements are to be made for the government of the realm?

 **Finrod** : [shrugging]

I don't know. It isn't _my_ job any more.

 **Steward** :

Surely you will not give your city over to these strangers' authority?

 **Finrod** : [offhand]

No, I don't need to -- Nargothrond seems to have done that for me.

 **Steward** : [giving up on rational persuasion]

My lord, hear me --

[He kneels to pick up the crown and remains on one knee as he speaks:]

Perhaps they have not realized this yet, and perhaps they choose to ignore it, but regardless of what has just taken place, you are _still_ as much their King as you are mine. You _must not leave_ Nargothrond leaderless, -- for you have _not_ that right, any more than these have the right to do what they have done, to set aside this burden unconsidered. You must choose in your turn a steward for the realm, to hold it in your absence.

[The King gives him the Look again, but nods heavily and comes to accept it with careful graciousness from his hands]

 **Finrod** : [tiredly]

Very well. --Orodreth, you're next in line, it's yours by right: if and when I come back I look to you to make me a full report on what you've accomplished, but until then, it's all yours -- Catch!

[He tosses the crown to his brother]

 **Orodreth** : [catching it and looking at it in dismay]

What can I possibly say in return? I cannot even _thank_ you without sounding like a hypocrite, as though I _wished_ for this -- or as though I'm mocking you.

 **Finrod** : [mild tone]

You're welcome.

[There is a pause, in which tension seems to dissipate and people look at each other all through the hall, seeming slightly stunned]

 **Beren** : [to self, half aloud]

I thought I'd already known the worst of fear, and guarded against it.

 **Finrod** : [distantly]

Well. It's always clear after the fact, isn't it? Weird, isn't it, how one can't change it, even forewarned, even prepared, no matter how one tries . . .

 **Orodreth** :

What are you _talking_ about? --Do you mean that nonsense about the dream you had, the one that 'Tariel was so worked up about at the housewarming party? You do, don't you?

 **Finrod** :

\--Not a dream. --Nothing so clear.

[lightly]

Well, one good thing's come of all this -- I won't have to shout at people for not building my arbalests and not telling me about it.

[He is a little short of breath when he speaks]

 **Orodreth** : [earnestly, sotto voce]

Finrod, you cannot mean this. It's -- insane, utterly and absolutely insane. It's all very well to honor one's bargains, but not to the point of self- destruction and forfeiture of everything one has worked for. With a little careful negotiation I'm sure this unfortunate business can be put behind us, you can satisfy your honor with some reasonable grant of assistance, and we'll figure out a way to placate the Sons of Feanor -- I know you didn't anticipate this, but --

 **Finrod** :

You mean you _didn't_ realize this was a possibility? I thought _you_ were the shrewd one, brother. Of course I knew it might happen this way: why do you think I grovelled so carefully and consideredly to our cousins all day, -- and set only guards that I tr-- that I thought I could trust?

 **Orodreth** : [incredulous]

Are you telling me that you had thought of this beforehand? That this isn't some impulsive gesture of yours, but that you actually _planned_ to go through with this mad scheme? You really mean to risk throwing away your life for the sake of this mortal bravo and his, might I say upon reflection, _extremely_ _offensive_ endeavor? Bad enough that you lavished miruvor on him as though it were wine, as though he could appreciate it! I know the Beorings saved your life once, but you cannot actually believe that there is a real equation --

 **Finrod** : [quietly but fierce]

Orodreth -- _do you realize_ what you have just said? -- Because I certainly _hope_ that you do not.

[He stops talking, looking rather pale]

 **Orodreth** :

 _Don't_ take that tone with me. _You're_ not Father. Not that you listened to him either. He was right to turn back -- if only _you'd_ shown _half_ the sense --

 **Finrod** : [interrupts]

I didn't _make_ you follow me--

[checks again, his face drawn]

 **Celegorm** :

Are you going to take all day, Finrod old chap? Could you hurry it up there, do you think?

[Beren, dead white and shaking with fury, stalks over to the Sons of Feanor. Apprehensively the Captain and the Steward trail him, ready to restrain him, but he just stops a pace away and stares at them for a a long moment.]

 **Beren** :

You know what? Orcs don't pretend to be your friends -- they just try to kill you. _That's_ the only difference I can see --

[Curufin's smile falters for an instant. Celegorm reaches down to shove him away, but Beren grabs his wrist and they stand there locked, the Elven prince unable to pull away without undignified brawling. Curufin looks over at Finrod, warningly:]

 **Curufin** : [half-lifting his knife from its hanger]

Leash your hound, cousin. -- _Leash_ _him_ , before I crop his ears for you!

[Finrod's chief officers catch hold of Beren's shoulders, but he does not move at their urging, still locking stares and arms with Celegorm.]

 **Finrod** :

 _Beor_!

[Beren allows the Captain and Steward to draw him back with them, turning away as though the Sons of Feanor are not even worthy of his contempt.]

 **Curufin** : [lightly]

That boy's a wild animal, brother. I'm surprised our cousin isn't afraid to have such a beast at his side.

 **Celegorm** :

No doubt the wolf's-head will turn on him in time.

 **Curufin** : [evil smile]

Barahirion: did your mother perchance wear such warg-hide buskins as yourself? Was she a warrior, too? --Or were you just raised by wolves, eh?

[Beren's companions make sure they're blocking him securely, but Beren only glances over his shoulder at the Sons of Feanor, almost bored.]

 **Beren** : [coldly]

My mother was worth ten of you.

[looks them up and down and sneers]

\--She could have taken you _both_.

[While no doubt more loyal than accurate, this assertion is not exactly the response that Curufin was anticipating, and he cannot think of anything to say for the moment.]

 **Captain** : [softly]

My lord -- he isn't worth your time.

 **Beren** : [ignoring him]

When we come back -- _you're_ going down. My word on it.

 **Celegorm** :

So you _do_ fight against the Eldar, -- _Elf-Friend_.

 **Beren** :

I hunt _fell_ _things_. And I keep my promises.

 **Finrod** : [quietly]

 _Beren_. _To me_.

[At once Beren strides over to the King, wheels and drops to one knee at Finrod's left side, rips off the peace-bonds, sets both hands on his sword-hilt, and does not move. He knows exactly what statement he's making, and Curufin can't match him for sardonic looks. The King lays his hand on Beren's shoulder, ostensibly in approval, but he is actually leaning rather heavily on him for support.]

[mindspeech]

They are no concern of ours henceforth. _Hush_! Do not speak your thought. _Attend_ _me_ \-- as did your father in the Fens.

[Beren, startled that the King is reading his unvoiced worries, and still more so by his first encounter with one of the greatest legends of his people, nevertheless says nothing, but rises gracefully, continuing to bear Finrod's weight without seeming to do so.]

\--It's only a little dizziness. Stay me for a few minutes more.

[aloud, to Orodreth]

Brother, we will not trouble you. All I ask is that you ensure _we_ are not troubled in our departing, and that my people are not detained or maltreated prior to our leaving, which will be as soon as we can possibly make it.

[At that moment only Beren knows that Finrod can't see straight, and that he's faking being okay to a large extent -- and gives away nothing of the King's weakness by his stance or expression.]

 **Orodreth** : [bitterly]

What makes you think _I_ can ensure anything?

 **Finrod** : [low voice]

I would not ask, if I did not. The people have accepted you. They require your authority now, lest they scatter like doves at the shadow of the hawk. _You_ _must_ _be there for_ _them_. Give them such orders as they _can_ obey, and will take honor from obeying. Do not contend openly with these rivals. Let the City have rest from strife. That's about all I can give you for advice, except -- Good luck.

 **Orodreth** :

Will you _always_ be walking away from your responsibilities, Finrod? How many times does this _make_? First Mother and Amarie, then Father, then the Host to follow this hobby of humans, then haring all over Beleriand setting up a pocket empire and not sticking with any part of it long enough to see it through -- and they laugh at _me_ for running away -- _once_! Whatever are you going to be when you grow up, Finrod?

 **Finrod** :

 _What_ , exactly, would "through" consist of --?

[stops, shakes head]

Orodreth, you don't want answers to those questions. I don't do _rhetorical_ well, and _real_ answers would take us months, or years. It's late to be bringing all this up, and bad timing to set upon me now. I cannot and will not fight with you here, under the shadow of the Oath. I'm just asking you, _please_ , to help me prevent anyone getting hurt today.

[holds out free hand to the Prince, who turns away angrily with folded arms]

 **Orodreth** _Of_ _course_ I'll do what I can to prevent violence. _Of_ _course_. But don't expect to smile and get away with everything this time. I don't forgive you for placing this burden on me -- though why I'm surprised, I don't know.

 **Finrod** : [genuinely confused]

When have I _ever_ wronged you? By giving you the crown? Should I have given it to another? _Whom_ , then?

[stops suddenly again, sighing]

\--Never mind.

 **Orodreth** :

Running off with your mortal _friends_ again? Off to play soldier now?

 **Finrod** : [refusing to be drawn]

Yes. --Edrahil, see that the corridor is cleared and the doors all sealed. I don't wish to be cut off, unarmed as I am save for yourselves. I'm fairly certain all will respect your authority still.

[The Steward goes quickly out, his hand resting automatically on the hilt of the dirk Beren gave him.]

 **Orodreth** :

Finrod, you can't be imagining --

 **Finrod** : [grimly]

I can imagine _anything_. I've _seen_ worse. --As have you.

[mindspeech]

\--Beren. I'm all right. _Don't_ answer me aloud or in gesture. Can you match strides with me? And not too fast -- it might come back. _Good_. Everyone! When Edrahil returns we _go_ , and we do not stop until we reach my chambers which _have_ been secured to me and mine alone since The Beoring's arrival. There we'll take as our base of operations until we depart for good. --Someone get the maps.

[The Steward reappears in the doorway of the throne room and nods to the King. Finrod straightens, shaking off the weakness that has touched him and smiles with a somewhat mocking expression.]

All right, lads, all clear. Form "nernehta" -- only without the shields, of course!

[Against the hostile watchfulness of the Sons of Feanor across the room and the guilty stares of the citizenry, the Ten set themselves into the ancient moving defensive formation composed of a doubled wedge, surrounding their King and his liege as they sweep rapidly from the scene of the debacle of Nargothrond. On the opposite side of the throne room Curufin, Celegorm and their adherents-by-default go the other way; Orodreth and the others of the King's family and near-kin remain in stunned disarray.]

 


	10. Act 2:  SCENE VI

**Gower** :

In silence Beren now attends upon the King   
\-- sovereign at least of the few yet owning him --   
musing on the grievous claiming of the ring's   
right, and how from one wreck to another grim   
(and more so indeed it seems) he moves,   
that catastrophe doth dog his steps --   
until in time needs must shatter all he loves,   
Tho' wherefore truly and for what past slips   
as punishment or payment kens he not.

[Back in the royal apartments, where the mood of the antechamber is anything but peaceful and conducive to thought, Finrod is exhorting his remaining troops:]

 **Finrod** : [urgent and grim]

My friends, go and make such farewells as you will, to persons or to places, and ready what you must.  What you lack of gear, from use or wear, speak to Edrahil of it, and he'll make sure it's taken care of.  _Do not engage in_ _altercation_.  That includes -- conversation, discussion, argument whether voice or mindspeech -- or _looks_! -- as well as any physical hostile contact. Even _accidental_ \--

[pointed look at the Ranger Captain]

\-- is strictly to be avoided. I enjoin you, upon your proven loyalty -- obey me in this! We _cannot afford_ to have blood spilled this day.  _I_ cannot afford to lose _one_ of you.

 **Captain** : [without resentment]

Shall I bond weapons, then?

 **Finrod** :

Nay, friend, I trust you -- and will not have any of you defenseless. --Be careful.

 **Captain** :

We shall.

[No one else speaks as they leave, subdued. Finrod looks at the Steward, who has not gone with the rest.]

 **Finrod** :

No farewells?

 **Steward** :

Not this side of the Sea, my King.

[Finrod sighs and nods. Stiffly he leans against the table, his shoulders falling, now that there are only the three of them.]

 **Finrod** :

Holy stars -- I've not been so tired in -- ten years. That took everything I had and then some, to keep at bay. It nearly had me a time or two there. --But Namo and his House will have no occasion to complain of me today.

 **Beren** : [faintly]

I don't understand what happened.

 **Finrod** : [ironic]

I prepared for the wrong treason. I warded against Alqualonde, and I should have looked back farther -- to Morgoth's Parole.

[laughs slightly, shakes head.]

 **Beren** :

You are giving up your _kingdom_.

 **Finrod** :

I am their lord -- however ungrateful my people seem, I cannot be their lord and consign them to civil war and slaughter unawares. Far better this, a wrong but a lesser wrong, and in time reparable. I hope.

 **Beren** :

But now you are no lord either!

 **Steward** : [ferociously]

Is he not _your_ lord as well as mine? Or will you too forsake him now?

[Beren stares at him, shocked, then rips off his sword-belt and slams it down on the tiles in front of the King, falling on hands and knees, head bent. Finrod gives his Steward a reproachful look.]

 **Finrod** :

That sword's passed so many times between our Houses that I think we may consider it _given_ , Beor. I need no pledges from you, my friend, I know what you meant. --Get up, get up!

[To the Steward:]

Will you please see to darkening my armor? And Lord Beren's, with your own? I need to reconsider what we shall do now, in the time that remains.

[The Steward nods and leaves the room]

I mean to be ready to go at sunset, when neither the eyes of dayfarers or of nocturnal spies will be on the wing or at their best. Ask for whatever _you_ need as well --

 **Beren** : [urgent]

 _No_. No, _look_. My original plan will still work. Give me supplies and a map of the passes and I'll leave under the cover of darkness and trouble you no more This shouldn't be happening.

 **Finrod** : [shaking his head]

It doesn't matter. It's happened.

 **Beren** :

No, I'll leave, and it will be all right.

[casting around the chamber]

Where's my stuff? I'll go now, before anyone knows -- they won't even care, will they? Unless I come back with it --

[he starts rummaging frantically in his pack.]

Where's my gambeson? He said something about mending it -- and the rest of my knives -- my armour --

[not speaking coherently or tracking at all]

Let me get my cloak -- I was going to sneak in as a thrall anyway --

 **Finrod** :

Beren, _stop_.

 **Beren** :

No, I can't, I've got to _go_ , this is _insane_ \--

 **Finrod** : [catches hold of his arm]

It's not that simple.  You can't change what's happened --

 **Beren** : [wrenches away -- or tries to]

\--but I can _disappear_ , and then it won't matter -- please, let me go --

[tries to pull away again. Finrod shoves him against the wall.]

 **Finrod** :

 _BEREN!!!_ [effects: reverb and a brief flare of white light. Beren freezes.]

 **Finrod** :

Beren -- I am not Morgoth: I cannot reshape your will even if I would. All I can do is set you in bonds rather than let you run mad to your destruction, like any mortal lord -- though you _hate_ me for it after. But I _will_ do so if I must -- but I entreat you, son of my friend, do not make me do so!

[cautiously releases Beren.]

 **Beren** : [hardly audible]

 _Sire_.

[he slips down to his knees, bowing his head]

 **Finrod** : [kneeling with him]

Are you master of yourself, now? You will not try to flee again?

[Beren, eyes closed, shakes his head, leaning back against the wall. The Steward returns, having heard the shouting, and looks on in concern.]

When I finish we will speak a little. Just -- rest, be calm, and endeavor to accept what you cannot understand for the present.

[Still frowning, Finrod returns to the table and starts retracing lines on the diagrams laid out there. Beren is expressionless and silent, but not managing to stay calm, it seems.]

 **Finrod** : [gently]

You're clamouring louder than an army, and I can't seem to shut you out, and I _cannot_ work this way.  Can you not still your thoughts even a little?

[Beren, jaw clenched, nods and tries to stay calm -- outwardly succeeds, at least. A short pause: Finrod sighs, sets down maps and goes to kneel by Beren again.]

 _Beren_. _You did_ _not_ _bring_ _about_ _your_ _father's death_. --Do you think any mortal man could have returned faster than you did -- that if you had only somehow pushed yourself harder you could have warned them in time? And do you truly think your presence at the attack would have changed anything except the number of the dead? Were they not too many for you to fight, after? Did they not take care to surround the camp and cut off all avenues of retreat beforehand? You could not have sacrificed yourself to guard their escape -- only died with him.

 **Beren** : [self-loathing]

You weren't there -- I should've--

 **Finrod** : [flinches]

\--I am there _now_. And I see -- as you cannot -- that with what you were given, of strength and knowledge, you could have done no more. Be at peace, my friend:

you are not the primary agent of disaster in Middle-earth. Leave that blame where it belongs -- on _Morgoth's_ doorstep.

 **Beren** : [bleakly]

My father _apologized_ to me before he sent me off that last time. It wasn't like there was any reason for him to, I drew the lot fair and square, he didn't pick me in particular -- though he should have, given the situation. Only -- if _I'd_ been on point instead of the guys, maybe . . .

[looking at the King]

Are you all right, sir?

 **Finrod** : [sad smile]

Only a trifle jealous. I parted ill from my father, and I do not know how or when I shall ever be reconciled with him.

[Beren is quiet, his face expressionless -- outwardly; whatever is unvoiced causes Finrod to recoil as at a blow.]

 **Steward** : [softly]

My King, I would say were he one of us so cruelly held in Memory, to take him beside the Falls and let the voice of the waters calm him.

 **Finrod** :

I would say the same, mortal or not, but with the unsettled situation, I cannot dare that.

[remains frowning in deep thought for a long moment before an idea occurs to him]

Edrahil -- bring me my harp, if you please.

[the Steward nods in surprised approval]

 **Steward** :

Of course. You'll want it tuned in _Stars_ ', correct?

 **Finrod** :

Yes, thank you.

[checks]

No -- wait. There is one still more restful in its accords.  The tuning _Treelight_ , if you please.

[The Steward looks at him oddly]

 **Steward** :

It goes against all custom, sire.

 **Finrod** :

Custom appears to have been banished to the Void this day.  And none of us three shall be offended, unless you think it ill done in itself--?

 **Steward** :

Never, my lord.

[He exits, leaving Finrod beside Beren. They do not speak before the Steward returns with a small but exquisitely-elegant harp of wood inlaid with gold. Finrod plays a run of notes ascending and descending, and frowns.]

 **Finrod** :

It's a trifle flat.

[He retunes quickly. This is clearly a small ritual between them of longstanding custom; the Steward smiles a little despite his obvious worry. He begins to play, at first a rapid piece with much counterpoint and a rather martial air, only gradually slowing it down and introducing less abrupt changes of interval and harmony, until at last it is at a tempo and modality free of agitation and stress. (If you are fortunate enough to have a copy of _The Harper's Land_ by Ann Heyman and Alison Kinnaird you will have an inkling of what it should sound like. --For equestrians, it is similar to getting a nervous, jigging, high-strung beast down to a proper collected-yet-relaxed gait -- _not_ just throwing a switch from one to the other.) When the set is finished he continues to block out chords and let them ring in a low, continuous background. Beren has slipped farther to lie curled up on his side, eyes closed, on the floor.]

 **Steward** : [low voice]

Does he sleep?

 **Finrod** : [frowning]

I can't tell. But his pain no longer consumes his thought.

[looks up at the Steward. Hesitantly:]

You should not have bespoken him so harshly. My honor is not worth such zeal in defense.

 **Steward** : [bitterly]

I beg you, do not remind me. --We failed them, my King. Did we not?

 **Finrod** : [closing his eyes]

Yes.

 **Steward** :

They were betrayed. And _not_ by our neglect alone.

 **Finrod** :

You sensed that too?

 **Steward** :

He strove to conceal it, but the fact was too much for him. And yet there's no anger _there_ , either. --Only for the Enemy that caused it.

 **Finrod** :

Would we all had such wisdom.

[sighs]

I think -- I think we have just seen what happens when the Oath encounters a mortal soul.

 **Steward** :

Not a pleasant sight, indeed. As though not strong wine had mastered him, but almost as if he'd taken the flat of a blade, helmless.

 **Finrod** : [anxious look]

Edrahil, do you think it possible for words to _invoke_ _themselves_? For a Doom to call _itself_ down?

 **Steward** :

How so, my lord?

 **Finrod** :

I don't understand this at all, this business from start to end, coming _now_ and seemingly from nowhere. Why should Elwe -- Elu -- suddenly ask for a _Silmaril_ of all things? He's never even _seen_ them. And as far as I dare read, no one had been speaking of them to suggest it, not _Luthien_ certainly, not from his thoughts --

 **Steward** :

There is a not-incomprehensible association, perhaps -- in that the Silmarils are the most rare and precious of all things in existence, and the daughter of Melian and Thingol the most precious of all things to them, and hence the idea of one infinitely-valued and inaccessible treasure to be set as price for another?

 **Finrod** : [unconvinced]

Hm. --I still don't like it. If an impossible quest was what was needed, why not ask for Glaurung's tongue to prove him killed? No less inaccessible, and certainly more useful than a Silmaril.

 **Steward** :

My lord, you're the one with Vision; my talent is for overlooked-but-necessary details. Do _you_ think it possible for the Curse to waken itself again?

 **Finrod** :

I don't know. . . It tastes of Morgoth's will to me, though I can't see how he could directly influence any of it. I could spend a dozen years pondering the implications of this --

 **Steward** :

But we have not twelve years, my King -- nor even ten --

[breaks off]

 **Finrod** :

Speak your mind, friend.

 **Steward** :

It comes to me that these last ten years have been the most dearly bought of all _my_ life, at least, and that I should have spent them in better use.

 **Finrod** :

I know. --Where did they go, master of my Household? How shall we account for them? Two years of grim hornlocked contest, driven back hoof by hoof until the slip and rout of Minas Tirith, leaving the winner to bellow and tear across the North without bar; five years after of grateful respite, when our Enemy seemed content to hold what he'd taken without further onslaught, barring us in turn, testing us in small ways that did not cost us much, and we recovered from the Burning or so it seemed, so far as that could be. And then after it was done we learned of the trials of the far marches, and their silent fall, and we knew why we had had so much of peace -- "so much" I say, when it was in truth as an hour, was it not?

[The Steward nods]

An hour that slipped by unnoticed, and they were gone from this world. And I mourned them, as did you all, and reproached myself, and knew it vain, and set my mind to the safeguarding of the West, and the keeping of this City, and the inevitable clash that is to come -- and thought to honor them in this way. And then the strange news came, in the very days that war kindled anew against my kinsman, and I much distracted, of _one_ the Singers said the woods themselves sang of, and a name not yet dead under the stars, and I rejoiced with you, and before I did anything word came hard upon the first that he was gone, overwhelmed by an army of wolves and dark sorcery. And again I mourned, and thought the song of Beor was done --

[as he speaks he rings the lowest string of the harp, twelve times, and then once more]

until the hour that he came before me, famished, in rags, far past his strength -- asking _only_ because what had been demanded of him was beyond any mortal measure -- No sword, no spear or bolt I've ever taken has hurt a fraction as much -- not the Cold, not the sight of the fires in the East -- only that other Fire, and the fall of knowledge that my brothers were gone: for I knew then that Morgoth's lies were true, that we should spend their brief lives in lieu of our own, and think no more of it than of a faithful hound slain by wolf or boar --

 **Steward** : [anguished]

 _No_ , my King, _not so_ \--

 **Finrod** : [ignoring him]

\-- and Nienna witness for me, I knew the same terrible joy-in-sorrow as at the Fens of Serech, when the ox-horns sang out of the ash cloud and out of utter destruction came our redemption. What price for a King of the Eldar, then? More than a pretty trifle, a "thing made by craft," indeed? Time to find out --

 **Beren** : [with tremendous effort, not otherwise moving]

Gentles . . . I am not asleep . . .

 **Finrod** :

Your pardon, Beren.

 **Beren** :

If you'd prefer . . . I'll retire apart . . . my lords.

 **Finrod** :

I'm not leaving you alone. I have nothing to say which should be safeguarded from your hearing -- neither _of_ you, nor of any other. But if you need silence to rest we will converse in silence, though I think it rude to do so before mortals.

 **Beren** :

 _That_ doesn't matter -- I can rest in a hurricane.

[Slowly he pulls up onto his side and draws up his knees, locking his arms around and resting his head on them. He looks sick and more than a little dazed still.]

But you don't want me hearing -- _that_ \--

 **Finrod** : [coolly]

Do you presume to tell me my own will? If you had been truly asleep you would have heard and known it upon waking. If I had not wished you to hear, I would not have spoken. You are Edain, not Eldar, Beren: remember that there are many things you cannot understand.

 **Beren** :

Including what you said. I don't blame _you_ for not understanding what Time is to us, how could you? but what --

 **Finrod** : [breaking in]

\--Do you recollect the words of your kinsman Bereg?

 **Beren** : [stiffly]

We don't talk about him.

 **Finrod** :

Nevertheless, as with most of the lies of our Enemy, what was said in those days had not a little of truth in it. Not always the same, perhaps -- I trust I have taken more care than say, Caranthir, for _all_ of my subjects, not simply those my nearest kin -- but it might be argued that the Elf-friends have had precious little in return for their friendship to us.

 **Beren** : [dismissive]

That wasn't what I was asking about. I meant, what did you mean about the Oath trying to start all this? It's not _real_ , is it? It can't _do_ things, like a person? Unless you mean it was what started the War in Middle-earth in the first place, because what started _this_ was me getting stuck on the southern border and not being able to get around the cordon. Otherwise I'd have gone west to Brethil, obviously, not down into Doriath, and none of this would ever have happened -- You're not saying the _Silmarils_ are doing it somehow? _Are_ you?

 **Finrod** :

No. Not quite. What do you remember learning about the Night of Darkness, about the Jewels and Feanor, about the Doom?

 **Beren** :

Um. Huh. "--There was considerable disagreement as to what should be done next. Mistakes were made. People got hurt. --Here we are."

 **Finrod** : [covers eyes briefly]

Ah. --Was I _really_ that reticent?

 **Beren** : [trying very hard not to sound at all critical]

There was more, but I was pretty young and it didn't make a lot of sense to me then. My cousins and I couldn't get it. We figured it had to be something Elven, or maybe just Feanor -- the -- with the . . . the Kinslaying. We were just happy to play at being mythic heroes battling Morgoth and not worrying about the details. Now . . . being older and possibly wiser, I've seen enough of what stress does to ordinary people to realize that no, it's not that completely incomprehensible after all.

[pause]

And yeah, I think that probably a lot got left out, or maybe we just didn't bother remembering it, because now that I think about it it took longer for my uncle to recap the story of The Business With The Vaharions' Five Sheep, Or Was it Seven, And The Rights To The Salmon Pool In Northfell when he got back from sorting that all out, and that was probably a bit less complicated in reality than the history of the Noldor returning to Middle-earth.

 **Finrod** : [quietly]

\-- Probably.

 **Beren** :

But I still don't get it about the Silmarils. This place is _full_ of jewels. _Are_ they that different? What kind of magic spell is on them that makes people go crazy in their presence? Or even outside it, like you're telling me now? How are they different from the things I've seen here today?

 **Finrod** : [remembering, rapt]

They're like nothing on Arda -- quite literally. All that remains of the First Song is in them, the first calling of the world into the Void. They _sing_ , you know, like blossoms themselves, they're alive as the Trees from which they were taken, they inhabit the shells of Earth as the souls of Elves and Men inhabit our bodies, and they shine like all joy and all hope together. In a way -- and I know this sounds almost blasphemous -- but they were almost more wonderful than the Trees themselves, for being the work of hands, of a mere Elf, whose years are to the gods' not as the years of Men to ours, but as a butterfly's in the Song of the World. And they are _deadly_ \-- the Starqueen blessed them so that no heart given to evil may endure them, and any that dare to lay hands on them unrightfully will be burned by their light as with fire. --And yet Morgoth cannot lay them aside, though they torture him, for the glory of them, and the living delight of their song . . .

 **Beren** : [quiet -- in shock]

I didn't think _you_ wanted the Silmarils.

 **Finrod** : [matter-of-fact]

I don't. I never have. _\--What does that tell you_?

 **Beren** : [flatly]

That I should be more terrified than I already am, only I don't think I _can_ be.

 **Finrod** :

Don't be. It's counter-productive after a certain point. It doesn't change the odds any.

[pause]

But they have a power over mind and heart that cannot be measured -- they are so far beyond any other earthly thing that, next one of them, _this_

[touches the Nauglamir at his neck -- think if Lalique had worked at Amarna!]

would be no more than a strand of such pebbles as your forebears counted precious, bright and glittering but nothing of depth and light in them, no mystery to hold the spirit enraptured. For _them_ , one might consign the whole world else to Darkness everlasting, and keep them for one's self alone, without any thought to any other or care for any lesser thing. _One has_ \-- and, indeed, _two_. Who can say what mastery they might have, not in imagination but seen in their living selves?

 **Beren** : [sharply]

Tinuviel's not a _thing_.

 **Finrod** : [grave]

Neither are the Silmarils. --But _I_ have no doubt of you. I only warn you, for your own reckoning.

[laughs]

It may well be that all of our people failed at first because it was fated that your Kindred should take part in their redemption, and that ere this hour all other attempts were useless. It would be a strange thing, if it should fall to my hand, and yours, would it not?

 **Beren** : [whispering]

Sir . . .  why did _you_ come here?

 **Finrod** :

I think --

[stops]

No, I'll not burden you.

 **Beren** : [gently]

Isn't that what a liege's for?

 **Finrod** : [distant]

. . . I never wanted a domain, a name of glory and renown as my sister and our poor brothers, and our cousins did -- I sought only like our father to save what could be saved from the wreckage of that Night, to guard those who gave no thought to the future, and could not guard themselves. And I did that, and I did it well, as well as might be done, I think I may say without boasting. But who can say truly what he does, and whether his motives are unmixed? It would take a wiser heart than mine --

 **Beren** :

Will they remember what you did for them? When you return, will Nargothrond accept you again?

 **Finrod** : [easily]

Oh, we won't be coming back here. Orodreth can have it -- he'll do well enough. I couldn't bear it, and neither could they, if I returned to take up the crown, whether I sneered at them more scornfully than Feanor himself, or smiling forgave all.  But I'm done with cities, anyway. There are lands to the East you've never seen, lands beyond Gelion where the Singers travel, beautiful country of many rivers, and mountains beyond that. We don't need strongholds: we did without them before, we can do without them again. The nomad tribes manage well enough -- you yourself attest to that, needing no roof nor wall -- perhaps we will find the scattered ones and bring them together and create something new never before known upon Arda, a civilization without a city, mortal and Eldar together and making not the old mistakes, but a new music that has never been heard yet --

[Beren looks rather wide-eyed at this; the Steward enters with the King's armour in time to overhear this last and looks quietly horrified. Finrod notices -- penitently:]

\--I'm sorry, Edrahil. You must be so weary of my wanderings and wild fancies --

 **Steward** : [who is fully armed now save for gauntlets and helmet]

My lord, have I ever complained of them?

[answers self]

Indeed, yes, often. Do I miss the delights of the field or the allure of sleeping under the stars? Not away from them, no. Would I forgo the right to attend you in peace to any lesser member of your household? No more would I yield up my place at your right hand beneath your guerdon.

 **Finrod** :

It won't be like last time, my Herald. No fanfares, no glories, no brave ridings- forth this venture.

 **Steward** :

\-- Or ever again in Middle-earth, it seems. I know.

 **Finrod** : [with gentle regret]

How should I have managed without your good help, my friend?

 **Steward** : [dryly]

No doubt as I should have done had my comrades succeeded in persuading me to accompany them with the foremost, on the Ships -- that is to say, _ill_.

[An Age of shared battles, disasters, expeditions and simple day-in, day-out _work_ underlie the smile that follows between them. Regretfully:]

And now, unfortunately, it falls to me to make the perchance-unwelcome point that certain matters needs must be settled, and settled publicly, before we depart. It cannot be seen that there is any confusion in the chain of command, my king. While it is true that we undertake this errand on Lord Beren's behalf and at his behest, it is not and must not appear so that he leads, or that you obey him, rather than answer a vassal's just appeal for support. It were better he should swear you fealty before all, needless though you think it, than that your shield-band be troubled at heart.

[to Beren]

I ask your pardon for such chill words, milord.

 **Beren** : [unoffended]

No, you're right. Certainly there should be nothing left up in the air, we don't need any more trouble. Shall I swear now, before you?

 **Steward** : [shakes head]

Better that _all_ should witness, Heir of Beor.

 **Beren** :

All right.

[Finrod sighs.]

 **Steward** :

Will you arm, sire?

 **Finrod** : [quietly]

\--In a little. I need _rest_ , and it will not take long to ready with your help.

[He begins to play again, not just tonalities, but very quietly, eyes closed, leaning his cheek against the soundbox of the harp. Softly and without disturbing his playing, the Steward kneels behind him and removes the Nauglamir. When he returns from placing it in its casket, he begins to braid back the King's hair -- evidently it isn't Elvish custom to just rip out any bits that catch in the links if it's gotten long enough to snag in one's mail. Beren watches from the hearth, forlornly, remembering when he too had people to look after, and to help him.]

[Little by little the tempo of the music increases, Working in reverse this time, not to agitation and haste but to a steady driving pulse like the sea at incoming tide, as the King begins to recover. More and more themes enter and are brought into harmony despite the complexity. Beren starts, as though almost recognizing what he hears, and begins to actively follow the melodies, alertness starting to replace his mindblasted expression.]

[Very quietly -- or at least as quietly as is possible for a Hound larger than most ponies -- Huan slinks in along the edge of the door and around the wall to Beren's side, dropping down on the floor next him. Head on paws, he too listens to the King's music. Just as it seems that there can be no addition to the richness of it, Finrod straightens and begins his Song:

 **Finrod** :

Sing ye stars and storms of the heavens, sing ye beasts of earth and sea, sing ye eagles of the air, and all growing things! 

I will sing at my rising and at my going forth and at my returning

[The other nine return, singly or by twos, during this time, to set their packs down and sit beside them on the floor, listening in silence]

Sing all works of hands, all arts of the mind sing all things shaped and shining sing every craft of deed and voice --

I will sing at my rising and at my going forth and at my returning

[Beren joins in, hesitantly at first, on the last two verses -- much to the amazement of the others, both that he knows the song and that his voice is so good.]

With the mountains and the great seas, the deeps of the forest and the deeps of the earth and the unfathomable deeps of the sky --

I will sing at my rising and at my going forth and at my returning:

    I will ever sing the Secret Fire, the Light Beyond, the Flame Unburning for all my days.

[by the last stanza all have joined the chorus, impelled by example. When the final chord has almost died away the King stops it and sets aside the harp.]

 **Finrod** :

My friends, my faithful ones -- I ask your forgiveness for rash words spoken this day in your presence. I did ill to shame you before you had a chance to speak your choice. I would not have anyone come with us who comes out of shame and not in freedom -- if anyone here has been compelled thus, be free to go, with all my blessing and thanks for your many years of service and hardship, from Helcaraxe to the Siege of Angband.

[No one moves. Finrod looks away for a moment, overcome]

I too was impelled to go on a quest as well you know, both you who came and you who joined us hereafter. It may well be, as it now seems likely, that my destiny is to wrest from Morgoth the Light he stole and return it to the world once more -- and ever has been so, and for that reason I was driven across the Sea not wholly of mine own desiring, though of my own will indeed.  It may be. At any rate, we resume at long last what we came here to do, and perhaps through the strange workings of Doom we will accomplish what all our agelong warfare has not done, in secrecy and seeming folly. There are no guarantees -- but I need not tell any who stood upon the fields of Ard-galen so!

[he smiles wryly, stands and crosses to the room's center, where he picks up Dagmor]

We are joined in this endeavor by one far from unknown to you, either in his person or his race, The Beoring, who makes now his own personal deed of faith to lay beside yours. Beren?

[Beren rises and comes over to kneel at his feet. He is tracking better and appears in complete control now, but there should still be a slightly concussed shading to his movements and expressions, as compared to his normal mode.]

Beren, son of Barahir, son of Bregor, in direct line of Balan known as Beor, will you exchange faith with me, acclaiming me as your King, to serve with truth in word and deed for so long as you shall live, accepting this sword of my hand in mark of my faith in you, to wield only against the Darkness beneath the light of moon and sun and stars?

 **Beren** :

For so long as I live, my King --

[Finrod places the blade across his outstretched hands and sets his right hand on Beren's head in acknowledgment briefly. As Beren rises the others come to take his place, the Captain foremost, and kneel before the King]

 **Finrod** :

What's this? It has been long, since _you_ swore me fealty --

[looking at the youngest Ranger]

and not long at all, since _you_ gave me your faith -- you cannot think I have any doubt or need at this hour . . . ?

 **Captain** :

Doubt, no -- yet perhaps _need_ no less --

[He offers up his blade to the King, who shakes his head, but takes each warrior's oath in turn, after which each goes to stand beside Beren. Finrod, not trying to conceal his tears at their gesture, nonetheless raises an eyebrow when the Steward kneels at the last.]

 **Steward** : [smiles]

Shall _I_ ask, then, what I refuse myself?

[receiving his sword back from Finrod, sheaths it and rises. As Finrod waves his two chief lords to the map table, the Steward takes up the King's mail-coat and arming doublet and proceeds to help him out of his silken over-robes and into his battledress while they speak. There should be no awkwardness: after more than 400 years of war this isn't something that requires much effort or thought.]

 **Finrod** :

 _Those_ are the only two realistic options that I see -- but give me your opinions. Scaling Ered Gorgoroth is out of the question, and it would be folly to go all the way round East through milords' brothers' lands, even had we the resources for it. Either we must go as we planned originally, with stealth rather than speed, and quietly, along Sirion and up through the Fens -- or else work farther to the West up through the mountains and down into Angband from the Hithlum side. Your thoughts?

 **Steward** :

I agree that East is ruled out no less than Northeast, but to cross the Ered Wethrin twice in going _and_ returning is suicide, in my judgment. --Stand straight, the shoulderline's still twisted.

 **Captain** :

Winter approaches, Sire, and it is ill to be caught in the mountains then, even for us. I know The Beoring has endured it, but I think it a grave risk to compound what will not be an easy business.

 **Finrod** : [troubled]

I would say that our best chance should be to traverse this path, along the river valley, through the forest screen and stay out of the line-of-sight of Tol Sirion for as long as possible. We know that territory well, our Power should defend us against its Darkness and if on the return we were forced to take the mountains to Mithrim, and thence to the waterways, still the worst of the effort would be behind us. But there is Barahirion to consider in that, too -- can I in conscience take him so nigh Delduath?

 **Captain** :

The Lord of Dorthonion can pass its shadow unscathed, my lord.

 **Finrod** :

But he's --

 **Steward** : [kneeling to buckle on the King's greaves]

\--mortal. I know. But so he says, and I believe him. And surely with your Working it would be safer still for him.

 **Finrod** : [looking over his shoulder]

Beren? Is that true? That you can venture Tar-na-Fuin in safety?

[Beren is sitting on the floor with the others, gently stroking Huan's ears and feeding the Hound the last of his scavenged bread.]

 **Beren** : [vaguely]

What? --Yes. For a while at least. At least a year ago I still could.

 **Finrod** : [concerned]

Beren! You are not yet armed! Prepare yourself -- we have little time, we _cannot_ spend another night beneath these stones. Shall I assist you, friend?

 **Beren** :

No -- no, I -- I'll do it right now.

[scrambles up]

Where's my stuff?

 **Steward** :

In the next chamber, on the press -- some of it seemed beyond not only repair but usefulness, and I made bold to supply alternatives, but presumed to discard nothing -- it's all there for you to decide of.

 **Beren** :

Thank you.

[As he goes towards the inner door the King's Guard and the young Ranger intercept him.]

 **Ranger** :

My lord, we do not wish to insult your competence, but if you would have aid in donning your gear and mail, we stand ready to your help.

 **Beren** :

I'd not presume --

 **Guard** :

Sir, it were our privilege to serve you.

b>Beren:

I --

[in the background]

 **Finrod** :

. . . perimeter, and I'll join you in short order.

 **Steward** :

Farewells, lord?

 **Finrod** : [shaking head]

Checking the wards.

 **Beren** : [gives up the useless pride]

\-- would be honored and grateful for the help.

[As they enter the other room:]

How do you make the metal not shine? Magic?

 **Ranger** : [confused]

No, my lord, just -- a Noldorin Working.

 **Guard** :

One persuades it not to reflect but absorb and to refract, so that the light is not cast out but held within, and such as escapes is scattered dimly, and doesn't give off flashes.

[Obviously this is perfectly reasonable and unmysterious to them]

 **Beren: [shrugging** ]

\--Ah. Right.

 **Gower** :

\- Nargothrond, now kingless,   
waits like the calm of birds before the storm:   
not daring to make merry yet, for shame,   
yet fearing to speak of things to come   
lest Truth should happen to force Thought,   
Words breed Deeds, Will become Act.   
Preparations, hasty and diminished,   
with courage to fill what's lacked   
of force of men and of materiel,   
now come to their quick fruition;   
plans made with confidence of weal   
now yield to need's tuition.   
The several Dooms,   
spun from the earliest hours of time,   
now spiral to a single thread,   
crime mounteth upon crime --   
the Hidden Realm, faithlessly entrusting   
its faith to the faithless, lies bereft.   
Good-byes, private and most painful,   
have been said.  Now all that's left   
is the leaving --   
  

 

 

[Note: everything is very hushed and dim; the scene is almost without words.]

[At the gates of Nargothrond.  Ten warriors wait around the entrance, some standing, some crouching, keeping watch both inwards and outwards to the gray autumnal woods. They are equipped in dark battle-dress and heavily armed. The number does not include the Steward, and does include Beren, seated against one of the two giant stone posts that supports the lintel, head resting on his forearms. He is wearing his own old gear, with some of the worst-tattered bits replaced in the same Elven winter camo that his companions display. They do not speak, though some of them sharpen swords and knives. It is almost sunset, but under a sky that is too overcast for more than a hint of gold to indicate where She is.]

[A disturbance within the vestibule: the King appears, striding along. Orodreth to his right is talking and attempting to get him to answer, affirm, or at least make some ameliorating noise -- but in vain.  Finrod takes his helmet from the Steward at his left and buckles it on, ignoring his brother. In their wake Finduilas tags along accompanied by Gwindor for moral support, and followed by Huan: all three appear extremely worried. Orodreth tries again to gain acknowledgment, then gives up. Now that his brother is no longer talking, Finrod turns and embraces him quickly, putting a hand to his mouth when he tries to start apologizing again -- _Not_ _now_. The waiting soldiers rise and form ranks, Beren with them. He looks deathly ill; the Captain pats his shoulder reassuringly.]

[Finrod slings on the pack that is waiting for him there. Finduilas rushes up to him and clutches his arm; reluctantly he accepts her tearful embrace and finally returns his niece's hug. She is completely devastated -- looks apologetically at Beren but he does not see her at all, staring right through everything and everyone around him. Gwindor looks thoroughly wretched and ashamed. The King goes to each gatepost and presses his hands against them in a final warding, then begins a last- minute inspection of everyone's gear.]

 **Captain** : [aside to the Steward]

\--How does our lord?

 **Steward** :

How do you think?  --But he will not show it before _them_.

[He glances aside to within the shadow of the entrance, where Elvensight might decry some one -- or ones -- standing hidden from Mortal view.]

 **Captain** :

When we return they'll laugh the other sides of their faces -- and without teeth, so help me Tulkas!

 **Steward** :

\-- _When_.

[He smiles bitterly]

 **Captain** :

You do not think we will return?

 **Steward** :

I do not.

 **Captain** : [harshly]

Have you Seen it, then?

 **Steward** :

I have not. --But it is nearing Winter. And a plan that was dangerous when conceived with three wings of cavalry is now to be undertaken by _twelve_. --Even if one of said twelve is The Beoring.

 **Captain** : [snorts]

Well. For _my_ part, I place my trust in the King.

 **Steward** : [taking no umbrage]

As do I. But I do not think that I, at least, will ever come to Nargothrond again. Whether the King carries on with his mad plan to start elsewhere anew -- or not.

[calm, ignoring the other's worried look:]

It does not matter. He will not need a herald in this venture or banner-bearer to go before him this time; but sword and shield he still has call for, and he may set mine wherever need requires.

[Before the Captain can respond, the King finishes up inspecting the rest of the company and turns to his Commanders.  They exchange looks. Finrod sets a gauntleted hand on Beren's shoulder and holds him with a worried stare until he snaps out of his trance. They begin to cross the terraces, ignoring the sentries posted around the gates, who likewise affect not to see them.]

[Huan begins to bay in that sudden, heart-jolting, rip-all-your-nerves-out-of- their-sockets way that guard dogs have, only this is not Death-to-trespassers! but the miserable Please-please-don't-abandon-me! bark instead.  Beren drops out, hurries back and attempts to comfort him, patting his head and letting the Hound lean on him for a few moments.  Then he turns again without a second look back and double-times it to catch up with the others. In the twilight and muffled in cloak and armor, it isn't obvious that one of the twelve companions is not Eldar.]

[They pick their way North along the river and file out past the hidden sentries and guardposts without exchange.  Very shortly they are lost to sight in distance and darkness. Slowly, as though going to meet a grim fate, instead of to rejoin the world of light and society, the kin of Felagund return indoors, drifting back like ghosts. Huan alone remains, looking forlornly out the great gates into the rising mist.]

 


	11. Act II Notes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Notes for act II

This section gave me a double problem to resolve throughout.

Typically in fairy tales, fantasy and science fiction, there is a viewpoint character to reveal the tale's Wonders to us, the Ordinary Fellow, who witnesses them vicariously and reacts to them as we would. (C.S Lewis also addresses this at length in an essay on sf which has lots of fascinating revelations about the different kinds of speculative fiction and how they work.) And ordinarily, this is how a story of a mortal hero wandering into the Land Beneath The Hills would work — how most folk tales work, indeed, whether he be prince or a weary soldier returned from the wars, or the youngest son of a poor widow — or she be the merchant's youngest daughter, indeed!

But — Beren is anything but an ordinary guy by this time — not that he ever was, being "being born in charmed hour" under a great Doom to a house of Elf-friends and extraordinarily motivated (not to say driven) and duty-bound people devoted to Powers they'd never met. So his reactions are not going to be the same as someone from a developed nation who's never spent years being hunted through the woods with a price on his head, four of them entirely apart from human companionship, let alone been chosen as the True Love of the immortal daughter of a demigoddess — which brings me to the singular irony of the Elven realms.

Namely, that they are far closer to our age, and our developed world, than anything Beren would have known even in peacetime. For the lifestyle in peace of the Men of Beleriand is only a little removed (if at all) from the pioneer experience, which people tend to forget when they think "Middle-earth = Medieval" — [Kate Elliott](http://kateelliott.livejounral.com) in her [Crown of Stars](http://www.amazon.com/Kings-Dragon-Crown-Stars-Vol/dp/0886777712) series is the only contemporary author I know of who seems to be aware that Europe even as late as around 1000 years ago was essentially a jungle, mostly covered with dense old-growth forest full of wild animals through which, and around which, people cut clearings and eked out a living and fought to tame. Hence in the Exeter Book the Anglo-Saxon riddle about the plough calls Men "the wood's old foe" bringing axes and fire to the forest.

After five generations of settlement, the Northlands would be somewhat tamed, but still rather in the mode of the old Highlands, or the hill-and-forest-clearing fields of New England before the rise of the mills and mass transport. No shopping malls, no mass-production — and not even great Fairs, like in the high Middle Ages, because no walled cities and roads to carry goods on. Small farms, small communities like those of the Viking sagas, mostly independent, not tightly organized nor "feudal" in the image we tend to have from movies. And this is a dangerous way to live when being invaded, as the ordeal of the Haladin earlier in _Silm._ portrays, but it is the way that independent and self-motivated types have historically chosen to live.

Thus, the Nargothrond sequence, with its centralized government, organized services, modern conveniences and assumptions of what a proper lifestyle entails, is in a real sense _us_ — magic indistinguishable from technology and vice-versa, if sufficiently advanced — revealing another world and lifestyle to our sensibilities in their reaction to Beren.

I've made the dialogue of Nargothrond more formal and archaic, slightly, than that of Doriath, as a consideration of their more sophisticated historical background and more unified culture. Again, see the ROTK Appendices for a detailed discussion of the employment of different modes and dialects to convey meaning in Tolkien's own words.

 

Scene I

 

We are told that Beren was received with great courtesy (despite the fact that he looked like a bum) as he was arrested on his careful and public entry into Nargothrond. Given that for five generations previously his family had not only sent troops to the Leaguer but sent squires to Nargothrond of whom some remained there like Bëor, who gave over the headship of his tribe and ended his days in service to the King, I imagine that there would be considerable deja vu among the native Nargothronders (though not necessarily for the recent influx of Feanorian partisans) and most especially among surviving veterans of the Leaguer, on encountering Beren.

[Scene II](https://rustbucket.net/leithian/leithian_script_2.html)

This scene is indeed my own, but should not be seen as contrary to Canon but simply gapfilling: how in detail might Beren's welcome and arrival play out, how would Nargothrond react, what political and personal complications are already existing there and what might they look like? Obviously, _something_ had to happen during all those hours; I'm just taking a stab at, possibly, _what_. Could any or all of the other characters present in the City have encountered Beren? Sure! What would their likely reactions and interactions have been, given what we know of their personalities? relationships? —That's all.

Oh, and it provides a useful way of indicating just how much _unlike_ your typical fantasy hero Beren is, which is something [else] that tends to get lost in the usual summaries and renderings of the tale. Not only is he _not_ just some random warrior, which I emphasize by the use of his title in formal exchanges; — Conan "Dark Lord killed my family? Constant fighting? Giant spiders? Piffle!" the Barbarian he ain't. (No more than he is "Bond —Whoops, did I lose another girlfriend there? — _James_ Bond".) Even before he leaves Dorthonion one step ahead of the death squads, he is already practically the poster child for PTSD. He isn't even your modern typical commando dude who can count on being extracted from enemy territory and taken home to first-world luxury and safety at mission's end. He doesn't even have the support structure of a Rebel Alliance to give some assistance and comfort while being hunted from system to system. It's hardly surprising that he is described while in Doriath as being

—"as wild and wary as a faun  
that sudden wakes at rustling dawn,  
and flits from shade to shade, and flees  
the brightness of the sun, yet sees  
all stealthy movements in the wood"—

even when no one is actually out to get him.

And things just keep getting worse…

 

 

_manchets_ : round loaves of white bread; _subtleties_ : pastries, desserts (often in decorative shapes); _viands_ : meats (by derivation main dishes).

 

 

_wolf_ , _wolf's head_ are traditional Old English terms for _outlaw_.

 

 

Indis: Feanor's stepmother, Finrod's grandmother and Curufin & Celegorm's step-grandmother — a  _Silm._ reference to the line "the sons of Indis" from the Morgoth-sponsored rivalry between the sons of Finwe.

 

 

Before forks became popular, everyone did bring their own knives to the dinner table.

 

 

Being a vegetarian in a pre-industrial war zone would have been a lot of work, and indicate a tremendous amount of stubborness and ingenuity as well as idealism. This is, by the way, straight canon from _Silm._ and amplified in Lays, where it's made clear that before his companions were wiped out he was a hunter of great renown (and thus, one assumes, bore tremendous responsibility for helping to provide for his people which would increase as farms and communities were destroyed by the war.)

 

 

It is remarked in _Letters_ that Elven illusion would have been used for amusement and as art.

 

 

"familiar": either during the course of the Leaguer or in the aftermath of the Dagor Bragollach when in the confused days following the Lords of Aglon-and-Himlad attached themselves to Finrod's party, it seems likely to me that they would have inevitably run into some of the Beorings helping to run the siege.

 

 

_Tengwar_ was the Quenya alphabet; _cirth_ the runes invented long ago by Daeron, Beren's rival for Luthien's affections.

 

 

Thanks are due to Finch for reminding me that Finduilas' lost lover who returns with Turin to Nargothrond is defined in _Silm._ as the lord of Nargothrond whose brother was lost in the Dagor Bragollach and proven to have been a POW as he is brutally slaughtered in front of the armies of Maedhros' alliance, to provoke them into premature and reckless attack. (In the earlier LCH this is not the case, though the story is still tragic enough.)  This required reworking of the scene and of the subsequent Act III, but allowed for more irony and angst in referring of course to the future tragedies of the Nirnaeth Arnoediad and fall of Nargothrond. It also made for some interesting dramatic possibilities given that a new significance is lent to Gwindor's statement that Turin is no Beren — no longer an abstract remark but a personal comparison by someone who knew them both.

Thanks to NovusSibyl for taking part in clarifying discussions on the question of whether or not the battlefield survivors would have had any awareness that Gelmir was a POW, which is usually assumed by readers but not warranted in my opinion either by canon or by Primary World accounts of the experiences of war…

 

Scene III

 

"Fair were the words of Narog's king  
to Beren, and his wandering  
and all his feuds and bitter wars  
recounted soon. Behind closed doors  
they sat, while Beren told his tale  
of Doriath; and words him fail  
recalling Luthien dancing fair  
with wild white roses in her hair,  
remembering her elven voice that rung  
while stars in twilight round her hung.  
He spake of Thingol's marvellous halls  
by enchantment lit, where fountain falls  
and ever the nightingale doth sing  
to Melian and to her king.  
The quest he told that Thingol laid  
in scorn on him; how for love of maid  
more fair than ever was born to Men,  
of Tinuviel, of Luthien,  
he must essay the burning waste,  
and doubtless death and torment taste."

I have endeavored to do justice here not only to the texts but to the whole backstory that leads to this meeting and exchange "behind closed doors."

 

 

_main-wrought_ : "hand-made," with overtones of "cobbled together" and "brute force"; my own coinage. —Hey, if Shakespeare could do it…

 

 

Huan: I've taken the artistic liberty of introducing Huan to this scene, as to the previous, for several reasons. It's never stated that he _wasn't_ present, after all, so this isn't a contradiction of Canon. But it is stated several times in LL1 that Huan is a friend of the King, and given Huan's attraction to people of good alignment and his independent behavior, throughout the story, it's plausible to me that he would have wanted to hang out with them. (It's also plausible to me given my experience with ordinary mortal dogs, who make friends without their owner's permission.) There's another reason for making Huan present now, but I'll cover that when we get there.

 

 

_Emeldir_ : Here indeed I build much upon little — but the foundation is, I believe, secure. We are told in _Silm._ that, as referred to in Act I, Emeldir was a warrior, called "the Manhearted" by her neighbors, who led a final group of refugees to safer lands ahead of the invading forces of Angband. And who would rather have stayed to die with her husband and son, but didn't. While working on an idea for a sketch of her, I realized that I had simply assumed she had the usual Edain coloring of the Third Age, but I really didn't know: the personal appearance of any of the Beorings in particular is not a relevant plot point in the story, (except for the parts about Beren looking a wreck after too many adventures, and that still, he too is "fair" — at least in Luthien's eyes.)

Researching this I discovered that not only was that assumption incorrect, so too the assumption of similiar coloration for her son. According to notes in HOME, though Emeldir was born in Dorthonion, of the tribe of Beor, her mother was of the ruling house of Marach, and her father was also of matrilineal Hador descent. (Stories there, for anyone who wants to explore First Age peacetime life, the journeys and meetings and daily experiences of the Edain…) So Emeldir is blond like her great-nephew Tuor, and her son inherits lighter brown hair and is taller than Barahir his father, and we can gather that she too is both tall and robust, very likely taller than her husband. And an extremely good fighter, given that she successfully got a party of women and children through two sets mountains full of Orcs to safety in her ancestral homeland.

There are a few other elements upon which I draw: first of all, that Beren is not Turin. Granted, there are many ways in which one could _not_ be like Turin, but taken into combination with what we _do_ know of Beren's character, this makes it easy to shade in the portrait — in any given circumstance, not dealt with in the extant texts, a good many responses can instantly be ruled out this way? i.e., "How would Turin react? Ok, _that_ wouldn't happen here, then." Nor, despite his long years as a solitary rebel warrior, does he become a psychopath like Turin's outlaws. This says two things to me: very strong moral fibre, and a very good upbringing.

And so I can't help but see Emeldir of Dorthonion as someone highly principled, absolutely uncompromising when it comes to demanding the best from herself and everyone around her, considered a bit eccentric in peacetime but not concerned with people's opinions of her (only whether they're deserved or not), willing to give her all and sacrifice her own wishes to duty, and — when the menfolk are off at the War — the Lord as well as Lady of the place, just as in medieval and frontier times. And, equally naturally, her son's first teacher and example during those those years. Was she a good and loving person as well as a brave, strong, and dutiful one? Just look at how her son turned out…

And the relationship between his parents?

Well, Beren is neither threatened by, nor resentful of, a woman stronger than he. (Absolutely terrified that she'll end up like Eilinel as a result of her association with him, but that's only natural.) And _that_ says more to me than almost anything else…

 

 

"my uncle": One other thing I wanted to convey here is a fact that isn't obvious if you merely read the chapter "Of Beren & Luthien" in _Silmarillion_ and don't go back and read the rest of it, in particular about the Dagor Bragollach, to see where they're all coming from. And that is — Beren is _not_ the ordinary "heir to the realm" of Dorthonion. Yes, he was born into the ruling house, yes, given the uncertainties of life it was always a possibility — but he was merely the Lord's nephew, the son of the younger brother of the head of the family who already had two living older sons of his own. (In fact, had Barahir died otherwise, and the rest of the band still survived — or if the war had not overwhelmed Dorthonion in the first place — based on authentic medieval precedents, it's anyone's guess whether Beren or one of his cousins would have been acclaimed chief of the tribe.) No automatic assumption of inherited privilege at all — not that there would have been, really, anything like what we tend to think of as "aristocracy" for the Beorings in any case. He inherited a duty, without any perks whatsoever by the time he got it, simply by default. And tried to fulfill it, singlehanded, for as long as he possibly could, until it was made irrelevant by forces outside his control.

It's even more interesting that his uncle Bregolas died alongside Finrod's brothers in the fighting — Angrod and Aegnor had been the lords of Dorthonion as vassals of their brother the King before the land was given to the Beorings, who took the defense over from them, and with whom they still defended the frontier of that country. The connections and parallels are more complex and deeply woven than at first sight…

 

 

"two noble kinsman": an ObRef to [a play cowritten by Shakespeare and John Fletcher](http://www.google.com/), based on the tale found in Chaucer's [Knight's Tale,](http://www.luminarium.org/medlit/knight.htm) a classics-inspired story of rivalry and broken faith and a battle for the hand of a lady…

 

 

Elwe/Elu: Who does, and who doesn't, bother to use the modernized version of Thingol's name, is not random. People from Aman will know of him first as Elwe, people born in latter days won't even know there was another way of pronouncing it necessarily, and the Sons of Feanor aren't going to give him even symbolic deference _in absentia._

 

 

Caranthir: perhaps I read too much ancient history and political intrigue, but I can't escape the conclusion that for some reason, the Haladin found their rescuer even more scary, and the thought of his active involvement in their lives a worse prospect, than Orcs. One doesn't become refugees for no good reason, particularly just after having fought a hard war. Add that to the chroniclers' asides as to Caranthir's insolence, arrogance, hideous temper, and later actions — and it adds up, for me, to a picture of someone charismatic, dynamic, charming, and violent, whom you don't ever, ever want to tangle with if you have any sense… He is after all a Son of Feanor too.

 

 

Haleth: It's been at least three generations since the legendary Chieftain of the Haladin led her people to a new homeland in the western forests, and for most of us, fifty years ago is — a long time. A hundred years ago is a long time. A hundred-fifty years ago is a long time…two hundred a really long time… Intellectually we may even know that, realize that compared to say "geological time", it's nothing, but on a basic personal level — it's _all_ "a long time ago." Even for those of us who really know history and study family lore, there's a certain cognitive dissonance involved in keeping the relative scale _present_. I do think that this would be the case for Beren, who never even had the opportunity to achieve the level of accustomed familiarity that his older relatives had with Elvenkind in the Leaguer — and that it would trouble Finrod, divided as in Canon between loyalty and prudential considerations.

 

 

Luthien older than Finarfin's children: Thanks to Finch for supplying this fact, which, though not appearing to make a whole lot of difference, affects a lot of things when the implications are drawn out.

 

 

_Burning Brier_ , _Sickle_ : the Seven Stars of the constellation we the Great Bear or the Big Dipper, or of old in England, Charles' Wain — a sacred symbol to the Elves, who called it the Valacirca, the Sickle of Elbereth which she placed in warning and challenge to Morgoth in the northern sky, and to the Edain as well, who named it additionally the Burning Brier, which evokes the idea of a thorn-hedge/spear-wall of defense against Anband. It's particularly meaningful to Beren, according to the Texts…

 

 

the ring of Finarfin: this is the second time I discovered I had in fact correctly intuited The Professor's intentions, which is a bit disconcerting. Any time you take something past a sketch or an outline you have to make all kinds of nitpicky decisions, from stage direction to set design — and hence consider the text and implications in far more careful detail than, say, for an essay test. One thing I found myself wondering was — when and why did Finrod give back the ring to Barahir's son? Since it has to remain in the family for the later descendents in Numenor to bring it back to Middle-earth, so that it becomes the signet of the Kings of Gondor.

Because — for me, at least — implicit in the notion of a pledge is the fact of the exchange: the token is given the first time as the visible sign of the vow, and then returned in the claiming of it. So although it's nowhere explicitly stated that Beren gave the King back his ring, it's still there, unless contradicted. And lo and behold! in LB there is, it turns out, a marginal note in one of the manuscripts that at some point Finrod should give the ring back to Beren. —Disconcerting, but also a bit of a morale-lifter for a scriptwriter. Obviously it's my call here, but I think (hope) not implausible.

 

 

"vassal": this exchange isn't just here to clarify something that tends to be obscure to modern readers, especially fellow Yanks — there's a critical plot point going on here that gets borne out later, namely — when, why, and under what circumstances is it not only permissble but required to "betray" one's alliegiances, and is it even properly treason at that point? What legitimate mechanisms exist, morally speaking, to permit transfer or withdrawal of loyalties? So that one is not simply obligated to follow orders, however ethically unsupportable they may be, nor even permitted to "stand idly by and see injustice done"?

Because Huan can't simply leave Celegorm and follow Luthien because she's "the damsel in distress," nor help her and Beren against his lord because they're cooler people than the Sons of Feanor. He has too much character and integrity for that — nor, in fact, does he. It takes him a while to decide, remember?

This is the problem of _Antigone_ , by-the-by, which is answered pretty definitely in the same way by Aeschylus: Justice and the general moral imperatives trump all earthly laws, and political obligations. Of course Huan's situation is even more complicated in that he's already disobeyed one divine mandate as less binding than an earlier one: by taking part in the flight of the Noldor, but given to Celegorm as liege-dog by Orome. Huan is a very angsty character, and the complicated development of the plot outline involving his decisions in the versions and notes to the story is well-worth considering. But more on this in Act III.

 

Scene IV

 

Here's where I really get going with the compare-contrast-equate business of Elven-Mortal/Modern-Archaic cultural assumptions. Again, I don't consider this counter-Canonical, simply interstitial — not that I ever consider anything of my supposing to be Canonical in the sense of reflecting The Professor's intentions (unless some obscure note discovered proves it so) but simply that I try to make things _plausible_ as I render them in more detail — what happens in the "meanwhiles" and "elsewheres," is all.

The overwhelming material prosperity and high standard of living of Nargothrond is one thing I wish to convey, but another, which is in fact more significant even, is the difference between even our Age and society, and Elvendom — that is, the relative time-scales and the inability to get past them. (And yet — we tend to be rather isolated, don't we, both on a personal and national basis, the concerns of our own lives overriding the sense of what is happening elsewhere, until it comes home to us somehow…)

The fact that the last remaining companions of Beren in Dorthonion and the ten warriors of Nargothrond who accompanied Finrod into exile were all at the Fen of Serech is Canon. I've simply drawn out and made plain what is only implicit in the originals, yet perhaps all the more powerful for its subliminality: the realization of the parallels buried throughout — but only scarcely covered! — _Silmarillion_ and HOME has been one of the unfolding delights of venturing into the regions I once thought of as arid background material…

Another is that the Fall of Nargothrond _dates from this point_ — it takes a while for the collapse to become total, but the foundations are blasted in this time. And why not? It isn't just that Orodreth is not as good a ruler as his brother. The combined forces of expiation and revenge and the fact that morale and leadership have been repeatedly shaken are powerful factors in the actions of the Nargothronders at the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, and afterwards. Turin's coming is like the echo that starts the avalanche — but the careless climber didn't cause that buildup of thousands of tons of snowpack up above.

What about the gap left by the loss of those who went with the King? This is surely no small factor either. They would not have been _nonentities_ , random losers whose absence would make no difference to the life of the City, to be able alone of all the realm to disregard the danger, the Oath, and the overwhelming popular opinion against them — though not all, necessarily, of high political rank or standing (no more than a certain gardener in another Age) and thus I have taken the artistic liberty of sketching roles for the Ten, "who had ever fought/wherever his banners had been brought", and whose names, unlike those of the Beorings, are not given, save one. This is not an accident, though what it says about Arda may be a little disconcerting: the _Silmarillion_ is the _Elven_ history of Middle-earth. — _They know who they are_.

 

 

"short enough": unlike Turin or Tuor, Beren is never once described as "tall" in any of the texts that I can remember. He is described in a note in HOME as taller than the norm for the Beorings, again an inheritance from his mother's Hador side with his lighter hair, but the fact that the other legendary heroes are as tall or taller than most Elves being so frequently mentioned leads me to think that Beren wasn't. Also, though this is not conclusive without a security tape of the event, the way the incident with Curufin trying to shoot Luthien plays out leads me to this as well — the angles could have been so as to contradict this, but with Curufin shooting to kill, I assume he's aiming for her heart, and when Beren jumps in front of her to take the arrow, he gets it in the shoulder. —Just another for the visual image of someone Totally Unsuitable For Her…

 

 

"summon _kings_ ": ObRef to the fact that Celebrimbor was vitally instrumental in the making of the Rings of Power, so important in the Third Age. —Sorry, I couldn't resist this one.

 

 

"cavalry": the Valinorean horses were brought over by Feanor's partisans in the stolen ships, and after the rescue of Maedhros and the reconciliation between the branches of the family, Maedhros ceded up a large number of their herd along with the overlordship of the Noldor to Fingolfin. 

 

 

"Amrod-and-Amras": this is a reference to an obscure latter development in HOME where it's chronicled that Amras, the youngest of Feanor's sons, was lonely for Valinor and spent the night that they landed before marching on aboard one of the ships. Feanor decided to burn them lest any think of turning back, and forgot to do a head-count first. Yet in _Silm._ it is said that the twins stayed together in Middle-earth and ruled jointly over their region, and were finally killed in the same battle. Which story is true? Well, in a world that has Balrogs and Barrow-wights and the Grey Company, it doesn't have to be an "either/or" question… This also makes use of various HOME remarks on the possibility and effects of possession in Arda. I don't know that Beren's cousins were twins, too, but given that they do run in families and the sons of Elrond being twins, it's not a random interpolation.

 

 

The Legend of Beren the Outlaw, stated to have spread even into Elven lands:

"Danger he sought and death pursued  
and thus escaped the doom he wooed,  
and deeds of breathless daring wrought  
alone, of which the rumor brought  
new hope to many a broken man.  
They whispered 'Beren', and began  
in secret swords to whet, and soft  
by shrouded hearths at evening oft  
songs they would sing of Beren's bow,  
of Dagmor his sword: how he would go  
silent to camps and slay the chief,  
or trapped in his hiding past belief  
would slip away, and under night  
by mist or moon, or by the light  
of open day would come again.

Of hunters hunted, slayers slain  
they sang, of Gorgol the Butcher hewn,  
of ambush in Ladros, fire in Drûn,  
of thirty in one battle dead,  
of wolves that yelped like curs and fled,  
yea, Sauron himself with wound in hand.  
Thus one alone filled all that land  
with fear and death for Morgoth's folk;  
his comrades were the beech and oak  
who failed him not, and wary things  
with fur and fell and feathered wings  
that silent wander, or dwell alone  
in hill and wild and waste of stone  
watched o'er his ways, his faithful friends."

LL2: The legends and ballads of Beren's heroic one-man stand against Morgoth are chroncicled in brief here, as well as the inspiring but ultimately useless effect they had on their hearers. Beren's sword is identified as bearing the name "Dagmor," which has to break down as "Dark Battle" [dag~, dagor = battle, mor~ dark/black] but which since only two swords actually of black metal are ever spoken of in Middle-earth, and their forging is a singular event (Turin's blade Anglachel, and its twin, by Eol) I assumethat the name has the appropriate significance of "ambush" or "sneak attack" or "night fighting" or all of the three.

This is my play with the problem of canonicity, and which versions of a story are the "right" one — the changing and exaggerating of legends, the loss of some details and the inclusion of others. I recommend that everyone read JRRT's essay "On Fairy-stories" where he discusses this at some length in regard to the identification of various "legendary" stories with various historical figures, and what this means about human beings.

 

 

"wolfskin": concealing the out-of-place and distinctive smells of plastic and metal as well as breaking up outlines and killing reflections are very much concerns of modern hunters, and iron has an even stronger smell than steel. But it's also foreshadowing…

 

 

"mail that wouldn't rust": while Beren's hauberk is never explicitly said to be of mithril, it's described as dwarf-work and resistant to arrows and blows, and hence I think it a reasonable guess. As to where the House of Beor would have acquired Nogrod-manufactured armour, it seems obvious to me that it would have come from their liege lords. The circumstances are of my own devising, but not fabricated at random: I want to recall the facts of the Beorings' historical connection not with Finrod alone but with all his House, and the political ramifications thereof for the keeping of the Northern Boundaries. And assigning the gift to the Canonical deeding of Ladros — a province whose description is intensely evocative of the Highlands in _Silm._ — allows for a reminder of Third Age connections as well. _Names_ no more than words come out of nowhere… _everything's_ got a history.

 

 

One thing that is important and seems to be overlooked, perhaps as a consequence of taking the Geste in isolation from the rest of the history of the First Age, is how deep, in fact, the debt is that is owed to the House of Beor. There is this tendency I've noticed to look at it alternately as indeed I show Orodreth doing in the next scene, as a vastly disproportionate sacrifice — or as an example of irrational pride and devotion to an arrogant "honor" on Finrod's part. I hope I have succeeded in showing that it is a bit more complicated than that…Certainly the Elvish historians think so, at least.

"The sons of Finarfin bore most heavily the brunt of the assault, and Angrod and Aegnor were slain; beside them fell Bregolas lord of the house of Beor, and a great part of the warriors of that people. But Barahir the brother of Bregolas was in the fighting further westward, near to the Pass of Sirion. There King Finrod Felagund, hastening from the south, was cut off from his his people and surrounded with small company in the Fen of Serech; and he would have been slain or taken, but Barahir came up with the bravest of his men and rescued him, and made a wall of spears about him; and they cut their way out of the battle with great loss."   — _Silmarillion_ ,"Of the Ruin of Beleriand"

And also

"Their names are yet in elven-song  
remembered, though the days are long…  
For these it was, the chosen men  
of Beor's house, who in the fen  
of reedy Serech stood at bay  
about King Inglor in the day  
of his defeat, and with their swords  
thus saved of all the Elven-lord  
sthe fairest…"

(LL2: Inglor/Ingoldo are variants of Finrod's mother-name.)

Hathaldir is called "the young" in _Silm.,_ and hence like Beren for the reasons previously stated I have judged that likewise he (and perhaps others) might not actually been at Serech and yet still be part of the collective group, and known as one knows colleagues' family members by conversation. Beren's dogs are nowhere named, so I have given them traditionally-inspired mastiff names, but that he and his father had hounds, and loved them, and that he talked about them is Canon — Luthien discusses this with Huan during her enforced hospitality at Nargothrond later.

 

 

The fate of Beren's cousins, from LL2:

"since the black shaft with venomed wound  
took Belegund and Baragund,the mighty sons of Bregolas…"

 

 

"the Singers": though called the Nandor, the ones who turned back, by those who went on to Aman, the Green-Elves, or Laiquendi, of Ossiriand called themselves Lindar, and were known as the greatest of singers among all Elves, despite their primitive lifestyle and lack of sophistication. The connections and implications of the various ethnic tensions among Elven groups is deserving of a much longer exploration than I have time for here. (Thanks to Ardalambion [http://www.uib.no/people/hnohf/] for this piece of information.) But it _is_ Canon that they were upset by the coming of the Beorings and asked Finrod to get these tree-killing people out of their territory, which of course is what happened — see _Silm.,_ "Of the Coming of Men into the West" for details. Later on, after the final meltdown of civilization in the First Age, there were "back-to-nature" movements among the surviving Elves and though merged with other elements, Green-Elven culture did become dominant once again, but none of that could have been predicted at this time.

 

 

High Faroth: According to some rescencions, in the very vague and indefinite hints of Beren and Luthien's second life, one of the places they stay for a time is this upland region — which puts a very eerie significance to Beren's Canonical sighting of it through the rainstorms.

 

 

Dungortheb: "not least among the deeds" of Beren, according to _Silm.,_ and tremendously evoked in Canto III in flashback. But he wouldn't ever talk about it in detail, for the reason stated.

 

 

It's stated that there was never anywhere as beautiful as Menegroth, where Melian reigned, and which indeed was like a living woodland underground — not like a mortal palace at all. Although Finrod patterned Nargothrond on Thingol's city, it isn't said to be the same in its design, and I tend to think the "outdoors" elements of Menegroth would have appealed very much to Beren.

 

 

Taliska — the native language of the Beorings, of which a partial grammar is said to exist but has not ever been released. (Thanks to[Ardalambion](http://www.uib.no/people/hnohf/) for this information.) It might also be of interest to the reader that, according to a note in HOME, the only reason that any of it survived at all was due to the interest and efforts of Luthien: Beren didn't see any point in preserving the lore of a dead nation, when in his view Sindarin was a far more beautiful language. She, however, thought she ought to learn his as well, since she had given up on her home in turn. More of this in Act III, however.

 

 

"I saw this thing once" — this is a dead literal translation of the pattern that begins many of the great Anglo-Saxon Riddles, like the one about the Iceberg, which take some everyday thing and redefine it in mysterious terms which are nevertheless completely accurate. All three of these amplified kennings, however, are mine, so don't blame the Anglo-Saxons for any lapses here. But there really is a constellation in Arda called the Butterfly — Wilwarin — though your guess as to why Varda put it up is certainly as good as my own.

Ic þa wiht geseah    on weg feran _I saw this thing  on the wave faring_ heo waes wraetlice   wundrum gegierwed _it was well-wrought    wonderfully crafted_ wundor wearð on wege   waeter wearð to bane _wonder went on waves water went to bone_ **—Exeter Book, Riddle LXVIII**

 

 

_chronometer_ : what use, really, would the agrarian frontier lifestyle of the Edain have for sophisticated metrical devices? But as Reall Cool Works of art, they have historically have had an appeal far outweighing any practical application. The one I have given Celebrimbor is inspired, ever so faintly, by the Great Clock of Wells Cathedral, where the Moon watches over all and knights joust and a messenger rings a bell — as well as by the latter inventions of clocks from the Renaissance and Baroque eras that look like palaces and fountains and wedding cakes and not like our mundane devices at all.

 

 

"that project of your grandfather's": ObRef to the story that Feanor created the palantiri — whether he actually made them, or simply designed them, is not certain. That they don't show up in Middle-earth until they're given by the Elves of Aman to the Numenoreans, is certain.

 

Scene V

 

Again, mostly just painting out the truth behind the songs — realities of logistics and terrain and the Arts of War, assumed common knowledge, assumed as default in the epics and chronicles and hence not requiring explication. I've conjectured and translated — but you will find no real anachronisms here, no more than anywhere else. The archaic custom of sword-bonding does, for example, equate to a safety-catch on a modern weapon — though peace-strings serve more for an accidental going-off of the _user_ , than the weapon itself…

 

 

_Alquantar:_ Quenya plural, "swans." The temptation to conflate with _alae_ , a "wing" of cavalry from Roman tradition, was irresistable — and the research necessary to find the plural of _swan_ yielded up one explanation for the idea-linkage of swans and cavalry in Middle-earth, a tradition I am assuming here goes far back before Dol Amroth's founding. The word-root of "swan" in the Elvish languages is "rushing" — which also invokes the wonderful Anglo-Saxon Riddle from the Exeter book about the silence of swans in the water and the singing ruckus of swans aloft in headlong flight. Add to that the wedge-shape of waterbird flocks and the intimidating size and ability to do damage of an angry swan, combined with their grace and the arched necks of horses, and it becomes an almost inevitable equation.

And yes, that does make for a pun there in the original Elvish…

 

 

My assumptions in regard to Beren's likely riding experience are derived from:

  * 1) the fact that after confiscating Celegorm's horse they keep on walking, rather than ride off, which makes a lot of sense given that if one is not a particularly confident rider that one would not want to attempt such an exit with a rather nervous and shaken animal especially, any more than an amateur pilot would be likely to hop into an F-15 and take off;
  * 2) the fact that the Beorings do ride to the rescue of Serech, but live in rugged highlands and mountain forests, not good horse country at all, and terrain where typically the riding beasts are small, scruffy, tough and bloodthirsty;
  * 3) the question of where in Dorthonion at the height of the invasion, Barahir's outlaws would be likely to keep horses — cavalry, even ponies, being comparatively high maintainance, noisy, and not especially happy living in swamps for the most part — they're certainly not using them by the end;
  * 4) the fact that by the time they reach the borders of Doriath the first time, Beren is sufficiently comfortable with the horse and with riding generally to undertake the long retracing of the journey back to the borders of Angband at high speed.



Hence I tend to think that he would have had early experience with horses, using the term very loosely, probably never have seen a full-size ancestor of the mearas before getting nearly run over by Celegorm, and given the combination of his ranger skills, empathy with animals, and low intimidation factor, wouldn't have taken very long to not only regain his earlier riding ability but to be at ease with a steed easily twice as tall and much faster than anything he would have ever ridden before.

 

 

The Plan as conceived in full detail: I don't believe that Finrod would have neglected to work out a plausible, essentially practical scheme for recovering the Silmarils, but this mission is entirely my own invention. I hope that it is essentially a practical one:

  * using light cavalry as it was anciently used, the equivalent of an airstrike, but here for transport and extraction purposes;
  * moving throughout the night so that any halts could be kept to daylight when Morgoth's creatures would be restrained by the Sun, not a problem for the forbears of Shadowfax nor their riders;
  * staggering the paths of each group slightly so that any guards roused by the first units would not be in exactly the right place to interfere with subsequent movements;
  * avoiding getting bogged down in engagements altogether for obvious reasons of casualties and speed, because the longer spent in any one place, the more time the Enemy has to move in troops;
  * cris-crossing the river to forestall the Enemy anticipating of their route and placing blockades in advance of them, since it wouldn't be clear at once where they would be at any given time in the valley;
  * using the same kind magical defensive illusions to confuse and deceive Enemy aerial intelligence found even as late as the Third Age, just as today electronic countermeasures, signal jamming and chaff, are used;
  * coming out on the eastern side of the Fens to avoid the narrowness of the valley on the west shore of Sirion and getting entangled with the mountain spurs there, and forming a single consolidated force to add momentum and prevent loss of stragglers when breaking through any Enemy outposts guarding the forts along the headwaters of Sirion;
  * using the forts of Fingon as a base of operations to regroup, repair and reorganize for a commando style raid on Angband, with a safe assumption that not only would the barest duty of hospitality be offered, but enthusiastic assistance and probably limitless volunteers;
  * taking all three if the opportunity presents itself, but considering the mission accomplished with the taking of one and proceeding with extraction plans if it seems too dangerous to go on;
  * coordinating so that following the completion of the mission the cavalry would be ready for pickup on the opposite side of the plain. This means that they would not have to retreat down the obvious route, back where the Enemy would be expecting them to return, but past the unsuspecting Enemy forces stationed in Northeast Beleriand and avoiding those mostly by staying up between the dunes and the burned forest of Nightshade, where nobody goes voluntarily.
  * Morgoth still doesn't know exactly where in Beleriand Nargothrond is, only that it exists and somewhere out there in the  old-growth canopy, shrouded by Mirkwood-like deceptions and guarded by extensive outposts is an Elven City that formed a major part of the Leaguer and is full of angry survivors led by Felagund; he knows Fingon is out there and where he stays, 'cause he's looking right at him across the Anfauglith, and he hasn't been able to dislodge his forces for the past decade; he hasn't been able to beat through or down the consolidated forces in the East of Beleriand under Maedhros and the other Sons of Feanor —  so the successful close of the mission would have left him in essentially the same state as before, only a lot angrier.



Would it have worked? The critical and unplannable part, what happens after scaling the gate-tower-mountains and breaking in, remains just that. A highly-coordinated and determined force of experts led by one, probably two, Noldor kings, prepared far more than they were ten years ago even merely psychologically for nasty surprises and taking full advantage of their own surprise and deception tactics and the resulting confusion among the Enemy of "This can't be happening!" — hard to say. (After all, they wouldn't have had Luthien with them…) But it would have been spectacular, successful or not, is my guess—

We go up in fameor we come down in flamebut nothing can stopthe Army Air Corps

—as _my_ people used to sing…

 

 

The text of the Oath derives from _The Lays of Beleriand,_ from an early fragment of a poem from about 1925 which describes the scene after the Treeslaying and contrasts ominously the three hosts of the Eldar as they react to the Darkness, the Foamriders wondering what is going on by the piers, forshadowing the ship-taking later that evening, and the earlier carefree day of the Vanyar giving a concert for Varda at her home on the holy mountain, together with the imagery of Fëanor challenging the Host to follow him with blazing torches in hand as he declaims his fiery rhetoric.

 

 

"Sparkly" is the literal translation of Finduilas' nickname, Faelivrin, referring to the effect of sunlight on water.

 

 

The course of my hubristic attempt to write out what the SOF's canonical seduction of Nargothrond might have sounded like, under the invocation of the Oath and the veiled threats of renewed Kinslaying, no doubt fall far flat of what would have been. But I wanted to try to make the scenario as plausible as I myself find it, working with the awareness of the terrible blow taken by the City in the Dagor Bragollach — not an abstract matter of troop numbers, but of lots of family members lost horribly in a small society, and the awareness of how the shadow of Alqualondë hangs over all the deeds of the Noldor in Beleriand, and understanding how geassa — being the Western-Indo-European form of karma — always involve past acts of injustice (sometimes vicarious) as part of the balance of dharma/righteousness. Things don't just happen out of nowhere…The occasional necessity of abdication to prevent bloodshed is found not only in the Celtic tradition but also in the Confucian writings of Mencius, and are in the spirit of the _Tao Teh Ching_ as qualities of true leadership and authority, which is not about force or power but care and guidance.

Also the fact of the social fragmentation and uncertainty in Nargothrond following the Defeat is in part inspired by the events chronicled in Sil and the rest taken from my own observations of history and group interactions. I can't imagine that someone as cruel and cynical as Curufin would have failed to make use of Beren as an object lesson in his rhetoric, either…

The bit about the fault-lying in the failure of the Leaguer is particularly audacious, given that we're told in _Silm._ that the Sons of Feanor were chief in those objecting to any offensive action, against the High King Fingolfin's recommended tactics, because of the inevitable casualties caused by taking the battle to the Enemy. Of course, in the end, keeping him locked up only resulted in _more_ casualties.

And the "jewel/girl" line is an ObRef to the actual text of Celegorm's Curse as given in full in the Lay:

"Farewell," cried Celegorm the fair.  
"Far get you gone! And better were  
to die forhungered in the waste  
than wrath of Fëanor's sons to taste  
that yet may reach o'er dale and hill.  
No gem, nor maid, nor Silmaril  
shall ever long in thy grasp lie!  
We curse thee under cloud and sky,  
we curse thee from rising unto sleep!"

—It's a doozy, all right.

 

 

Finrod's assessment that the successful theft of even one Silmaril would severely damage Morgoth's credibility in the eyes of his commanders and troops derives from a line in _Lost Road_ where it's noted that following the actual theft, Orcs laughed about it behind the Dark Lord's back — I imagine him perceptive enough to guess that consequence in advance. (And I can't help but imagine that happening, the Morgoth imitations and raucous laughter, given Uruk-hai humor in LOTR…)

 

 

I would never have thought of this myself, history is really stranger than fiction — Roman generals have been reported to carry specially-designed mosaic floors which could be dismantled for transport to furnish their command pavilions, so that barbarian dignitaries would be sufficiently impressed. When I first read this, (aside from thinking "I wonder if I could make one?") I had to wonder what the Imperial GIs thought of that…

 

 

"bribe-and-threaten" — invoking Yeats' great ghost story The Black Tower, excerpted here:

Those banners come to bribe or threatenOr whisper that a man's a foolWho when his own right king's forgottenCares what king sets up his rule.If he died long agoWhy do you dread us so?

There in the tomb drops the faint moonlightBut wind comes up from the shore.They shake when the winds roarOld bones upon the mountain shake.

 

 

The canonical interchange over the succession is my warrant for assigning the role of King's Steward to Edrahil, described as the "foremost among the ten" and based on my own experience that people tend to use idioms natural to them and familiar from their own work. (Not to mention that there is no greater position of trust and responsibility, when you come right down to it.)

 

 

Yes, I actually used "weird" in a statement about Fate. So the sentence works in both Old English and Modern English, because if you replace the word with its original, "wyrd," which means simply "Doom" or "Fate," it's also a correct and perfectly reasonable, if rather tautological, Anglo-Saxon declaration. I should probably pay a forfeit for macaronic (multilingual) punning, but it is an established tradition from the Middle Ages. Refers to _Silm.,_ the end of the chapter "Of the Noldor in Beleriand".

 

 

I have to think that "Your mother wears combat boots" would fall rather flat addressed to the son of a Shieldmaiden of the North.

 

 

"To me" — a traditional battle cry, but also evoking the shepherd's call to his herd dog — "Away to me," meaning circle around widdershins and come to a down-stay at heel. The continual equation of Beren, like Cuchulain of the Celtic sagas, to a loyal hound is not at all mine, but The Professor's, by the by.

 

 

_nerhneta_ \- the discussion of Noldor tactical survivals and terminology is found in _Unfinished Tales,_ "The Disaster of the Gladden Fields," where, pinned down in a swamp by superior forces, Isildur's forces cannot use a flying wedge to break out but instead must form _sandastan_ (Qu) or _thangail_ (Si,) the thorny hedge of spears projecting from a staggered shield-wall which can be tightened up into a circle — and I imagine the formation employed in the Fen of Serech.

 

Scene VI

 

Morgoth's Parole - referring to the sowing of discord and seduction to rivalry carried out undercover by Morgoth after his release from prison following his first attempt to destroy all light in the world, when he was allowed to go about freely just as though he'd never done anything treacherous before and all was forgiven.

 

 

_gambeson_ \- a padded undertunic worn beneath mail for protection

 

 

The healing effect of water and water's sound is a common theme in Middle-earth, and like the protective aspect of water against Darkside influence derives from the presence of the Lord of Waters, the Vala Ulmo, who as the "Loyal Opposition" continues to actively meddle in the doings of the Elves after the Rebellion and the Ban, most overtly in the Tuor-Gondolin situation, but always and everywhere as he explains to Tuor. (See also FOTR.)

 

 

My own invention, but I assume that the Elven cultures would have had far more complicated and subtle and beautiful tunings and scales than even we have, of which there are far more than merely "major" and "minor" though this fact is often concealed like forbidden lore from beginning music students. And that, since they gave grammatical forms cool names, their musical modes would have cool appropriate names too.

 

 

Moving the discussion of whether the Oath somehow works on its own in the world from the prior discussion between Beren and Finrod is my one significant variant (as opposed to filling in detail) from canon: artistic license taken for dramatic balance, and not significantly affecting the story — in fact, I indicate that they've talked, as per canon, about the SOF problem already before the scene opens.But thinking about this in detail just made me start seeing parallels to the working of the Ring in the Third Age, and I wanted to give it its own particular emphasis.

 

 

"thing made by craft": what Beren said in contempt about Thingol's demand for dowry, rating the Silmaril against Luthien, presumed here to be recollected from his earlier recounting of events.

 

 

Bereg: one of two rebels among the Edain who were tempted by Sauron-in-disguise to reject the Eldar and return back East across the Blue Mountains. Amlach of the House of Hador tumbled to the fact that he was being used and had, and returned to the war against Morgoth with renewed fervor, but Bereg of House Bëor led a group of discontented partisans back East, where they disappeared from recorded Middle-earth history. See _Silm.,_ "Of the Coming of Men into the West," for details; particularly invoked is his line, "Let the Eldar look to it! [ie, the Leaguer] Our lives are short enough."

 

 

The presumption that Finrod might have been not completely thorough in his account of the Revolt of the Noldor is based on the fact that he and his family didn't happen to mention it to their hosts Thingol and Melian until forced to, and his and his siblings' reluctance to speak ill of others, as well as the wretchedness of the past events. And that Beren might well have not paid a lot of attention to that part of the Lore as a kid comes from the common response of a lot of us, apparently, to that part of the History — that troubled combination of _Eeeegads!_ and _What???_

 

 

"lands beyond Gelion": as eventually this is exactly what Beren does; I provide this here as foreshadowing, inspiration, unifying of themes, any or all of these. The fact that some of the inhabitants of Ossiriand are of the same tribes that historically have been allied with Doriath, whose king and royal house died coming to the rescue of Doriath in the days before Melian set the Girdle about it, and who gave up on warfare and involvment in the war thereafter is merely one more link in a very complex mesh of implications.

 

 

Finrod's song, apart from the obvious invocations of the Arda Mythos, is modeled in part on the Canticles in the Hebrew Scriptures of Daniel and some of the Psalms, in part on G.M. Hopkins' _Pied Beauty,_ and in part on the Anglo-Saxon Metrical Verses from the Exeter Book which begin "Cyning sceal rica healden," contain the line "orthanc entea geweorc," and are often aka "the Gnomic Verses" pronounced of course 'Nomic' — and thus I am both repaid in kind, and justified in my punning by the highest authority…

The epithet "Unburning" derives from the symbology of Ghanian traditional reincarnatory monotheism, where the idea of that which burns eternally without being consumed or destroyed is used as one of the ways to describe the Divine; it is also evocative of the Stoic belief in Fire as the Element underlying the universe, and the essential nature of the soul.

 

 

The discussion re darkening their armor (reference LL1, Canto VII) both invokes the canon of Elven magic being a natural, not a supernatural process, and the entire question of what's "magic" being confusing to them (FOTR, the conversation with Galadriel in Lothlórien) — and various exchanges I've had over the years regarding technologies that more sophisticated people don't even question, such as polarization, after which explanations I tended to go away thinking "Yup, — magic."

 

EPILOGUE

 

I just tend to think that the SOFs are the sort of people who wouldn't be able to resist coming down to gloat, even if, for prudential reasons, discreetly.

And Huan, who we are told in LL1 loves the King, would surely also be there to say goodbye.

FRONTSPIECE — Houseguests from Hell

(Some of the detail here is far clearer in the [full-resolution version for printing,](https://rustbucket.net/leithian/hires/act_II_hires.pdf) which will open in a new window, and is about 1.2 MB.)

The three tile designs behind the throne represent three sigils used by Finrod in Middle-earth — the first two are traced directly freehand from JRRT's own designs, and the third is my interpretation based on textual description of a device that I have not seen any authoritative rendering for as yet but only verbal descriptions.

The uppermost and central design is the emblem of House Finarfin, with golden sun rays which also evoke Egyptian lilies in their termini. As Finrod is in the peculiar position of having taken up the overlordship of his group after his father's conscience will no longer allow him to go on, and in a sense is the vicarious king of his people here in Middle-earth, it seems fitting to me that he would employ the heraldic device of his father's House, just as Fingolfin, as High King of the Noldor after Maedhros' relinquishment of the right of the Eldest, bears his father Finwë's symbol of the Sun-in-Splendour for his own.

The left sigil is Finrod's personal badge representing his role as liege-lord of Bëor: the symbols of a harp and blazing torch on a green field are invocative of the history recounted in _Silm.,_ wherein Finrod is inspired to wander off on his own while hunting with his kinsmen and discovers the first of the clans of the Secondborn, who have crossed the mountains to find peace and hope to discover the Valar, based on tales and rumors from the Avari who taught them in the East. There he took up the harp of their leader, Balan, as they slept, and began to sing to them of the story of the making of Arda, and the Marring, and the High-Elven lore, and both they and he found that he could understand their thoughts and convey his meaning to them with his music, and thus they were able to work to a common linguistic understanding. After convincing them that he was not in fact a Vala, Finrod assumed the role of protector and teacher and became ultimately their King, and Balan received the accolade of Bëor, which is translated as 'vassal,' and Finrod got the often thankless job of mediating between the other Elven kindreds and the influx of Mortals from beyond the mountains, those who became the Edain. The Harp and Torch are therefore both historically literal and symbolically figurative.

The rightmost symbol is the device found also on the ring given to Barahir by his King after the Battle of Sudden Flame: Finarfin's personal badge of obscure origin, showing two golden serpents beneath a crown of flowers, that "one upholds and one devours" — in this instance I've made the device rendering in a more Indo-European style, reminiscent of the protective serpents rendered in exquisite goldwork knotted through jewelry from the height of Classical Greece and Rome. This design fit the area better than the alternative, a cadeuceus-style layout, as well as fitting the text.

The Nauglamir design is entirely and hubristically my own, but inspired by the fact that it's described in a term that I have only heard used of the kinds of great gemmed collars such as the ones made for Tutankhamen — both graceful and weightless-seeming on whomever wore it. The weight and balance of the Egyptian collars and the exquisite detail and technical skill employed in crafting them does in fact seem magical. But in additon to the agrarian themes of the original collars, with their gem-crafted Seeds and Flowers, and the wings of the sacred birds, I've worked in the common world mythic elements of the Sun and Moon and Stars, the Indo-European symbols of Salmon and Wave and Beech Leaf, and the bird opposing the Eagle is the Swan which is mighty in Celtic lore as well, and in the center is the flame representing the Secret Fire, the Flame of Anor, which the wearer serves. I've attempted to do the idea of it justice…

For the design style of Nargothrond, as opposed to that of Menegroth, I've employed a form of the Industrial Design version of Art Nouveau, of which [Christopher Dresser](http://images.google.com/images?hl=en&q=christopher%20dresser%20&um=1&ie=UTF-8&sa=N&tab=wi) is one of the more famous workers — it seems with its splintering rays and angles that could be light, could be leaves, could be mathematical paradigms, (could be birds' wings, too, for that matter) to be particularly appropriate for the Noldor. However you'll note that the more organic Sindarin style is employed as well where apt, and that every individual's gear and costume is different and unique — neither mass-production nor conformity being particularly characteristic of Elven society! (And, consistently, Beren's own sword-belt is held together with knots — replacement buckles, and blacksmiths, being no doubt hard to come by under the New Regime in Dorthonion.)

 


	12. TINUVIEL AT BAY: A CACCIA OF BELERIAND Act III, Scene 1

TINUVIEL AT BAY: A CACCIA OF BELERIAND

 **Act III of The Lay of Leithian** **retold in the vernacular as a dramatic script** **(with apologies to Messrs. Tolkien & Shakespeare)** **(and thanks to M. Moliere & Miss Austen for assistance)**

 

Dramatis Personae & Cast, in order of appearance [this is how I'd cast them - you're free to supply your own actors, of course.] 

**The Human Bard Gower (appearing courtesy of The Rose Playhouse)** Derek Jacobi (appearing courtesy _Henry V_ )

 **Luthien, called Tinuviel, Princess of Doriath** Claudia Black (appearing courtesy of _Farscape_ )

 **Orodreth, Prince of Nargothrond** Hugh Grant (appearing courtesy _Sense and Sensibility_ )

 **Celegorm,** **Son of Feanor** James Marsters in suave, charming, and gentlemanly mode (courtesy Mutant Enemy)

 **Curufin, Son of Feanor** James Marsters in sly, caustic and vicious mode (courtesy Mutant Enemy)

**Finduilas, Princess of Nargothrond, daughter of Orodreth** Gelsey Kirkland (appearing courtesy the Baryshnikov _Nutcracker_ telecast)

 **Celebrimbor, Son of Curufin** Alexis Denisof (appearing courtesy Mutant Enemy)

 **Gwindor, a Lord of Nargothrond** Ioan Gruffydd (appearing courtesy A &E's _Horatio Hornblower_ series)

 **Huan of Valinor** Special guest appearance as Himself

**Assorted Nargothronders of both Houses: Rangers, Citizens, and Knights**

* * *

 

Act III: SCENE I

 **Gower** :

In longsome time   
fair Luthien to Nargothrond hath fared   
by pathways strange and secret under star   
and light of moon, 'scaping the trammels set   
by love that seeks too hardily to save   
drawn forth from that shelt'ring snare   
by  _binding_  far stronger than that rope of hair   
her path sheer straight from Hirilorn's crown   
\--a track more steep than scales Gorgoroth down.   
    Now as a prize to the Elven city borne   
taken in her hasting flight by the Hound of Celegorm,   
the Nightingale of Doriath with close-pent wings   
rants against her cage; weeping, herself she flings,   
\-- having exchanged but snare for snare --   
in futile dread and rage and hot despair.   
    Rising her sureness of yet one treason more   
by hours: first Daeron, jealous; then swore   
Elu Thingol, and yet forswore, though formal-true;   
then Daeron again, breaking his vow implied:   
whereon her father cedes wisdom to fear and pride   
prisoning her, whilst mourning her mother stood aside.   
    This new betrayal less false than all of these,   
that she, and only she, is purposed to deceive,   
\-- not  _self_ , in fond disguise of pure devotion.   
Of all her kindred, all whom 'friend' should claim,   
but  _one_ , as yet, hath proven true: -- the same   
who clear once called by her heart's true name. 

[The great hall (or probably, indeed, _a_ great hall) of the fortress-palace of Nargothrond. A banquet is underway. In the high seats are the Regent Orodreth and his household, and in the places of honor, Lords Curufin, Celegorm, and their entourage. Especially honored on the royal dais is Luthien of Doriath.  She does not look the part of an Elven princess of high degree.  Her hair is bobbed short and rather wildly curly, her clothes are defiantly the travelworn white dress and blue wrapper, and she is not at all serene, but rather pale and stressed-out yet nonetheless determined. (She looks a bit like an older version of Trina Schart Hyman's illustration of _Ronia, the Robber's Daughter_ by Astrid Lindgren, as a matter of fact, if Ronia were wearing a costume designed by Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema instead.)

 **Orodreth** :

Dear lady, you've not touched your plate at all.  Is our food too rich for one accustomed to simpler fare?

 **Luthien** :

No, my lord Regent -- it's only that I have no appetite when I think of Beren in pain and privation.  How long till your army can ride forth?

 **Orodreth** :

Highness, it is not that easily arranged. Such -- such things take time --

 **Luthien** :

\-- It's been two days since you brought me here.  Two entire days! He could be dying!

 **Celegorm** : [aside to Curufin]

We could be so lucky --

 **Curufin** : [low]

Hush.

 **Luthien** :

\--And I've seen no sign yet of any readying whatsoever. You told me, my lord Curufin, that you would expedite the preparation of a rescue mission, and I'd like to know what progress has been made. You haven't kept me updated at all.

[Conversation all around drops off to an all-time lull, for a variety of reasons; even the background music dies down as the harpers attempt to play low enough that they can follow the exchanges.] 

**Curufin** : [very polite but patronizing nevertheless]

Lovely princess, it takes _time_ as I explained before, to ready such things as equipment and provisions and horse and armor and all the equipage of war. You can't just grab a spear, a shield, and go, you see.

 **Luthien** : [frowning]

That's funny, because _we_ never stand down completely.  Are you trying to tell me that Nargothrond is so complacent about your secrecy that you're completely unprepared for combat?

 **Curufin** : [indulgent patience]

Planning an expedition to Angband is not like routing a few squads of probing Orcs, milady. There are plans to be made, complex preparations, and much work to be taken care of, lest we simply run headlong into catastrophe as your friend has done.

 **Luthien** :

    [coming to a new level of suspicion]

I see. Forgive my lack of understanding -- I've never waged a war, you see.

[to Orodreth]

You will let me know as soon as your men are ready to ride forth? And if there's anything I can do to help things -- mend gear, bake lembas, fletch arrows or ready medicinal spells -- I'll gladly work night and day until all's done.

 **Orodreth** : [coolly, but not with obvious sarcasm]

Highness, we certainly are grateful for your offer of assistance, but Nargothrond scarcely needs such further heroic efforts from yourself. But we will certainly keep you advised of what progress has been made.

[Celegorm shoots him a narrow look, displeased. Celebrimbor raises an eyebrow, but keeps his thoughts to himself. The Regent's daughter and her fiancee look distressed.] 

**Celegorm** : [changing subject by force]

Dear Lady Luthien! The voices of Melian and her fair daughter are renowned throughout the lands. Surely in return for your welcome and guesting here, you could spare us one shortest of songs?

[Luthien stares at him in disbelief.  Something snaps.]

 **Luthien** :

Yes. -- I will sing you a song that you have perhaps not yet heard.

[She rises and gathers herself as if going into battle; the cold gleam in her eyes betrays the fact that she is also very much her father's daughter, however different their styles of combat.]

 **Bard** :

Your Highness, what mode shall the accompanying flow be cast in? The primal mode of Starrise, or the threnodic mode of Moonrise, or the simpler, yet more vigorous strains of Sunrise?

 **Luthien** :

None. There's no accompaniment. It _should_ be a duet: I'll take both parts.

[hums note softly, finds the octave. Takes a deep breath and forges onward.]

O fare thee well, I must be gone   
                    and leave you for a while --   
                  Where e'er I go I will return,   
                      if I go ten thousand miles!

               O ten thousand miles it is so far   
                    to leave me here alone,   
                  While I may lie, lament and cry   
                    and you, you'll not hear my moan!

                O the crow that is so black my love   
                    will change his color white --   
                  I'll never be false to you my love   
                      till the day, day turns to night!

                O the rivers they all will run dry   
                    and rocks melt in the sun --   
                  I'll ne'er prove false to the one I love   
                      till all these things be done!

 

[There is silence -- the hush of profound appreciation that is Elven applause.]

 **Orodreth** : [at last]

Superb . . . superb. Is that one of your renowned Daeron's songs? Menegroth is justly proud of her sons -- and daughters!

 **Luthien** : [in a small precise voice]

No. That is one of the songs of Dorthonion. My Beren learned it from his mother Emeldir, who sang it with his father Barahir and learned it of her father who was also named Beren, who gave it to my Beren's grandmother when first she came to dwell in Dorthonion from Hithlum. It is a very old song. It was believed that his grandfather's mother sang it first. I am glad you like it.

[She sits down and demurely sips her wine, with no indication in her manner of having just suffered defeat, nor that she was attempting any Working in her song. There is a different kind of silence in the banquet hall.]

 **Curufin** : [to Celegorm, undertone]

That is _not_ happening again.

 


	13. Act III: SCENE II

**Gower** :

Confident of their confirméd vic'try now,   
the sons of Feanor count o'er their spoils,   
the full-achieved, as bold they do allow,   
and the newer prize that's taken in their toils – 

[The royal apartments, now occupied by Orodreth's household, and with a much less "lived-in" look to them -- though not cluttered before, it's clearly not a place belonging to an artist-architect-strategist-explorer-linguist-loremaster-musician, now -- merely a central location for government. Curufin and Celegorm are once again making free of the place, but the feel is very different when they come in and sprawl in the chairs by the fireplace. Orodreth is trying to work at the table, despite their presence. Huan is, once again, apparently dozing on the hearth.] 

**Celegorm** : 

I never get over how _nice_ these digs are. Cousin Finrod certainly didn't stint himself. You've done well by the move, hey, Orodreth? 

**Orodreth** : [flat voice]

I don't recollect that you were lodged in the kennels prior to and including this summer. If you wanted improvements you'd only to _make_ them. That is, after all, what everyone _else_ did. 

**Curufin** : [ignoring this, continuing discussion with Celegorm from outside]

I wonder if they're really _betrothed_ , or if she's only saying that to make it sound more respectable? 

**Orodreth** : [dryly]

Yes, _clearly_ that's of the most tremendous and pressing concern to Her Highness. 

**Celegorm** : [ignoring this too]

I _doubt_ it -- he wasn't wearing any rings but the signet, and _she's_ certainly not got one either. 

**Curufin** : 

Well, naturally -- where would he get any silver to make one? Not that he'd know how in any case. And even if she supplied _both_ of them, it would be too obvious -- no chance of keeping it secret if she started wearing a ring all of the sudden. 

**Orodreth** : 

I didn't get the impression she was trying to be _secret_ about it, myself, but rather that she thought it was no anyone else's concern but their own. --Is that even a custom of Middle-earth originally? It could well be something our parents' generation came up with, back home. I wouldn't know about that myself, of course: 

_I_ was never the one interested in "was" and "might have been" and "could be" -- 

**Celegorm** : 

\--What's the _matter_ with you? Weren't we boon companions before, always with the merry jest and the shared glass and the riding to the hunt and the cheer of good fellowship, Orodreth? 

**Orodreth** : 

Well, yes, but that was before you led a revolution against my . . . House -- we were all equals, in those days. 

**Curufin** : [sweetly poisonous]

And now you are ruler, my lord -- 

**Orodreth** : [icy]

Now I am _Regent_ , my lord -- a mere placeholder, and no more. When are you going to tell her? Or are you planning on waiting for her to get tired of waiting first? 

**Curufin** : [colder still]

I thought we had reached an understanding in which you, and your House, were not going to interfere with us, and ours. Is that not so? Or am I mistaken, Lord Regent? 

**Orodreth** : [sardonic smile]

My concern is the well-being of this City, and its realm, and its people. Apart from that, and outside of that, is not my concern. How you rule the affairs of your own household, so long as you do not risk Nargothrond by it, is your own business. 

[goes back to scanning and occasionally signing parchments. The brothers exchange Looks.] 

**Curufin** : [going back to their conversation]

Dark-elf or not, it's unbelievable that any of our Kindred, however distant, could fall so far-- 

**Orodreth** [shaking his head]

The daugher of Melian, a _Dark-elf_? Do you actually believe your own -- _talk_? --My lord. 

**Celegorm** : [with the exasperated tone of someone going over something for the nth time]

Even if he wasn't a mortal, can you imagine _anyone_ \-- and of royal blood! -- being so lost to propriety as to strike up a relationship with a chance-met stranger of no estate and think it feasible that an alliance of blood and honor should be undertaken between them? Doesn't _she_ , at least, understand that marriage is a binding not simply of individuals but of houses and traditions, that there are all kinds of implications for everyone else around them, and that _no one_ , not least a scion of a ruling House of the Eldar, can act on their own whims without regard for these facts? 

**Orodreth** : [as if observing to himself, aloud]

Oh no, it isn't as though anyone _else_ in that family has _ever_ run into someone in the woods by accident and spent time with them exclusively and not told anyone about it nor consulted with others nor sought advice before making it final and fait accompli, now, is it? 

[nonplussed silence from the brothers] 

\--One _might_ , in fact, consider it practically a family _tradition_. . . 

**Curufin** : 

You know, I don't care for your tone at all -- my Lord Steward of Nargothrond. 

**Orodreth** : [not looking up from the scroll he is reading]

And unless you're interested in taking over all the mind-numbingly tedious tasks of management which now fall to me, with far less assistance, and in which you've never shown the least bit of interest heretofore, -- that fact is _signally_ irrelevant, my lord cousin. --Unless your brother is _perchance_ planning on forgoing some of his own _sport_ to take up the slack . . . ? 

[long silence] 

**Curufin** : [chilly]

\--It's good we understand each other, isn't it? 

[offhand, to his brother:] 

Pass me that lute, will you? 

[testing the strings, to Orodreth:] 

Whose is this? Finduilas'? She shouldn't leave it tuned up, it'll ruin the frame, you know. 

**Orodreth** : 

  --Have you not your _own_ chambers, my lords? 

**Celegorm** : 

Yes, but they're not so nice as yours. 

[There is a brief staring contest, before Orodreth shakes his head in disgust and gathers up all his parchments and writing equipment in angry, exasperated gestures.] 

**Orodreth** : [curt]

If anyone's looking for me, I'll be working in the privacy of my own old office. 

[leaves with his portfolio and scribe's case while Curufin plays a cheerful little syncopation on the strings, discordantly out of tune] 

**Celegorm** : [sadly]

I don't think our cousin likes us very much any more. 

**Curufin** : 

You did notice that he wasn't absolutely committed without reserve on the matter of _noninterference_? 

**Celegorm** : 

I guess we aren't going to tell him about the Letter, are we? --How's that coming along? 

**Curufin** : [smiling in anticipation]

Almost there. I've still got a few phrases that need work, and there are a couple of legal technicalities I want to be sure of before I send it off. I'll have the final draft done for you to look over in a few days. 

**Celegorm** : 

The one bad thing is, we won't be able to see Elwe's face when he gets it. I wish there were some way to scry _that_ scene! 

**Curufin** : 

True, alas. That would be -- _amusing_. 

[sighs] 

Ah well, if wishes were horses then -- _beggars_ \-- would ride, indeed -- 

[They exchange grins. On the tiles Huan, head on paws, gives a soft worried whine.] 

 

 

 


	14. Act III: SCENE III.

**Gower** :

Having crossed the gulf, the narrow bridge (though not sword but hair)   
Tinuviel will brook no longer biding, as caged woodthrush seeks the air—

[An empty hallway in Nargothrond. It shouldn't be spooky-looking at all, only deserted and rather winding, so that you can't see very far along it, because it follows the natural contours of the cavern from which it's been carved. Luthien appears around a curve, walking very carefully, one hand on the wall as though it were pitch-dark not pleasantly lit.] 

**Luthien** : [under her breath, to herself]

\-- I _never_ get lost. I don't understand it -- everything feels jumbled, disorganized, I can't find any _center_ to it --I can't find East, I can't find West, all I can tell is _up_ from down -- and I'm not even sure about _that_ \-- 

[she sags against the wall] 

Oh, Beren, I'm no use to you at all! I've accomplished what? _nothing_ \-- I can't seem to make anyone understand the need for action -- you'd think they'd see the need for urgency right off, though -- There's something _wrong_ here, some fog or darkness clouding everyone's mind, it seems, that they can't think straight, can't keep their priorities straight -- 

[even more worried] 

I wonder -- no, _surely_ not -- but -- I _wonder_ if -- perhaps with the King being gone the wards are breaking down and Morgoth's managing to influence people somehow? I've heard of it, I know he tries it all the time with us and Mom stops him: is _this_ what it would look like? Everybody muddled, acting like nothing's happened and everything is normal, no matter how crazy it is under the circumstances? Going about their daily business when they should be mobilizing like there's no tomorrow? 

[frowns, shaking her head] 

. . . but then _I_ thought we had all the time in the world, too, even though I _knew_ better, and now I grudge every hour I wasted this Spring -- so perhaps it's just that they can't help it, and _I've_ changed so much that I can't understand us now . . . 

[There's a noise behind her and she jumps up straight and whirls around in a single movement, facing that way -- never forget that she's been a dancer longer than most civilizations have lasted. Sharply:] 

Who's there? 

[There is no answer: she girds up her shawl and strides around the arc of the passage, camera following] 

_Who_ is -- Ah! 

[Huan is standing there, looking a bit apprehensive] 

**Luthien** : 

Ohhh! --Hello. _Come_ here-- 

[she holds out her hands and claps at him, making chirping noises] 

Come on, don't be scared, good boy-- 

[Huan comes closer, shy-dog mode -- though if he were not a Hound one might think he was embarrassed instead] 

Good dog! 

[he sniffs her hand, then licks it, and she scratches his ears] 

I'm sorry, I don't have any treats for you. I was wondering where you'd got to. --I wish you were _my_ dog. That would surprise them at home, wouldn't it -- _you_ wouldn't let them shut me up in a tree if you belonged to _me_ , I'll bet. Where have you been? Oh, but you're a working Hound, I suppose you've been out doing your job, hunting Wargs. 

[Huan wags tail; she pats him hard on the neck like a horse] 

Beren would like you so much, he used to have dogs -- I wonder if you met him while he was here? I'm sure you'd love him too-- 

[Huan leans against her and whuffs in her hair: she wipes her eyes against his coat. From the same direction as Huan Celegorm comes around the passage and sees them] 

**Celegorm** : 

_Huan_! 

[they are both startled by this] 

\--Don't be frightened, my lady, he won't hurt you. 

**Luthien** : 

Oh, I'm not. --I know. 

**Celegorm** : [apologetic]

You seemed a bit shaken up when you were last around him. 

**Luthien** : 

Well, I _was_. Literally. 

[Celegorm gives her an awkward smile] 

**Celegorm** : 

Yes, I know -- I'm -- I'm sorry about that, Your Highness. 

**Luthien** : 

I think twelve apologies is enough, milord, don't you? No harm was done. And the time could be better spent, I'm sure. 

**Celegorm** : 

Ah. --Right. What are you doing wandering around all by yourself? Can I help you? 

**Luthien** : 

I don't know. I was trying to find the Regent's office, and someone gave me directions -- several someones in fact --  but I think I must have taken a wrong turning somewhere. Or several. 

**Celegorm** : 

You know, you really shouldn't be just roaming about without a guide -- it could be dangerous, my lady. 

**Luthien** : [narrows eyes]

 _Dangerous_? 

**Celegorm** : 

There's all kinds of stuff goin' on here, you know. Workings you probably never even heard of, high-powered security features and maintainance and construction-- 

**Luthien** : [dryly]

I imagine that I can avoid walking into a hot stove or tripping into a cistern on my own, Lord Celegorm. 

**Celegorm** :

Where are your ladies? Not slacking off on the job? Shouldn't you have an assistant? 

**Luthien** : 

I sent them away. I'm not used to having so many people around all the time. I haven't seen more than one or two people at once for _weeks_ now -- until you caught me. 

**Celegorm** : [ignoring the hints]

Oh. But -- who looks after your things? 

**Luthien** : 

I do. Why? 

**Celegorm** : 

I wish you'd accept some new clothes. You -- you shouldn't be obliged to go around in those awful old rags. 

**Luthien** : 

I told you, I don't feel comfortable taking charity from Nargothrond without having presented myself properly as a guest seeking asylum to the King my cousin, given the unofficial and destabilizing circumstances of my arrival. There's been enough strife in our families as it is . . . 

[aside] 

. . . and I'm harder to _ignore_ this way . . . 

**Celegorm** : [blandly]

He wouldn't mind, you know. 

[Huan's tail stops wagging and his head droops under Luthien's hand] 

**Luthien** : 

I know. But I still just don't feel right about it. And besides -- this outfit has sentimental meaning for me: it's the first dress Beren saw me in. _And_ I made it myself, it isn't something my mother made for me -- I didn't take _anything_ they gave me -- so for a lot of reasons I'm rather attached to it. 

**Celegorm** : 

But -- the edges, the what-d'ye-call-ems, _hems_ , are all coming off. Getting to be less and less attached _to_ it, so to speak. 

**Luthien** : 

It's not so bad. I can just rip the loose bits off. 

**Celegorm** : [embarrased]

But, well, I mean -- they're going to get awfully grubby, aren't they? 

**Luthien** : [shrugs]

I wash them in the sink and put them on chairs in front of the fire at night. That's what I did while I was on the road. Only streams, of course, not a basin. _That_ would have been a little much to carry along. 

**Celegorm** : [distressed look]

But -- surely -- you weren't just hanging about the woods in the altogether, waiting for your garments to dry?! 

**Luthien** : 

Oh, no, I just wore my cape until I finished wringing them. Damp clothes are just an annoyance, anyway. They dry out fast enough if you keep walking quickly. 

[Celegorm looks at a loss -- the expression of someone in the difficult situation of wanting to say that's barbaric and revolting but recognizing that it would be impolitic to say so, and also wanting to find some way to excuse it just because of _who_ the person responsible is...] 

**Luthien** : 

Anyway, where _is_ my cape? Surely the Sages can't still be trying to figure out how it works? They ought to ask me, if they can't figure it out, though I probably won't be able to help them duplicate the results, since I made it all up as I went along. 

**Celegorm** : 

Ah. --Yes. You'd have to check with my brother about that, I really couldn't say myself. He'll know how they're coming along -- ask him when you next see him, all right? 

[aside] 

Which'll be quite a while if he can help it. 

**Luthien** : 

Maybe you can help me find him after we talk to Orodreth, then? 

**Celegorm** : 

My lady, I'll be happy and delighted to spend the day with you. 

**Luthien** : 

The _day_?! Surely it won't take _that_ long to get to Orodreth's office! 

**Celegorm** : 

What? Oh -- I mean, it might take a while to get in to see him. He's awfully busy, you know. 

**Luthien** : 

  Then can we go find Lord Curufin first, and ask him about my cape? 

**Celegorm** : 

Oh, he isn't around right now -- he's out with the Border Guard right now. 

**Luthien** : 

So can we go find him? 

**Celegorm** : 

Well -- they've ridden a good ways out -- 

**Luthien** : 

And? 

**Celegorm** : 

It's dangerous out there, your Highness . . . besides, what do you need it right now for? You're not planning on leaving us so soon, I hope! 

**Luthien** : 

So? It's _mine_. And I'm not comfortable having it out of my hands. It _is_ part of me, after all. 

**Celegorm** : [chuckles]

 _Was_ , you mean. 

**Luthien** : [narrow look]

My hair is _still_ mine. I didn't give it away. 

**Celegorm** : [grinning]

So, if you gave me a _lock_ , then -- 

[pulls a curl and lets it spring back] 

\--would that mean you had a, hah,  _split_ _personality_? 

**Luthien** : [annoyed]

 _Please_ don't touch my hair. --Can we go and find the Regent's office, _now_ , milord? 

[As Celegorm bows and starts walking leisurely back along the way he and Huan came, she steps up the pace so that he has to hurry to stay level with her. Something falls from the edge of her blue wrap and hits the floor with a sharp clink.] 

**Celegorm** : 

Oh -- 

[halts her] 

**Luthien** : 

What is it? 

**Celegorm** : 

You lost a star. --Part of a star, at least. A ray, looks like-- 

[He bends and picks up the gem for her.] 

**Luthien** : [blankly]

Oh. 

[keeps walking, disregards it] 

**Celegorm** : 

Don't you want it? I can have someone sew it back on for you-- 

**Luthien** : [shrugging]

 _I_ can do that. It -- just -- isn't very important, really. 

**Celegorm** : 

May I have it? 

**Luthien** : [blinks]

You've a shortage of quartz, my lord? 

**Celegorm** : [laughs]

I was going to make it into something else for you, since your mantle's such a wreck; I thought it might make the heart of a nice pendant. Though actually I'd get my brother to do it -- he's the artist of the family. 

[pause -- Luthien just looks at him] 

What? Don't you wear jewelry in Doriath? Or just things made from natural stuff, like, oh, flowers and leaves and all? 

[pause continues] 

**Luthien** : [flatly]

Aren't there really _more important_ _things_ to be devoting your energy to? --Such as getting the rescue mission underway? 

[pause] 

**Celegorm** : [utmost sincerity]

\--We Noldor are good at multitasking, your Highness. 

**Luthien** : 

Ah. 

[Huan's head and tail go lower] 

**Celegorm** : [hurt]

You don't sound as though you believe me. I'm crushed, Lady Luthien, absolutely _crushed--_

**Luthien** : [troubled]

Well, I'm not entirely reassured by what I've seen -- or haven't seen. And you _still_ haven't explained why you pretended you didn't know what I was talking about when you met me, or why you pretended to be "Lords Atarin and Turcofin of Nargothrond" --? 

**Celegorm** : 

We weren't pretending. Never _said_ we didn't know what you were talking about, did we? 

**Luthien** : 

But -- _you_ know what I mean -- you certainly _implied_ it --?! And you did lie about your names and all, didn't you? 

**Celegorm** : [hurt]

&bbsp    I wasn't lying. Nargothrond is our home now, ever since the War drove us out of the North Country, just like your friend Barahirion. 

**Luthien** : 

And your _names_? 

**Celegorm** : 

We use names from both sides of the family in Aman. The custom's catching on here too, I've noticed. One from your mother, one from your father -- plus the extras everyone picks up along the yeni. So those really _are_ our names, you see. Just not all of 'em. 

**Luthien** : [musing]

Well, I suppose it saves a couple the trouble of actually having to agree on something, doing it that way. 

[Celegorm laughs -- Luthien gives him a frowning look: it wasn't meant to be a joke. They start walking again] 

But _why_ did you let me go on like that, like a complete idiot, and not tell me you knew all about it or who you were until we reached the City? 

**Celegorm** : 

Well, if we'd said, "Oh, hullo, we're some of Feanor's boys, just happening through in your direction with an armed party," wouldn't you have taken off again like a pheasant breaking? After all the harsh words your father's had for us? 

**Luthien** : [very dry]

Given the way things have been going between me and my family, lately, I'd be far more likely to assume gross exaggeration and given you the benefit of the doubt -- but I suppose you couldn't've known that. . . 

**Celegorm** : 

And how were _we_ to know that you weren't some phantom or figment of the Enemy's making, sent to lure us into an ambush or whatnot? I mean, it isn't every day that my Hound brings me a gorgeous girl instead of a disgusting dead wolf, you know. Not until you were inside the City's defenses and didn't disappear or turn into a wraith or something fell like that. 

**Luthien** : 

\--I've heard of those . . . 

[the Carillion is heard in the halls] 

Oh! There's that bell-thing again -- it's been another what, four _hours_? Six? Can we _hurry_ , please? 

[She darts on ahead, forcing Celegorm to catch up to her, Huan trailing him with tail dragging the tiles until they are out of sight around another curve.] 

 

 

 


	15. Act III: SCENE IV

**Gower** :

Those who venture, forsaking paths, in forests dark and dolesome,   
may well find it harder far, returning to ways wholesome—

[The royal apartments. Most everything that was Orodreth's is out now. Through one of the inner chamber doorways Curufin can be seen -- he goes as if to open a small box lying on one of the tables, but hesitates, drawing his hand back before touching it. Instead he opens a large flat case next to it and starts to reach in, but stops as Finduilas comes stalking quickly into the suite. Hastily he shuts it and turns around, coming out into the antechamber.] 

**Finduilas** : [acid]

So are you just moving in and taking over openly, now? 

**Curufin** : [shrugs]

Ask your father, Sparkly. 

**Finduilas** : 

I _did_. I want to hear _your_ version. 

**Curufin** : [mild]

What does it matter, since you've already made up your mind? 

**Finduilas** : 

\--So you _are_. 

**Curufin** : [raises hands]

I didn't say that. _You_ did. 

**Finduilas** : 

But you _implied_ it. 

**Curufin** : [surprisingly unsarcastic throughout]

No, _you_ did. --Did you want something other than to snarl at me, little cousin? 

**Finduilas** : 

I'm here for my music things. _And_ the Nauglamir. 

**Curufin** : 

Yes, I was surprised to see he'd forgotten it . . . 

**Finduilas** : [biting]

You know he won't touch it. If it weren't so valuable he'd leave it on the throne with the Crown, but he says there's no sense in tempting people. 

**Curufin** : 

Well, you know where it is. 

[Finduilas sweeps past him and comes back out with the large case under her arm.] 

**Finduilas** : 

Is that her cape in that casket beside it? The one that feels like there's water or wind coming off of it? 

**Curufin** : 

Why do you ask, when you already know? 

**Finduilas** : [caustic]

What are you keeping it for, anyway? Shouldn't it be in the Research Department for study? Or else give it back to her? 

**Curufin** : 

    Little cousin, are you being naive or just affected? 

**Finduilas** : 

Oh! I _hate_ you. Don't talk to me! 

**Curufin** : 

I know we've had our differences -- 

**Finduilas** : 

Differences? You take over our home, and you call that -- "differences"? You threatened us with civil war, and those are "differences" --? 

**Curufin** : [holding up his hand, overriding her interruptions]

\--Did I ever do that? _No_. That was the construction your uncle and his partisans put on my words, forcing a confrontation for reasons of their own. Ask yourself _honestly_ why, after so long a time without difficulty -- whith everything at last back to normal, or as close to normal as we will likely see in Nargothrond -- he should put us in such a position, fabricating an incident whereby such a clash was made inevitable? If that is not at all suspicious, I don't know what is-- 

[pause] 

But that's neither here nor there. I won't argue with you when you've made up your mind -- especially when you know you agree with me . . . 

**Finduilas** : 

Stop making it sound like _I'm_ the one being unreasonable -- what do you mean, "agree with" you? 

**Curufin** : [shrugs]

\--You don't want to hear what I have to say, so what does it matter? 

**Finduilas** : 

Stop that! You're treating me like a child -- again. 

**Curufin** : 

I beg your pardon. It's difficult being the one to see what those who haven't, alas, the same tragic experience can only imagine, and build opinions based on lofty ideals and half-heard facts not fully understood. I'm afraid I tend to get a bit impatient, which comes out in sarcasm. 

**Finduilas** : 

Don't try to win me over to your side. I'm not _stupid_. 

**Curufin** : 

I would never suggest it. Merely -- young, and easily led. 

**Finduilas** : [haughty]

May I remind you, _cousin_ , that _I_ crossed the Grinding Ice, too. 

**Curufin** : 

Indeed. --And why did you have to undergo that ordeal? Who led your group into that disastrous adventure? -- _We_ didn't tell you to follow us; it isn't _my_ family you should be blaming for that expedition, now, -- _is_ it? 

**Finduilas** : 

Oh, be _quiet_! You twist _everything_ around -- 

**Curufin** : [interrupting]

Yes -- that's what your sweetheart tells you, and I'm sure it's far more pleasant, as well as _easier_ , to listen to him than to me. 

**Finduilas** : 

\--Gwin doesn't tell me how to think! 

**Curufin** : [clearly disbelieving]

No? Well, you should know best . . . 

[she does not answer] 

**Curufin** : 

I don't expect you to change your mind about me. But I would request that you ask yourself -- you don't have to answer me, either -- just ask yourself, honestly, without worrying about what you _should_ think, about _permission_ \-- do you _truly_ think that it's a good thing? --This business of one of us, getting romantically involved with a mortal? 

**Finduilas** : 

I don't see that it's anyone's business but _theirs_. 

**Curufin** : 

Oh, you haven't thought about it at all, then. 

**Finduilas** : [tossing her head]

You're impossible. I don't want to hear your rationalizations. 

**Curufin** : 

Of course not. You might have to actually _think_ , then. --No, don't stamp your foot at me and stomp off, these shoot-from-ambush-and-run tactics aren't worthy of a Noldor princess. If you really believe I'm wrong, you'll be able to prove _why_. 

[Finduilas just gives him a Look, but doesn't say anything to contradict him, or leave.] 

**Curufin** : [mock surprise]

What, you're going to give me a chance to explain myself? I'm staggered by your generosity, your Highness! How can I repay you? 

**Finduilas** : [dryly]

\--Don't press your luck, cousin. 

[but she is starting to smile though she fights it] 

**Curufin** : 

Certainly not, I wouldn't dare -- all right, then, how is this? The ex-Lord of Dorthonion is undoubtedly a warrior of great prowess in the fight against our common adversary. I would never deny that. But is that enough? Does that actually _mean_ anything, when you come right down to it? 

[Finduilas starts to interrupt, but he holds up his hand, and she waits] 

Consider the facts -- the inescapable facts of the world -- which _you_ surely know far better than she, on a practical level, not an intellectual one, having spent so much of the time since the Return actually in day-to-day contact with Men, not simply having heard about them secondhand from the extremes of hostility and favoritism, as she. _You_ are aware of the brevity of mortal lifespan. You have heard more than mere _legends_ and romantic tales -- you also have heard the true and dreary stories of petty squabbles and small concerns that involved the Beorings and their allied nations over the centuries. But all that-- 

[He frowns, looking troubled and reluctant to go on -- she gives him an impatient look] 

All that -- might not matter, were the Lady Luthien _not_ who she is, but a simple woodland maiden with no other role in society. Her right to ruin her own life, her foolish self-deception as to the inevitable tragedy of such a union, would be hers alone. But that is not, unfortunately, the case. --She is, after all, like you the heir to a great responsibility, the throne of one of the few Elven dominions capable of withstanding the Enemy's assaults in these sorry days-- 

**Finduilas** : [interrupting]

\-- _I'm_ not the heir to the throne! 

**Curufin** : 

\--If not you, then who is? Why else does your father enlist you to do his work with him? He, at least, understands the need for prudence, howsoever his romantic ideallism wars with his sense of duty. 

**Finduilas** : 

_My_ _father_ can't stand you. 

**Curufin** : [raises his hands helplessly]

We do not always know our friends -- nor, I venture to say, even _like_ them, contradictory as that may seem. 

**Fiunduilas** : [sarcastic expression]

 _Friends_. 

**Curufin** : 

Say, at least, that we have common cause -- that we -- all of us -- value Nargothrond and this realm's people above any abstractions of "duty" and "honour" and that as a consequence, we are bound to be misinterpreted and misjudged by those who let heart rule head. --Have you not experienced that yourself? Are not you, and your future father-in-law, made scapegrace for the unwilling recognition of that _duty_ by your fiance? 

[she does not answer] 

I see that you do. 

[Finduilas goes as though they had not had this conversation to get her lute and folders of sheet music. Her hands are shaking, her knuckles showing on the Nauglamir's case  and she drops the portfolios -- while kneeling down to gather them up one handed, the lute strap slips off her shoulder. Curufin scoops it all together, puts the lute back up for her and hands her the music folios. She glares at him, her expression very still now, not scornful, just hostile.] 

Thank you for at least hearing me out, Highness. Just -- think about it, that's all. 

[She says nothing, and walks out with head held high. After she is out of sight, Curufin smiles.] 


	16. Act III: SCENE V.i [mute - no dialogue]

[The Throne Room. It is deserted and dim inside. Huan enters, very slowly, almost plodding, his head and tail still dragging. He approaches the throne and stands there, not moving, before collapsing down suddenly with a huff and putting his nose down on his outstretched forelegs. He lies on the lowest tier of the dais, not asleep, anxious.]


	17. Act III: SCENE V.ii

**Gower** :

Blindly spun, the webs, snares and toils of deceit,   
haply may snare not only purposed prey, but other feet--

[The antechamber to Orodreth's apartments -- it's more of an indoor formal garden, with benches and carved planters integral to floor and walls and some water in raised squared channels -- very Amarna in style, in fact. Luthien and Celegorm are sitting across from each other on an angle of benches, while an Aide of the Regent sorts scrolls from boxes into a rack in an annex on the side which has apparently been converted into an outer office. He keeps giving them Looks, covertly. There is a definitely _closed_ look to the double doors leading to the inner rooms -- they don't look like they're meant to be opened at all.]

 **Luthien** : [earnest]

So I've been thinking it over, and I think, personally, that we shouldn't rely on our forces alone, but ought to send word to your other cousins out West and try to get some reinforcements for the assault -- probably keep them for surprise and ambuscade on a retreating path, that seems like it might be most effective. Of course, you might have already thought of that. Anyway, what do I know about offensive missions, and perhaps it's completely foolish?

[She waits expectantly -- Celegorm is looking at her earnestly, his head a little on one side, kind of smiling, but with a bit of a glazed expression. He doesn't answer.]

 **Luthien** :

\--Are you even _listening_? You look like someone whose next words are going to be -- "I think I know why the clouds are white sometimes and why they change colors others." Or maybe, "Do you think one could build a flet that would go all the way across the river?"

 **Celegorm** :

Eh? What? No, no, I'm paying attention -- I assure you, no one could _possibly_ be paying more attention to you than I am right now. --You were saying--?

 **Luthien** : [exasperated sigh]

I was saying that after we deal with rescuing them I am going to insist on a full-fledged plan of attack. I understand why for reasons of propriety and the rules governing quests and all, my cousin might have refused your offer of assistance, but obviously a small covert-ops mission is too dangerous, and we've got to use all the resources at our disposal.

[Orodreth's assistant gives them a sudden sharp glance from where he is working/eavesdropping, with an angry glare at Celegorm afterwards]

My _father_ might take exception, but so long as the exact words of his demand are fulfilled, I don't think it matters one jot who actually pulls the damned thing off Morgoth's crown and so long as we show up with enough of an escort, I'm not worried. Even if he tries to argue the _legality_ of it, let me assure you, no one has _ever_ won an argument with me when I'm right. I just don't think most things are worth arguing over, usually -- I guess I take after my Mom more that way, along with my hair. --Did that make sense?

 **Celegorm** : [staring into her eyes again]

Mm-hmm . . .

 **Luthien** :

And we should take Huan along, I imagine he must be just as good in a real fight as in a hunt--

 **Celegorm** :

Oh, he's a terror in battle, death-on-four-legs to Orcs just like wargs, always where the fighting's thickest -- Hey, there, you didn't mean " _we_ " when you said "we" there, did you? As in _you_ , yourself, did you?

 **Luthien** :

No, I meant "we" as in _us_ , our side, that's all -- I can't think that I'd be anything but in the way, I'm no Galadriel, though I'm better-than-fair at patching people up afterwards.

[aside]

Though I'm beginning to think I'd better, so that there's _one_ person whose mind isn't turned into mush by the Enemy!

 **Celegorm** :

No, I can't see anyone calling _you_ "tomboy", even with that haircut, hah!

 **Luthien** : [frowning]

Where _is_ Huan, anyway? I thought he was over there by the, I guess it's a pond, but obviously he isn't...

 **Celegorm** :

Oh, he always wanders about, shows up when you need him. He'll turn up for supper, too, you can be sure.

[pause]

You really do like him, don't you?

 **Luthien** :

I think he's _wonderful_. I wouldn't mind having a Hound like him at all.

 **Celegorm** :

I warn you, he eats like a horse.

 **Luthien** : [half-smiling]

Yes, but you wouldn't _need_ a horse with him around, would you?

[Celegorm laughs]

 **Celegorm** :

I must say I'm still surprised -- but not really I suppose -- more _in_ _awe_ _of_ , your courage. I keep expecting you to be terrified of him.

 **Luthien** : [wry]

What, because he chased me up and down trees and all around the woods like I was some kind of giant black squirrel before carrying me back to you like a puppy?

 **Celegorm** : [blinks]

Er, yes?

 **Luthien** :

Why? I could tell -- once he stopped chasing me -- that he's Good and wouldn't ever hurt anyone not on Morgoth's side.

 **Celegorm** : [admiring]

You're awfully perceptive.

 **Luthien** : [bitterly]

Heh.

 **Celegorm** :

Hey, did I tell you that Orome himself gave Huan to me?

 **Luthien** :

Yes, you did. Now--

 **Celegorm** : [oblivious]

He taught me the language of nature, how to understand animal communication and tracking and weather and so forth, you know. That's why I'm such a great hunter, y'see.

 **Luthien** : [actually interested for the first time in something he's said]

Oh, really? That's just like _Beren_.

 **Celegorm** : [taken aback]

What? --You're joking.

 **Luthien** :

No, it's true. --I don't suppose he would have said anything if there wasn't a need for it -- it isn't like he brags about his accomplishments, "Oh, I'm this great hero and the Terror of the North and all," it's more like -- "Oh, so you're _that_ Beren?!" and you get back "Er, which one? You mean me or my grandad?" It was _hours_ of that before I got him to admit that yes, he _was_ the one in the legends Mablung had been hearing, and I can't remember _when_ I heard so many qualifications and disclaimers in a single conversation. He used to be the best hunter in his homeland, too, before he gave it up.

 **Celegorm** : [chuckling]

Well, you know how it is, we all _say_ we are, the best at huntin' or fishin' or any kind of a sportin' thing!

 **Luthien** :

Oh, no, I've seen him track things in the dark and charm animals out from cover to eat from his hand.

 **Celegorm** : [nonplussed]

Well.

[pause]

\--I don't expect he learned it from a _god_ , all the same.

 **Luthien** :

No, he's almost certainly self-taught.

[she stops talking and looks rather fixedly ahead, then sniffles]

 **Celegorm** :

Oh, don't cry -- please don't, I can't stand to see a lady crying--

[takes her hand]

Everything's going to be all right.

[clasps it in his other hand]

\--Trust me.

[While she is trying not to break down, Finduilas enters with her various burdens. She is almost at the impromptu reception office by the time she notices them there, to her great and not-too-pleasant surprise. Setting down her music stuff on a bench she takes the Nauglamir into the annex and engages in a hasty whispered conversation with the Aide, before going over to where Luthien and Celegorm are sitting.]

 **Finduilas** :

Luthien. I -- I understand you've been waiting, to talk to my father.

 **Luthien** : [nods]

Y--yes. He's been in meetings all day. Or night. I'm not sure which it is now.

 **Finduilas** :

I'm so sorry. He's -- not going to be free for at least another bell. Probably two.

 **Luthien** :

Oh. _Ohhh_.

[She shakes her head, taking a deep breath, and makes an exasperated noise]

 **Celegorm** : [sympathetic but patronizing]

I did try to tell you, milady . . .

 **Luthien** : [distracted, shaking her head]

Why--? I _don't_ \-- I --

[she leans against a bit of decorative wall, panting]

 **Finduilas** : [anxiously]

You look faint -- Have you eaten at all today?

 **Luthien** :

I -- I'm not sure. I don't know what _time_ it is down here --

 **Celegorm** : [masterful]

\--Why don't we see about having something sent up to your rooms, and I'm sure our little cousin here will be happy to look after everything, and as soon as our good Regent gets free we'll have someone pop along to let you know, all right? No sense in you wasting your time and starving here for no good reason, is there?

[Reluctant, but not really up to arguing with both of them, Luthien allows Finduilas to take her arm and lead her outside. Celegorm wanders around, looking at the art on the walls with a critical eye and surveying the results of the unpacking.]

 **Celegorm** :

What a mess this place is in! Though I dare say you've made a lot of progress.

[The Regent's Aide gives him a foul Look; Celegorm keeps poking around the solar]

So she likes Huan, eh?

[grins]

 **Aide** : [stiffly]

Do you need to see His Highness about anything, my lord?

 **Celegorm** : [waves hand languidly]

No, not at all. Carry on with your filing and whatnot; I've got to see a dog about a girl myself . . .

[He strolls out, whistling; the Aide slams a scroll case into its pigeonhole with a loud bang.]

 

 

 


	18. Act III: SCENE VI

**Gower** :

    --Met but with silence, the anxious traveler pursues  
answers -- prevented from her own pursuit, seeks clues  
to the dark mystery wrapped in Nargothrond's fair hues-- 

[Interior of Luthien's apartments. The outer room is a small solar, from which a hallway leads to the private suite, and has a paneled door opening onto the hallway that is meant to stay open. Around the room are arched panels  made to look like windows, which are murals made of cut stones set in like stained glass and discreetly lit. The decoration is more naturalistic here than elsewhere in Nargothrond, less abstract, and it is of course exquisitely lovely. Luthien is standing there with Finduilas, looking frustrated as well as tired.] 

**Finduilas** : 

Do you feel better now? 

**Luthien** : 

Not really. --I think your dad's avoiding me. 

**Finduilas** : 

Oh, no, I'm sure you're mistaken -- he -- he's just terribly busy. _I_ hardly see him -- and I'm his assistant! 

**Luthien** : 

Then why can't I talk to him? 

**Finduilas** : [patiently]

Because he's too busy. 

**Luthien** : [leadingly]

With--? 

**Finduilas** : 

Well -- Nargothrond, of course. 

**Luthien** : 

And--? 

[pause] 

The rescue mission--? 

**Finduilas** : 

Oh -- well -- of course -- that too. 

**Luthien** : [unconvinced]

Hm. 

[walks over to the nearest of the artificial "windows" and runs her hand across the carvings] 

**Finduilas** : 

Aren't those wonderful? That's the view looking west from our house in Tirion. 

**Luthien** : [making conversation]

The trees are very beautiful. They look almost like real beeches. 

**Finduilas** : 

Oh, those aren't beeches, they're _mallorns_. They only grow in Aman -- they're sacred to Yavanna, you see.. 

**Luthien** : 

Well, they look like they'd be perfect for climbing. I can see why she loves them. 

[Finduilas gives her a funny look] 

Did you bring these with you? They seem -- awfully -- _large_. 

**Finduilas** : 

No, my aunt made them. These are her rooms when she comes to visit, and she did all the decoration for them herself. 

**Luthien** : 

Your aunt is an astounding person. I think she's the only Elf to ever master our double-harness loom in a single day. 

**Finduilas** : [not trying to sound patronizing, but doing a darn good job all the same]

Well, she _is_ Noldor, after all. 

**Luthien** : [frowning]

Have you _seen_ the loom my mother invented? The one that weaves the same pattern on both sides, only with different colors? It takes most people two days just to set it up. And isn't your family half-Teler, anyway? What does _that_ have to do with anything? 

**Finduilas** : [nervous giggle]

Well, -- obviously -- _you_ understand -- 

**Luthien** : [clearly doesn't]

How long does it take _you_ to set one up? I know she takes the loom she made with her, so maybe you've worked on it. Mine was only a quarter-sized version and it took longer to make enough width because of that, and it still took me _forever_ to warp it all in -- I think I must have spent half the night getting it strung. 

[curious] 

How come you never came to visit us, when your family did? 

**Finduilas** : [awkwardly]

Oh. Well. So far to go, you know. 

**Luthien** : 

It isn't _that_ far, I've traveled it. And I didn't even have a horse. 

**Finduilas** : 

It's just . . . there were so many things to do here, and . . . _you_ know . . . nothing really to _do,_ by comparison. 

**Luthien** : [dry voice]

Yes, that's why your aunt stayed with us all that time, because there was _nothing_ to do there. 

**Finduilas** : [condescending]

Oh, don't be so _sensitive_. I'm sure it's a _wonderful_ place. You must be very homesick for it, I'm sure. 

**Luthien** : [shrugs]

It isn't my home any more. It _was_. But my home is with Beren now. 

**Finduilas** : [shocked]

But you must have _some_ regrets, leaving your family and your home and everything you've ever known -- 

**Luthien** : 

There is one regret I have, yes. 

[brief pause] 

\-- That I waited so long to follow after him. 

[recovering/covering, tapping on one of the mallorn images] 

How tall are they? 

**Finduilas** : [a little thrown by the change and topic]

Um -- _tall_ \-- I don't really know _exactly_. . . 

**Luthien** : 

I wonder if they're taller than Hirilorn -- you could certainly build a house _there_ , all right. Looks a good deal easier to get down from, though. Huh. 

[she shakes her head] 

**Finduilas** : 

I can't _imagine_ what you must have been thinking . . . 

**Luthien** : 

Mostly -- I hope I tied that knot properly. 

**Finduilas** : 

Oh! No, I meant -- for all of it. 

**Luthien** : [gloomy]

They can't _do_ this to me -- _How_ can they do this to me? -- Star and water, that's a _long_ way down! Not in any particular order. 

[pause] 

\--Was that what you were asking about? 

**Finduilas** : 

Well . . . 

**Luthien** : 

I mean, really there wasn't a lot of _thought_ , just _planning_ , if you see what I'm getting at. By the time I actually succeeded in escaping I'd already _done_ all the agonizing over it -- there was just a lag between, unfortunately. 

**Finduilas** : 

I more meant, have you really considered it? Do you think it was the wisest thing to do? Given the war situation, and your family, and your responsibilities to your kingdom and all? 

**Luthien** : 

I'm sorry, are you trying to say I _shouldn't_ have run away, I should have stayed stuck in a tree forever? 

**Finduilas** : 

Not exactly, but, well, I mean they _wouldn't_ have left you up there forever, really. 

**Luthien** : 

Considering the fact that their preconditions for release were completely unacceptable, and considering how stubborn we all are, _forever_ is exactly what we're talking about here. 

**Finduilas** : 

But can't you see their point of view at all? I mean you can't really blame them for wanting you to be safe, especially with what you said they said about those Orc-raids having been targeted at you all along-- 

**Luthien** : [interrupting]

I told you I think they were just _saying_ that. Or rather my dad was, because Mom didn't say _anything_ , which I think means it wasn't true, though not necessarily, because I've never heard her tell a lie in my life -- I don't think she _can_. Though come to think of it I haven't ever heard Dad tell one either. --But I still don't believe it, given the situation. 

**Finduilas** : [shrugs]

Anyway, you can't deny that there are Wolf-riders and awful Things out there -- it only stands to reason that they shouldn't want you to get hurt by them. Imagine how they'd feel if _you_ were captured by the Enemy! 

**Luthien** : 

What, the same way I feel knowing Beren's a prisoner? 

**Finduilas** : 

. . . 

[pause] 

**Luthien** : [relenting]

Look, I gave them every possible chance. If they didn't want this to happen then first, they shouldn't have lost it when they heard about Beren -- did you know that Daeron was actually hoping the search parties would _shoot_ him, that's why he told my father? I was almost angry enough to throw him out of the tree when he admitted that -- and secondly they shouldn't have pulled that craziness about a Silmaril on us, and then they shouldn't have expected me to just sit there and say, "Oh, well," when my mom says he's been caught! What did she think I was going to _do_ with that information? 

[she begins pacing back and forth agitatedly, rant gaining power, while Finduilas is being a Good Listener] 

**Luthien** : 

So at that point, they could have given me a division and said "All right, you win, we're not going to approve, but at least you're going to go about it properly," but _no_ \-- we get hours of lectures as if I was some stupid little kid caught stringing triplines in the house or something dumb like that, and not _listening_ to me at all, and then "Well, we're going to have to lock you in your room, but you'd get sick, and you'd probably get out anyway, so we have just the solution!" --And then thinking that somehow having _Daeron_ lecture me instead was going to work, and not only that but make me "get over" Beren? "Oh, we'll just substitute _him_ instead and she won't notice"--? "We like him better, so of course _she_ will too"--? I mean, really now! 

[she pauses for breath, huffing indignantly] 

**Finduilas** : 

But you can _understand_ that, can't you? I mean, from a n-- a -- an outsider's point of view, Daeron has a lot going for him. He's even famous at the High King's court. _Everyone_ loves his music, and even if the cirth aren't as pretty as our writing, they are fast and easy. And they've known him long enough to know if he's reliable and trustworthy and Good, after all. 

[pause] 

**Luthien** : [very dry]

If what my parents _meant_ when they said all my life, that the most important things were truth and goodness and right judgment and so on, and I should only ever marry someone she saw really embodied all of them, -- was that I should _really_ marry the old family friend and world-famous artist, composer, and inventor of a unique compressed data-storage system who just _happened_ to have never thought of me as anything but a little kid _until_ I finally found someone who embodied all those qualities -- then they jolly well should have said something before! 

**Finduilas** : [discomfort]

Should they have to? I mean . . . really--? 

**Luthien** : 

Ah, come again? 

**Finduilas** : 

Well, obviously they thought he was suitable for you, if they encouraged you to spend so much time together for so long. 

**Luthien** : 

Actually it was because he made a very good babysitter when I insisted on climbing into my mother's yarn and trying to crawl through the looms. My father loves music but he isn't much of a musician himself, and they could always distract me with the flute. And then when I was older they all decided he could teach me too, and that would work out well. How was I to know that one day out of the blue he'd stop thinking of me as "cute little kid sister" and think "--A tender goddess!" instead? 

[snorts] 

\-- _Idiot_! 

**Finduilas** : [shocked]

But -- he's a genius, Luthien! 

**Luthien** : 

I don't care how many disciplines Daeron counts as a Sage in -- he's still an idiot. The fact that he would think that _getting my true love killed_ would make me like him better, or at all, just goes to show that _lore_ isn't everything. 

**Finduilas** : 

But don't you feel at _all_ sorry for him? 

**Luthien** : 

Of course. I started talking to him again, didn't I? 

**Finduilas** : 

Well, yes -- but that was because you need his help again, you said. Don't you feel you were just _using_ him, rather? 

**Luthien** : 

No, it was long before that. I listened to his apologies for _days_ before I made up my mind to escape and figured out how and enlisted him. But regardless -- are you trying to say, that _because_ I needed his assistance, I should _not_ have talked to him, but only if I _hadn't_ needed anything of him should I have forgiven him? That seems rather cruel, not to mention counterproductive. 

[pause] 

**Finduilas** : 

That doesn't make any sense. 

**Luthien** : 

That's what _I_ thought. 

[pause -- she leans back against a "window" and folds her arms] 

I'm sort of getting the impression that you disapprove of what I've done. 

**Finduilas** : 

Well -- I did think it was incredibly romantic at first -- but then . . . I actually thought about it, and -- Luthien, _how_? 

**Luthien** : 

Ah, "how" _what_? That covers an awful lot of territory. 

**Finduilas** : 

Luthien, he's a _child_! He's not even half a yen old, and -- It's -- it's just _wrong_. In _so_ many different ways. 

[long silence] 

**Luthien** : 

Do you _know_ how much older my mother is than my father? 

[pause] 

Neither does _she_. 

**Finduilas** : 

How can you not know how old you are? 

**Luthien** : 

Well -- there wasn't any way to reckon _time_ for most of her life, so it's really a meaningless question. But the _measurable_ part -- in the sense of there being landmarks, so to speak, is from before there were the Stars, before any of our people awoke, and before there were any differences between Elf and Elf in Middle-earth. 

**Finduilas** : 

  All right -- but that's different. 

**Luthien** : 

How? 

[Finduilas just gives her an exasperated look, as though she is being tiresome] 

I'm serious -- this is what I keep asking, and not getting answers to. 

[starts pacing again as she talks] 

You're being just like them. "Oh, Luthien's gone crazy--" "He must have put some kind of Enemy sorcery on you--" "What's _wrong_ with you? Don't you care about your mother and me?" "--You always used to be so _responsible_!" 

[Finduilas, getting tired of turning around every time Luthien does another turn up the room, takes a chair from the octagonal table in the center of the room and leans forward, being Very Serious.] 

**Finduilas** : 

But don't you think they have a point? 

**Luthien** : [short laugh]

I'm _here_ , aren't I? 

[pause] 

**Finduilas** : 

I mean, really, to just get engaged to some random stranger you met out walking in the woods? Did you actually think they _wouldn't_ get upset? Even leaving aside the problematic fact that he's a human and not one of the Kindred. 

[Luthien laughs out loud] 

What? Why are you laughing at me? 

**Luthien** : 

That's the family legend, cousin! Don't tell me you haven't heard -- that's what my parents are famous _for_! It's this great romantic story they tell all the time, about how they met, how Dad heard Mom singing and left everything behind to follow her and when he touched her Time stood still for them and neither she nor he ever looked back to Aman after that. I've heard about it all my life from them, about how your priorities change when you meet the the right person and not worrying about what the world thinks and all. They're being raging _hypocrites_ about the whole thing. 

**Finduilas** : [nonplussed]

Well, yes, true, -- 

[recovering] 

\-- but that was _then_. Things were _different_ when they were young. The world is a more complicated place, now, and they have responsibilities, and so do you. You can't expect them to not be at least concerned, and to have grave reservations about it. 

**Luthien** : 

Why? If they really trusted me to be wise and sensible like they _said_ they did, then they would respect my judgment in this too. 

**Finduilas** : 

Now you're being naive, on purpose. 

**Luthien** : 

_Naive_?! 

**Finduilas** : 

You don't really think that anyone looking at it objectively would consider it reasonable or appropriate for you to just enter into a relationship of such magnitude without consulting your elders or taking any advice first? 

**Luthien** : [raising eyebrows]

That's what _they_ did. 

**Finduilas** : 

Yes, but you're the _Princess_ now, you're not just some private individual, not answerable to anyone. You have to take practical matters into consideration, including how it will affect the people around you -- because that's the most important decision in one's life, choosing whom one will marry! 

**Luthien** : [dry]

Then, wouldn't you agree, it's too important to be decided by _committee_? 

**Finduilas** : [shaking her head in exasperation]

Gwin and I thought about it for several decades, before we decided to get engaged, just getting to know each other and making sure it would be a good thing for both of us, and we made sure our families approved first. It's much less trouble-- 

**Luthien** : 

\--Look, _you_ may be indecisive as all get-out, but I've never been used to living my life as a reflection of other people's opinions. I've always gone and done exactly as I pleased, and my parents never had a problem with it. Until now. 

[Finduilas blinks at the sheer bluntness of her dismissal, but decides to overlook it] 

**Finduilas** : 

But what did you expect would happen when you finally told them about him? Or were you even going to? 

**Luthien** : 

I expected that they'd be reasonable and realize that that they'd been mistaken about humans all along, I expected that they'd be sensible enough to see his worth too and that they'd treat him with the respect he deserves. I meant to introduce people to Beren a few at a time, after he wasn't so nervous any more, and have them get to know him in a setting where he was comfortable. 

[bitter smile] 

\--It never occurred to me that _he_ wouldn't know who I was, which I suppose was rather arrogant of me, but I honestly assumed he realized I was the King's daughter and I had no idea otherwise until I had to find him and tell him about the problem, and he said, "You have _parents_?" in this shocked voice -- he thought I really was completely independent and on my own. 

[sighs] 

He wasn't angry though, he just sort of laughed and said, "It figures," in this gloomy way, that he hadn't had anyone trying to kill him for over a year and he shouldn't have expected it to last. 

**Finduilas** : 

But then once you realized they were _not_ going to be pleased, or sympathetic, didn't you have any second thoughts about throwing away your position and your happiness for a Man? 

**Luthien** : 

Finduilas, he isn't just "a Man" -- he's _Beren_. Of all the people I know or have ever met -- he's the most beautiful. 

[Finduilas gives an astonished laugh] 

_What_? 

**Finduilas** : 

Luthien! How can you say that?! _Beautiful_ \--? 

[Luthien just Looks at her] 

He -- he's so scruffy, Luthien! Even when he tries, he still looks such a _mess_! I mean, really, his _hair_ \-- couldn't you have at least cut it for him? 

**Luthien** : [astounded]

Is _that_ what you think is _important_? 

**Finduilas** : 

It isn't just that -- he's got _scars._ And his hair is already going pale the way theirs does-- 

**Luthien** : 

So? My father's hair is completely that color. 

**Finduilas** : [patronizing]

You don't know much about Men, do you? 

[Luthien gives her a Look again] 

It means they're getting _old_. 

**Luthien** : 

Beren's not old, not even by human standards -- you were just complaining about that. 

**Finduilas** : 

It isn't just _that_ , it means that their bodies are starting to wear out. 

**Luthien** : [an edge creeping in]

I heard that Beren made it here from Menegroth half as quickly as I did. And I can go without sleep a lot longer than he can. That doesn't sound _worn out_ to me. 

**Finduilas** : 

But he was in awfully bad shape when he got here. 

**Luthien** : 

\--So was I. It's not much fun travelling cross-country by yourself, without anyone to help you and no proper gear. --But you know, you can do it, and -- you still get there. He's not "worn out" or old, Finduilas, he just went through a horribly stressful time and was very sick for a while afterwards. If you'd ever seen him fight you wouldn't even ask. 

**Finduilas** : 

When did you see him fight? 

**Luthien** : [shrugs]

Well, not _fight_ , exactly, but I've watched him practicing lots of times. 

**Finduilas** : [bewildered]

 _Why_? 

**Luthien** : [holding out her hands]

Because it's _beautiful_. It's like a dance of another kind. Don't you ever watch your Gwin at training? Beren's spectacular -- I think he's as good as Mablung that way. Oh, and they have these dances _with_ swords, real dances, that they do -- used to do -- for Arien, I finally got him to stop being self-conscious and show me, and they're amazing. And rather scary. Just the coordination and the sharp edges and everything-- 

**Finduilas** : 

\-- Luthien, are you _listening_ to yourself? Do you know how twisted that sounds? How -- how _unladylike_? My aunt is a little wierd that way, but with four older brothers encouraging her, everybody kind of expects it. But you -- I mean, _you're_ not a warrior, and -- swords, for the _gods_?! 

**Luthien** : 

What? Just because I don't do it myself doesn't mean I can't appreciate it. 

**Finduilas** : 

But -- don't you think there's something _wrong_ with using violence to honor the Powers? They don't approve of war and weapons. 

**Luthien** : [raises eyebrows]

News to me -- my mother doesn't have a problem with them as such. And didn't they do an awful lot of it themselves before we showed up? The Wild Hunt and the assault on Angband and all? 

**Finduilas** : 

How can you have such a neutral attitude towards fighting? 

**Luthien** : [shrugs in turn]

Maybe because we'd been doing it for centuries before you all arrived. We don't have your superstitious attitude about it. Or about weapons. 

**Finduilas** : 

Superstitious?! 

**Luthien** : [shrugs]

Well, you're obviously very uncomfortable with them, in a "we'd rather pretend it's not something we really do, just on the side, out of necessity," kind of way and I've noticed that before among you Noldor, a lot of you. You just, well, make a bigger deal about it than we do. 

**Finduilas** : [superior tone]

Surely you don't mean to say that you think _War_ is a good thing? 

[Luthien stops pacing and puts her hands on her hips, giving her a very ironic Look] 

**Luthien** : [very dry]

Considering that there was a very real chance of us getting wiped out by Orcs before you ever showed up, and we stopped it only with appalling casualty levels, and considering that we _still_ have to deal with incursions -- and therefore casualties -- on a regular basis along the borders, and considering that my mother, and her assistants, and that includes _me_ , are the ones to deal with the consequences -- the chances of that are pretty fair slim, wouldn't you say? --How many poisoned arrows have _you_ had to dig out of people lately, cousin? 

[Finduilas gives an incredulous laugh, not sure she's serious] 

What, you've _never_ had to cut metal fragments out of someone before? Without letting them bleed to death while you're at it? It's not _my_ idea of fun, either. 

**Finduilas** : 

_We_ have trained specialists to do that kind of work properly. Anyhow, you're changing the subject. 

**Luthien** : 

No, I'm _not_. You already did. 

**Finduilas** : 

Honestly, Luthien, that's rather childish, don't you think? The point is, that he won't live very long, no matter what. Not by our standards. And then what? 

[earnestly] 

Have you _thought_ about this? About the fact he can't possibly live more than sixty years more, at most? And that for most of those -- if he lives so long -- he'll be decrepit? And afterwards he won't be waiting for you in Aman, either. 

**Luthien** : [wide-eyed]

\-- _Thank-you_ for putting it so clearly, I _never_ would have guessed that, despite the fact that we rent a quarter of our western frontier to mortals and we've only been hearing about them from Finrod since they first showed up in Beleriand. 

[raising her voice slightly] 

_Of course_ I understand that Beren's people are more fragile and short-lived than we are! What I don't understand is why _you_ are all so blasé about the fact that your _King_ is in prison, isn't it _stranger_ that you don't seem to care about getting your people out than that _I_ want to get my true-love out -- and you're treating me like _I'm_ the irrational one here? 

[pause] 

**Finduilas** : 

You don't have to be so rude. But I understand that you're still exhausted and extremely stressed, so I'm making allowances. 

[Luthien only stares at her, then runs her hands through her hair, making it stand up even more, and turns away to look at the "window" that shows mountains in the distance, putting her palm flat against the carving.] 

**Luthien** : [leaden voice]

\--Yes. I'm that. Thank you, cousin. 

**Finduilas** : 

And what if you have _children_? What will _they_ be? 

**Luthien** : [turning back]

Er, -- _people_? 

**Finduilas** : [exasperated]

Please try to be serious. I meant, would they be Elves or mortals? Can you even _have_ children together? 

**Luthien** : 

I don't know. As far as we know we're the first mixed-race couple in history. Except for my parents, of course. 

[raises her hands] 

\--Does it matter? 

**Finduilas** : [still more exasperated]

Luthien, I'm trying to have a serious conversation! 

**Luthien** : 

Why do you think I'm not? If we can, we can. If we can't, we can't. Worrying about it won't change things. Mortals aren't guaranteed children either -- nobody's actually _guaranteed_ anything in life, are they, really? I mean, look at what happened to the gods! 

**Finduilas** : 

But what will you _do_ after he dies? I know it isn't the same, but still -- it would be awfully _strange_ to marry a second time. I can't imagine what anyone else would think of it, how they would feel, _knowing_ . . . It almost seems _indecent_ , frankly. 

[Luthien turns around abruptly] 

**Luthien** : [disbelieving]

Why would I _want_ to marry anyone else? 

**Finduilas** : 

But . . . but you'll be . . . you'll be all _alone_. 

**Luthien** : 

I never wanted to marry anyone before I met Beren. Why should I think that would ever change? 

**Finduilas** : 

But . . . eventually you'll meet your soulmate, of course, and what then? 

**Luthien** : [gesturing widely]

Finduilas -- he _is_ my soulmate. I will never love another. --Who could _compare_? It would be _unjust_ to anyone else to set him against Beren. 

**Finduilas** : [nervous laugh]

You're so melodramatic, Luthien. You can't _mean_ it. 

**Luthien** : 

\--Are you so blind that you really can't see past externals? --That fine clothes and combed hair are the most important things to you? You'd never make it in the woods. 

**Finduilas** : 

It isn't just that, it's _everything_. The -- the _gulf_ , of background, culture, everything that goes with age -- I don't see how it could work. I mean, yes, he's certainly a _hero_ , and I do appreciate his valiant efforts against Morgoth, but when all is said and done there isn't anything he can actually _do_ except _kill_ _things_ , is there? 

**Luthien** : [shaking her head, wry]

Is that what he said? He's too shy. He sings beautifully. And he has the true dancer's grace. 

**Finduilas** : 

Now _you're_ sounding superficial. --Aren't you? 

**Luthien** : [looking up at the ceiling]

No, -- I was just trying to correct your misunderstanding that he has no talent, that he's inferior because he doesn't care about art. That's just not _true_. 

**Finduilas** : 

But does he _make_ anything? He said _not_ , to Celebrimbor. 

**Luthien** : 

Finduilas, when would he have had _time_ to make anything, or learn to make anything? He was hunted like a wild animal for most of the last ten years, while he was hunting down Orcs and trying to defend the last holdouts who hadn't fled the North-country already. --Do you know he had to bury his father and family and all his friends? I cried when he told me how his dad didn't want to send him to find out if it was true that Sauron himself had come out from the Fortress to get them, because he was afraid he'd never see him again, and -- it was _true_ , but not that way. Can you _imagine_ living that kind of life? 

**Finduilas** : [nodding]

Oh, so it's that you felt _sorry_ for him. Well, I can understand that, but -- to risk your life, your happiness, because of sentimentality is rather excessive. Spouses should be equals -- that's what "match" means, after all. _Pity_ isn't enough to make a lasting relationship. 

**Luthien** : 

No, I'd been seeing him for some time before he told me about the really miserable bits -- I only knew some of the legends of Beren, and frankly I was more than a bit intimidated and figured he'd think I was rather silly and useless compared to him. --And _now_ you're going to say, "Hero-worship isn't enough to build a relationship on." Right? 

[Finduilas gives her a Look, but doesn't say anything.] 

I've got _Ages_ of practice at this -- I only did it half the summer, I can probably do both sides of the argument if you want to leave. 

**Finduilas** : 

Please don't be so hostile, cousin. I'm only trying to _help_ you, because I don't think you've really thought things through. Being sarcastic doesn't help matters any. 

**Luthien** : 

I'm tired of this being treated like a fool. I thought you were on _our_ side, and now you're doing it too! Didn't you _talk_ to him while he was here? You must have seen how kind and intelligent and noble he is -- 

**Finduilas** : 

\--Luthien. Look me in the eyes and tell me: Do you _truly_ believe he is -- could possibly be -- your _equal_? 

**Luthien** : 

_Yes_. 

**Finduilas** : [knowing look]

You're just _saying_ that. 

**Luthien** : [angry]

No, I'm not! --Well, yes, I _am_ just saying it, but I'm "just saying it" because I _just believe_ it. I wouldn't "just say" it if it was otherwise. What's wrong with you? 

**Finduilas** : 

I'm just afraid that you've put yourself into the position where you have to keep saying and defending what you've started out because you're too proud and too committed to keeping your own opinions to actually be objective.  I don't think you're being fully honest when you say that you think you're really suited well. I think you're rushing into things. I grant completely that Lord Beren is a wonderful human being -- but he's still a human, not an Elf. 

**Luthien** : [icy]

You might have gathered I'm not very pleased with my parents right now, but one thing in my father's benefit -- he's at least consistent. He doesn't despise mortals but use them anyway. 

**Finduilas** : 

You're putting words into my mouth, Luthien! That isn't what I said. 

**Luthien** : 

No? Because it sure sounds like it. That _you_ , at least, think they're good enough to fight your war and get killed in it, but not as good as real people. 

**Finduilas** : 

You're reading things into what I said that aren't there. I just don't see how this can _work_. What can you possibly have to talk about, for example? How can you converse on the same level? --What do you see in him as a potential consort? 

[silence] 

**Luthien** : 

\-- _The world_. 

[brief pause] 

Finduilas, the way he _sees_ it -- the way he simply revels in learning about it, about everything, about music and trees and the names of the Stars and the stories and making things and _everything_ \-- it's as though I'd never seen it properly, all the things I thought I knew and understood and have taken for granted for centuries, and now he's learning them all for the first time, and _I'm_ seeing it new as well--! 

**Finduilas** : [very knowing tone]

That doesn't sound anything like a match of equals. It _sounds_ like you enjoy having him around because he's so much more ignorant than you that he can't help but look up to you, and that makes you in turn feel like a Sage, because it's incredibly flattering to have such unquestioning respect and admiration. 

[kindly] 

\--Which is understandable. **Luthien** : 

You're quite wrong about that. Beren isn't ignorant, he knows _lots_ of things -- his mind's like a dark mirror -- 

**Finduilas** : [frowns]

\--That doesn't sound attractive at all 

**Luthien** : [exasperated]

Haven't you ever seen a pool at midnight when it's so black you can't even see the trees in it, only the stars are reflected with absolute clarity and it seems like it goes on forever, it's so deep--? That's what his thoughts are like, he just _observes_ , with this amazing detail, and the faintest light is caught and noticed -- and then it's as if it _changes_ , like the same pool freezing over, only instead of ice it's silver, and everything's reflected brightly and light is cast on all kinds of things nobody else ever saw before, and that's what talking to him is like. --Why are you so worried about _me_ when-- 

**Finduilas** : 

\--Well, it _is_ worrying. It's unprecedented, it's very strange, and you just keep trailing off when you're asked about _him_ as if you're embarrassed about it all or talking as though unable to say anything sensible,  so what else are we supposed to think? 

**Luthien** : 

No, that isn't it at all--! Do you -- _you_ don't just talk about your private moments in public with everyone, do you? To people you don't know very well at all? Especially when everyone's been unsympathetic to it earlier and all your friends have deserted you. 

**Finduilas** : 

Well, he left you too, so you could say _he_ deserted you as well. 

**Luthien** : 

No, _deserting me_ would have been if he'd said, "--I'm really sorry, it's been great knowing you, but I'm going west to see if I can find any of my own people left and settle down with a nice mortal girl who doesn't have insane relatives giving me the choice between death, life imprisonment or a task that all the Kings of Arda and all their armies couldn't manage between them." Which, if he'd said it, I really couldn't have blamed him very well, either. Finduilas, Beren and I . . . he . . . he's -- I'm doing it _again_. 

[shakes her head, laughing bitterly at herself] 

All right, little cousin, you want _details_ , you want to know it _all_ , you want to _understand_. I will tell you -- but you have to promise not to be negative about it, not make sarcastic remarks while I'm telling the story. 

[she sits down on the bench across from Finduilas' chair, under one of the "windows"] 

So -- what do you want to know first? 

**Finduilas** : 

Well, you've never even really explained how you two met -- I thought _no_ _one_ could get into Doriath without your mother's permission. Were you outside the borders somehow? 

**Luthien** : 

No, he just walked right through them without even noticing them. And Mom never knew he was there, either. 

[darkly] 

\--Which should have told them something right away. 

**Finduilas** : 

How could it, if they didn't know he was there? 

[Luthien closes her eyes, rubbing her temples] 

**Luthien** : 

I meant, when they found out. 

**Finduilas** : 

Oh -- I see. So you _really_ just ran into each other, completely randomly, without any introductions or anything, without knowing who the other one was, and decided that you were soulmates just like that. with just one look? Honestly, Luthien, that doesn't make any sense! How many people do you really know who haven't grown up together, or at least known each other for Great Years, before falling in love? 

[Luthien starts to open her mouth] 

And you're going to say _your parents_ again, aren't you? 

[pause] 

**Luthien** : [deadpan, loftily]

\--It was a very _long_ look. 

[Finduilas glares at her] 

It was a little more complicated than _that_. It seemed like coincidence at the time, but I'm not sure really . . . was it coincidence for my parents? I just felt one night that I had to go to the upper reaches of Esgalduin -- I guess it was like Beren deciding he had to come down into Doriath, that that was where he was supposed to be, except that I didn't have any wargs hunting me, of course. I said to Daeron, "Let's go to Neldoreth, we haven't worked in Neldoreth for such a long time." And he said, "Because there's no one _in_ Neldoreth," and I said, "Except trees," and he said, "Oh, well, _trees_! That's rather boring, don't you think? They're not very appreciative an audience." And I started teasing him about being too vain to be a proper Sage, that the truly enlightened don't care about applause and that he was just concerned to impress the Singers, and if he was _that_ lazy I'd just go by myself, I didn't really _need_ an accompanist-- So he made this show of "Oh, the things I put up with for little Luthien, catering to her every whim," and we went . . . 

[she stops, looking into the middle distance] 

**Finduilas** : [reminding]

Luthien . . . 

**Luthien** : [wry laugh]

\--Right. 

[giving herself a little shake] 

Anyway, we went to Neldoreth, and Beren heard us and came to investigate -- and that's another sad thing about it all, Daeron hating him and Beren having no more idea of it than I, because _he_ simply admired Daeron's performance skills and compositional abilities without limit. Daeron couldn't have asked for a more appreciative audience, Beren had never heard anything like it -- not that anyone _has_ , of course, Daeron really is _that_ _good_ \-- but not even remotely similar, their music's completely different from ours-- 

**Finduilas** : [patronizing]

 _Well_. In _quality_ perhaps. 

**Luthien** : [checking]

What do you mean? 

**Finduilas** : 

Well, Men don't really _have_ any culture of their own -- they've borrowed it all from us, you know, starting with the language. 

[pause] 

**Luthien** : [chilly]

That isn't what Finrod says. He's always talked about the _creativity_ of mortals and their ability to make new things, to _adapt_. 

**Finduilas** : [uncomfortable]

Oh. Well. He would. 

**Luthien** : 

Explain, please? 

**Finduilas** : 

Well -- everyone knows my uncle is an incurable extrovert, going around talking to everybody, Dwarves and the Nandor and the coastal folk and the locals and-- 

[breaks off] 

**Luthien** : [very dry]

\--Us? 

**Finduilas** : 

. . . 

**Luthien** : 

Sorry -- do go on--? 

**Finduilas** : 

. . . but mortals have always been a particular hobby of his. Very likely because they _are_ so ignorant and helpless on their own, not like the Naugrim or the native tribes. 

[Luthien gives her a shrewd look.] 

**Luthien** : 

\-- _Really_. You don't say. 

[aside] 

I wonder where you got _that_ from. Not from listening to _him!_

[aloud] 

Well, I don't agree with you on the matter of culture. But anyway, you wanted to know about the _romantic_ parts, and you were _supposed_ to not keep interrupting me and making caustic remarks. 

[looks severely at Finduilas] 

Do you want me to go on, or not? 

**Finduilas** : [contrite]

I'm sorry. Please keep going. 

**Luthien** : [tossing her head]

Right, then. --Beren came right out, he had no idea how surprised we would be, of course, and Daeron shouted to me that there was a stranger, and took off, but I just stood there, I couldn't believe it, until I saw this shadow out in the open at the edge of the wood, and I still couldn't believe it, because I couldn't recognize anything about it -- I had no sense of any sort whatsoever looking at him, and Daeron was calling me like I was an idiot, and then I got scared and disappeared into the woods as well -- and he vanished too. 

**Finduilas** : 

_Vanished_? 

**Luthien** : 

Completely - there was no sign of him after, and we decided we must have been startled by shadows, or an animal, and laughed at ourselves afterwards, because we knew that no enemy could have come through the Maze. 

[getting indignant again] 

And there, you see, is the thing that's the crux of this whole stupidity. If Daeron _really_ thought that Beren was a danger to us, to Doriath or to me -- then why did he wait for almost half the year before even breathing a word of Beren's presence in the woods? He knew perfectly well that Beren was _not_ evil, _not_ dangerous, and _not_ a threat, and any attempt to justify his behavior by claiming "good intentions" is just so much nonsense. If he really had them, he should have gone straight to my parents and our captains and got them out there that night, and not gone sneaking around for nearly two seasons _dithering_ about it. 

**Finduilas** : [trying to put the best construction on it]

Well . . . perhaps he just wanted to be sure . . . 

**Luthien** : 

You don't even believe that, and you're saying it. So -- was it at first sight? _No_ , for me: I saw a shadow. One that frightened me -- but not like anything _fell_ , not like the fear of hearing a wolfpack on the borders or waiting for casualties to come in from a battle or like the sense you get when the wind is blowing steadily out of Angband for days. It was like . . . 

[long pause, Finduilas clears her throat politely] 

\--It was like the start you get when you're out on a clear day and not a cloud in sight and the sun is suddenly cut off, and you realize it's not a cloud -- that shadow on the ground is _wings_ , and you look up quick in hopes you don't miss them before they're past. 

**Finduilas** : [short laugh, quickly stifled]

Are you trying to say that he was a divine messenger?! 

**Luthien** : 

No, I was saying it was _like_ that, that sense that of something meaningful and important -- _real_ fear, not because of anything so trivial as physical danger, but because you realize that here is something _different_ : a change, a choice, -- a challenge, and you can either accept it or refuse it but you can't _not_ do either. --Haven't you ever had anything like that in your life? 

[Findilas looks away nervously] 

Oh, of _course_ \-- the Return. _That_ was a decision you had to make, right, not let other people make it for you. --Or did you? 

**Finduilas** : [severely]

You don't know what you're talking about, Luthien, so please _stop_. 

[forcibly returning the conversation to topic] 

But obviously _that_ wasn't what made you decide you were soul-mates, or Daeron betray you -- it doesn't sound like under normal circumstances you'd ever have ended up together, from what you've just told me. 

**Luthien** : 

Yes, -- _obviously_ \-- there's more. 

[sighs] 

I couldn't help having this nagging conviction that there really _had_ been someone there, and that because nothing evil could get through, I shouldn't have been afraid, and that I needed to find out who or what was there. So I went back, many times, and I even dragged Daeron into Neldoreth again once or twice, in case it was the flute-playing that had been the important part, but although I sometimes thought perhaps someone _was_ there, some sort of unknown presence, I never saw him again. 

[smiling in spite of herself] 

\--Until I decided to call the Spring _there_ , and he came as if from nowhere and joined me in my dancing and I was so astonished I didn't even react at first -- here I'd been _looking_ , and then when I wasn't, he _appeared_ \-- and I didn't know what to say or do, and he put his arms around me as if he knew me since forever, and I was so startled I just ducked away and ran. And he followed me, and called my name, and it was as if the whole silent forest called out to me then . . . 

[long silence] 

**Finduilas:** [very strained]

Was _he_ afraid of _you_ before that? Was that why he stayed hidden? 

**Luthien** : 

No, he _wanted_ to speak to me, but he couldn't manage to do so until that night. 

**Finduilas** : 

Why? 

**Luthien** : 

He didn't know why, he just _couldn't_. Every time he wanted to approach and talk to me it was as though he were bound and gagged, and he could only watch until I was gone, and then follow me. 

**Finduilas** : [appalled]

So not only was he a complete stranger, but you're saying he was _crazy_ as well? And you wonder why your parents were upset! 

**Luthien** : 

No! They didn't know about that. And he _wasn't_ crazy. Not much. It was just something he had no control over. 

**Finduilas** : 

That's part of what "being crazy" entails, Luthien. 

**Luthien** : [gesturing fiercely]

But you've seen him -- you know he's as sane as I am. It was just circumstances. --Not like Feanor, who did it to himself, from what everyone's said. Beren's not _dangerous_. 

**Finduilas** : 

He's a warrior, Luthien, _of course_ he's dangerous. Add mental disturbance to that and -- what were you _thinking_?! 

[silence] 

**Luthien** : [very softly]

 _He called my name_. He called my name, and I knew from the first instant I heard his voice that he would never ill-wish me, never harm me, and I stopped and waited for him, because I _had_ to, and he came running up to me and -- I _saw_ him -- Not a shadow, but _him_ , his eyes, he -- he was like the brightest of fire, brighter than anyone else I've ever met, and -- he kissed me, and everything . . . just . . . _stopped_ . . . we could have stood there for hours, just looking at each other -- 

[ruefully] 

\--we _did_ , because all the sudden the nightingales weren't singing, the blackbirds were, and the sky was getting light and I panicked because I was so far from home and it was the first day of Spring and everything we had to do for it that I hadn't even started and I was -- rather -- overwhelmed, and I went dashing off before he could call me again or before I even remembered to ask _his_ name . . . 

[silence] 

Finduilas, he called my _name_ \-- 

**Finduilas** : [coolly]

How did he know it? Did he spy on you and Daeron talking? 

**Luthien** : 

No, you don't understand, it was _my own_ name, not Luthien, not my old one, the first one anyone had ever given me -- except "little" and that's hardly a proper aftername, is it? 

[softly] 

He called me "Nightingale" . . . 

[Finduilas says nothing, with visible effort] 

**Luthien** : [rapt]

I went back home and all that day it was as if I was _two_ people, not one, the calm ordinary one on the outside that everyone saw, just plain old Luthien, doing her rituals and tasks and practicing and walking around on the earth, and -- someone _new_ , someone who was soaring through the air, singing, as though the nightingale had become a lark, someone who didn't just _belong_ as part of Doriath, but who owned the whole world, who could do _anything_ , because a mirror had been held up to me and for the first time I saw that I had wings -- and _no one noticed_. 

[shakes her head, frowning slightly] 

And then at sunset I walked back to Neldoreth, and I was so frightened, I didn't know if it was real anymore, or if -- I just wandered around, hardly knowing what direction to take -- and I found him, as if I couldn't have not found him, and he was so different, not the tireless hunter who'd been following me but someone exhausted and sad, just lying there on the ground by the stream -- 

[in a rush] 

\-- and that's _not_ what drew me, that he was weak, all right? -- 

[sighing] 

and when I went up to him and touched his face and he _looked_ at me and the amazement in his eyes -- I knew he'd been as afraid as I was that it wasn't real, that I wouldn't come back, and I knew I hadn't set my heart too high or in vain . . . 

**Finduilas** : 

Why would you think otherwise? 

**Luthien** : 

I didn't know what kind of spirit he was -- he'd disappeared before, he had come through the security system without getting caught in it, you never know who you might meet in a forest-- 

**Finduilas** : [trying not to smile]

You -- you thought he was a Power in disguise, like your mother?! 

**Luthien** : [intensely]

I didn't say that, I only said I didn't know _what_ he might be, I couldn't tell-- I just knew then that he was _real_ , that he was someone I could never have imagined, a strange dominion given to me alone to explore, and know, and understand, and that I could never have dreamed such richness existed, and that _this_ was what I had been choosing towards since that first glimpse of a strange shadow on a Summer night -- and so _yes_ , it was a very long look after all. 

[longish silence, Luthien looks hopefully and anxiously at Finduilas, who is impassive.] 

**Finduilas** : 

Well. That's a very unique story --if most unconventional. 

**Luthien** : [snapping back into combat mode again just like that]

You want _unconventional_ , you should listen to my parents when it's really late, or _early_ , rather, and the wine's been flowing and they're getting all sentimental and reminiscing about the oldest days. _Then_ you'll hear the story about the first time my father saw my mother and she was taking a nap in some leaves and he touched her hair and got knocked out for probably _years_ before he woke up and went looking for her again. I tell you, we've got _nothing_ on them. 

**Finduilas** : [dismissive]

Oh, well, people are like that. 

[superior tone] 

But can't one sort of see why Daeron might feel justified in spying on you? If you'd been encouraging Beren-- 

**Luthien** : 

\--Don't make _me_ responsible for Daeron's neuroses! If he'd actually _used_ that famous mind of his none of this would have happened. --Probably. I wasn't encouraging Beren to spy on me, I was trying to encourage him to reveal himself -- if he was really there. I didn't know. All I _knew_ was that there seemed to be an invisible presence watching over me in Neldoreth -- a benevolent one -- but nothing I'd ever heard or sensed before, but still -- _familiar_ , somehow. 

**Finduilas** : 

That doesn't sound romantic at all -- it just sounds _creepy_. 

**Luthien** : [frustrated]

It wasn't creepy -- it was a little spooky that he was able to sneak up on me twice -- only the first time was sort of by accident, and it was really funny, actually, because there I was standing so perfectly hidden that he almost walked right into me, I must have jumped ten feet -- but that's because he just _disappears_ when he's in the forest, he's not just _quiet_ , no one can even sense him, not even Beleg -- except I can, now -- his mind just _changes_ and becomes perfectly still, like a fox's. 

**Finduilas** : 

That _still_ sounds creepy. 

**Luthien** : 

Well, it _isn't_ \-- you've met him, he isn't _creepy_ , -- he's _Beren_. It -- I -- Oh, honestly! Do you think _Huan's_ creepy, having _him_ around, having him watching you? 

**Finduilas** : 

You're just making it sound worse and worse. 

**Luthien** : [raising her hands for a moment, letting them fall into her lap]

 _You're_ just choosing not to understand. 

**Finduilas** : [thoughtful]

Wait - you said you hadn't _worked_ in Neldoreth for a while; that means you weren't just dancing, you were wielding an awful lot of power, both yours and the land's, correct? 

**Luthien** : [wary]

Yes . . . 

**Finduilas** : [meaningfully]

So he got caught in a Working. I _see_. 

**Luthien** : [wary]

What's _that_ supposed to mean? 

**Finduilas** : [condescending]

 _Mortals_ can't cope with power unshielded and without precautions. Something that has only the appropriate effect on one of us has much more drastic and unpredictable impacts on them -- though of course you couldn't be expected to know that. If he just wandered into the middle of it like that, with no idea even of what was happening to him, it would be almost like training the horses, like a yearling being calmed for saddle or a foal imprinting -- he wouldn't be able to _help_ it. And with the _forest's_ power invoked too, -- no wonder he never wanted to leave that area. He was simply _bound_ to it, and you. 

**Luthien** : 

_No_. That's not true. 

**Finduilas** : [sympathetically]

Look, I do understand why you wouldn't want to believe that, because well, it isn't very flattering to think that someone is only attracted to you because of something that might as well be no more than animal instinct, as well as the fact that you must be feeling responsible already for the difficulties it's caused, but one does have to face facts-- 

**Luthien** : [interrupting, shaking her head]

\--No, you _don't_ understand -- perhaps it was like that a little, at first, but -- _no_ \-- Beren's not under any working of mine, you might as well say he put a working on _me_ , with his voice! He really _does_ love me-- 

**Finduilas** : 

But how could you _tell_? It doesn't sound like the action of a rational individual uncontrolled by anything to be willing to just obey a mad, impossible, and suicidal order without even stopping to think about it, does it? It sounds like -- and _please_ don't get angry, cousin -- someone who's been brainwashed by the Enemy, really. Are you really sure that he's _in_ _love_ with you, or has he only been overwhelmed by your aura instead? 

**Luthien** : 

Beren doesn't do _anything_ without a reason -- granted it might be a really horrific reason, like taking on Sauron single-handed because there wasn't anyone else left to do it -- but he isn't this weak-minded person who just does things because someone else wants him to. It might seem like a completely insane decision to you, but if it's the only way to do it, like taking on an entire company of Orcs to recover his father's hand, or crossing the Ered Gorgoroth, then he figures out the most simple way and just starts and keeps on til he's done it. If my father had actually _listened_ to me talking about him he wouldn't have expected that asking for the wretched jewel would _ever_ deter Beren from claiming my hand. How can I d-- 

**Finduilas** : [breaking in]

\--Now you're making him sound rather frighteningly disturbed again. 

[Luthien runs her hands wildly through her hair again, with the suggestion of one only barely restrained from screaming] 

**Luthien** : 

Either I'm not explaining very well or you're not listening very well. Beren is unlike anyone I've ever met, in the best way possible, and when I met him I finally understood exactly why your uncle would want to put so much time and effort into working with mortals when he doesn't have enough time to do the things he really wants to do anyway, and more than enough work already. 

**Finduilas** : [sharply]

I don't know what you mean. My uncle always does just what he wants, going off wandering about talking to people instead of finishing the projects he's already working on. 

[Luthien does not miss her discomfort at every mention of Finrod in the conversation] 

**Luthien** : [rather condescending]

\--You don't _know_ what he does, _do_ you? 

**Finduilas** : [defensive]

What do you mean? 

**Luthien** : [amazed]

You really _don't_. I always _wondered_ when he and your aunt would joke about how odd it was that they'd let a dilettante dreamer like him be in charge, whether they were really joking or whether it wasn't a bit serious. And now I know I was right. 

**Finduilas** : [annoyed out of gentility]

Would you please explain yourself or stop being cryptic, Luthien? 

**Luthien** : 

Do you have any idea how many minor wars and territorial disputes he's stopped or averted, just by "wandering about talking to people?" Do you have any idea how much chaos you all threw Beleriand into by just turning up out of the dark and carving up the countryside? Cutting down trees and sticking up towers on sacred sites and insulting people you didn't even know existed? Not to mention the fact that a lot of the Kindred blamed you for the Sun anyway. If he wasn't so good at "wandering about talking to people" do you think things would have been so easy for you? 

**Finduilas** : 

Why would anyone blame us for the _Sun_? Do you mean those tribes of nomads in the hills? Isn't everyone happy to have the light? --Except for fell things, of course. They should be grateful that we came to save them from the Enemy! 

**Luthien** : [sighing]

Oh, honestly, I'm too tired to try to explain a thousand years of politics and cultural upheaval to -- from scratch. 

[aside] 

\--to someone who clearly hasn't been paying attention to the last half-millenium of them! 

[aloud] 

Short version -- _Shade_ is nice. Finding your large familiar boulders chopped up and turned into a watchtower _isn't_. People riding through on big noisy animals with lots of other big noisy animals looking to kill other animals noisily is very disturbing to people who don't kill anything, _ever_. Sometimes it's hard to see what's so much more preferrable about you lot, and you've no idea the amount of damage that a determined bunch of saboteurs can do in a very short time. Part of the Singers' frustration with Men, I'm sure, was spillover from having been pushed out by Noldor for so long. "Oh no, not _more_ of them, from the _other_ side of the world!" and so on. 

**Finduilas** : 

Surely you're exaggerating. --But you've changed the subject again. 

**Luthien** : 

I'm not and I haven't. Pay attention when people talk, sometime, you'd be surprised. They have a word for you, you know. " _Swarn_ " -- it means someone who's so stubborn that it's just impossible to work with them. Finrod think's it's funny -- but true. 

**Finduilas** : [sighing]

We were talking about -- about you and Beren, not about _politics_. 

**Luthien** : 

I thought earlier you were saying it was the same thing. I agree, I just don't see it as a _bad_ thing. It wouldn't hurt Doriath to have his perspective and lore to add to our own, how could it? 

**Finduilas** : 

But are you being fair to _him_? Have you thought about it from _his_ point of view? 

**Luthien** : [dangerous]

\--Explanation, if you don't mind? 

**Finduilas** : [voice of reason]

How could he ever _hope_ to have a normal life with you, even if your parents hadn't reacted so badly? Wouldn't it have been better -- from _his_ standpoint -- to go to his own kind and find one of them for a mate? At least that way he could have had a home and a family and a place where he would have _belonged_ , after all. Don't you think you're being rather selfish, even if _he_ wouldn't ever say so? 

**Luthien** : 

No, actually not. I'm not so arrogant as to say that no one else could have healed him, or that he might not have been able to recover on his own, but after what happened to him in Dorthonion all those years, and then the Mountains of Terror on top of that, he was _not_ well at all. Even a season in Neldoreth had only _begun_ to diminish his stress levels, and you know how peaceful that area is -- 

[frowns] 

\-- no, actually you might not, since you've never visited, but it _is_ \-- and he'd been isolated so long he could hardly talk. As you've so kindly pointed out, I haven't your family's experience of mortals, but I got the strong impression from Beren's stories that it _isn't_ considered normal among Men to live year-round in the woods and on the heath in complete solitude, and that he wouldn't have fit back into their society at all. Though in Doriath, if he hadn't been human, no one would have blinked at it. 

**Finduilas** : [genteel shiver]

I still don't understand how you could have _dared_ to let him touch you that night. 

**Luthien** : [forced patience]

Because I could tell he was Good the way I could tell Huan was Good even if I didn't know exactly what he was. 

**Finduilas** : 

But you couldn't know that-- 

**Luthien** : 

Well, yes, I _did_ \-- 

**Finduilas** : 

But you were taking such a risk--! 

**Luthien** : [giving up, flippant]

No I wasn't, it's not as though anyone can catch me out in the open. 

**Finduilas** : 

Our cousins did. 

**Luthien** : 

That wasn't _them_ , that was Huan. 

**Finduilas** : [shrugging]

Well, anyway that's irrelevant. The crucial issue is that you're not the same as he is, and vice versa, and you never will be. It _can't_ end happily. 

[silence] 

I'm right, aren't I? 

**Luthien** : [matter-of-factly]

Nope. At least about us being _different_. _That's_ the irrelevant part. I don't expect that things will be easy for us, or that we won't have unhappiness. And about _endings_ \-- I've seen far too many people die of grief -- though not lately, thanks to Mom -- either by fading or going out and getting killed with stupid risks, to think that _anyone_ gets a happy ending. Not our Kindred, or his. --Haven't you? 

[Finduilas says nothing] 

And what you said before? That's not any different from my parents, either. My mother's not just immortal, she's _an Immortal_. Since as far as I can tell from _her_ nobody knows what's going to happen when the world ends, and since _you're_ so very sure that _we're_ all just going to _stop_ , and that's it, then they're in _exactly_ the same position _we_ are, by your standards. 

[pause] 

**Finduilas** : 

But -- they'll have thousands upon thousands of years together, just like everyone else. 

**Luthien** : 

So? That's just longer. It isn't _different_. 

**Finduilas** : 

Did you raise that point with her? 

**Luthien** : 

Of course. 

**Finduilas** : 

What did she say? 

**Luthien** : [bitter smile]

What she always says, when you say something she doesn't like. Which is to say, _nothing_. 

[pause] 

**Finduilas** : [rallying & going on again]

But really, it comes right back to one thing -- the fact that he's _mortal_. He isn't like us, and he never _can_ be. Their fate is _different_ , and it doesn't make sense to become so involved with someone who can't belong to Arda the way we do, and whom you shan't ever see again after such a short time. You're only setting yourself up for misery, can't you see?. 

[silence] 

**Luthien** : [slowly]

So . . . from what you're saying, the logical conclusion would be . . . that the _Trees_ weren't really valuable either, because they died. _They_ shouldn't have been loved, either, then, isn't that so? 

**Finduilas** : [shocked]

 _Luthien_! How can you _say_ such things? 

**Luthien** : 

What? It's true -- it _does_ follow. 

**Finduilas** : [standing up in agitation]

But that -- that's -- that's blasphemy! You can't talk about the Trees that way! 

**Luthien** : 

Why not? You're saying that Men aren't worth caring about because they don't live as long as we do. Well, everyone here has outlived the Trees, and if you're going to say it about one then you've got to say it about the other. You shouldn't have loved them so much in Aman, since they were mortal, too. 

**Finduilas** : [appalled, gesticulating]

You -- you just equated _him_ with the Two Trees! Luthien, you -- I'm not going to listen to any more of this, you're just _too_ outrageous, -- though I suppose you can't help it because you never saw them. But -- it -- it's _absurd_ , ludicrous, indecent -- you can't compare any mere person to the Trees, it's an insult to the Earthqueen to even _think_ of it, let _alone_ a human! 

[Finduilas is overcome with sputtering agitation, shaking her head and looking away at the ceiling. Luthien just waits until she settles down.] 

**Luthien** : 

Finduilas. You've _met_ him. Look at me -- look me in the eyes, and tell me -- that he isn't as much of a person as you or I. 

[silence] 

**Finduilas** : [stubbornly]

It's still _wrong_. It just _is_. 

[pause] 

**Luthien** : 

Well, you don't have to _approve_. I'm not looking for that -- only help saving him. Which ought to be _your_ top prior-- 

**Finduilas** : [over her]

\--You really don't care what anyone else thinks, do you? That's so arrogant! 

**Luthien** : [bemused]

 _Arrogant_? Arrogant is people deciding that they know better than _me_ what's good for me. Arrogant is people _telling_ me what they think I want to hear and going and doing something else altogether. _Arrogant_ is -- telling me I'm going to be _grateful_ for it somewhere down the road. 

**Finduilas** : [frowning a little]

I really think you should have given Daeron more of a chance. 

**Luthien** : [shaking her head]

I feel like I'm walking around in circles. Now that we're back here again, can we _stop_? I'm terribly tired and this isn't helping any. 

**Finduilas** : [instantly solicitous]

Oh, of course! I'm so sorry. Can I get you anything before you go to bed? Something to drink? 

**Luthien** : [sighs]

No, thank you, cousin. Just -- make sure you get me up as soon as your father's free. 

**Finduilas** : 

O--of course. 

[Finduilas leaves; Luthien stands still afterwards for several minutes before going over to shut the door. She pulls a pair of chairs out from the inlaid table in the middle of the solar to the fire, but then sits down in one of them, staring into the flames, instead of preparing for sleep. After a moment she sighs and leans back, looking up at the star-gilded ceiling.] 

**Luthien** : [whispering]

I can't even convince Finduilas now . . . --We're _doomed_ . . .   


	19. Act III: SCENE VII

**Gower** :

Half-mad or horn-mad, the lunatic believes him sober-sane,  
and in his ranting plots perceiveth not the shape of his own bane--

[The royal apartments -- Celegorm is rocking back in his chair, laughing, while Curufin walks up and down before the hearth, reading from a scroll in his hand]

 **Celegorm** :

Oh, that's just too perfect! Oh, I _wish_ I could see his face then -- let's have that last bit again --

 **Curufin** :

    Right, then:

[reads]

" _Since you haven't managed to hold onto your own daughter, it seems you're not fit to have care of her, and (just as with the rest of Middle-earth) the task of caretaking having fallen to_ us _, we will undertake to defend her from the perils of the dubious lands we found her wandering unescorted in -- and do (no doubt) a far better job of it. After all, we could hardly do_ worse _, seeing as you've been unable to maintain the security of your vaunted borders, against even a solitary Mortal. With all_ due _regards -- this by me, Curufin Atarin Feanorion of the House of Finwe, for Celegorm Turcofin Feanorion of the House of Finwe, of the Dominion of Nargothrond._

_PS: No need to send a present, we're provided for just fine here, and we'd not care to deprive you of any of the little you've managed to" -- heh -- "hold on to. But we do expect a good dinner when we come to visit next --_ Father-in-Law _."_

**Celegorm** : [wipes eyes, gesturing]

He's going to go completely critical -- absolute boilover and meltdown -- where _do_ you come up with these things?

 **Curufin** :

My favorite's the bit where it goes:  " _You really should be grateful to us, considering that we've taken care of the problem that you carelessly allowed to occur, and still_ more _carelessly allowed to continue. Doubtless a little applied Noldorin ingenuity would have found a way around such an imprudent promise, but don't worry, your trespasser's out of the picture -- permanently -- and you've gained not one, but_ seven _, sons-in-law (any one of whom far outranks the least of your subjects) so you've come out it well ahead all the same."_

**Celegorm** :

Or, or, what about: " _If you'd wanted a Silmaril, you should have talked to us first_ \--

 **Curufin** :

Oh yes --

[reading]

_"--having seen your daughter's beauty and heard her voice,_ we _would have rated her worthy of_ three _, not one, and you could have joined our family and acquired a_ legitimate _stake in them. But no harm done, despite your clumsy efforts to enlist our halfwit cousin (half-Teler, and no doubt a connection there) in your intrigue-- obviously it's time for some fresh blood, fresh thought, fresh power in your House, wouldn't you agree?_ " 

**Celegorm** : [a little worried]

You know . . . _Maedhros_ is not going to be happy when he hears about this. About any of it, actually.

 **Curufin** :

Well, to be perfectly honest, I don't really _care_ what Maedhros will think about it.  It won't be as though he can actually _do_ anything about it.

 **Celegorm** : [more worried]

You're not -- suggesting -- I mean, he _is_ the head of our family--?

[he gives Curufin an anxious look, hoping he's misunderstood]

 **Curufin** :

I love our big brother dearly, but let's be completely frank here -- ever since he came back he's been, let us say, a few arrows short of a full quiver. I mean, giving up the Succession? Can one even _do_ that? So while I respect and acknowledge him as yes, the head of our House, I don't feel obliged to consider his opinion and even his orders -- especially potential ones -- as automatically binding on me. --Or you.

 **Celegorm** : [relieved]

Oh. --I agree.

 **Curufin** :

Once it's a fait accompli, he'll be obliged to accept it, _and_ that it's for the best -- the advantages to having Beleriand consolidated into a single powerful force under one coherent rule will be unarguable. It's the only way we'll ever get them back, after all.

 **Celegorm** :

What about Fingon? A lot of people -- even _ours_ \-- do accept him as the High King, you know.

 **Curufin** :

Well, considering as His _Highness_ is high up in his mountains and can't really come out of them, he's made himself largely irrelevant for all practical purposes. A nominal High King doesn't bother me one way or the other, especially given the numbers. If he wants to try conclusions with us, let him -- I'll just point out to him that a two-front war with a Dark Lord on his back porch is a really, _really_ bad idea.

 **Celegorm** :

That's why I leave the plotting and planning to you. I get hung up on one detail or other and you have the gift for going around and making it all fit together properly.

 **Curufin** :

Yes, we do make a good team, don't we? --So, any thoughts on _who_ we should send with it? It'll have to be someone we can trust, people who won't talk out of turn, you might say -- but at the same time someone we won't miss too much if Elwe reacts as I suspect he might and tosses them in the lock-up.

 **Celegorm** : [frowning]

That is a problem. Who can we spare for a couple-score years until we've finished consolidating here?

 **Curufin** :

Too bad we can't send Huan -- I can't imagine even Old Shadows would dare to try to toss _him_ into a cell! --Where _is_ he, anyway? I haven't seen him about for a while now.

 **Celegorm** : [smugly]

Ah, that's _my_ plot. I've left him with Luthien, who's taken quite a fancy to him, thus winning me points in absentia as it were.

 **Curufin** :

Really? I'd think he'd be the _last_ one she'd want to see. She was terrified when we found her.

 **Celegorm** :

Oh, you know, girls and nature and all -- sentimental, don't y'know? -- and he's so cute when he wants to be, just like when he was a puppy.

 **Curufin** :

Doesn't he get bored?

 **Celegorm** :

No -- he can never get enough attention, you know how it is with dogs.

 **Curufin** : [grinning]

Ah. She has snacks for him.

 **Celegorm** : [grins back]

That too. Oh, and it makes a handy excuse for coming by to chat with her when I collect him.

 **Curufin** :

Well, I'm glad that's going well. Now we have to figure out how we're going to get this out without Orodreth noticing -- or any tattletales noticing for him.

 **Celegorm** :

Oh, pfft -- _him_!

 **Curufin** : [resting his arm on the back of Celegorm's chair]

It's just the kind of thing he _would_ kick up a row about. And we don't want _that_. The critical thing is to minimize strife -- let our enemies fight multi-front wars, not _us_.

[Celegorm nods slowly in agreement.]

Now, I'm guessing it will take about a fortnight at a reasonable travel speed, allowing for at least one autumn storm in there, just to be safe. We can arrange with our chaps on the Borders to take care of provisions for the messengers, and avoid drawing attention from Household by taking supplies...    [the camera pulls away from their plotting, fadeout]


	20. Act III: SCENE VIII

**Gower** :

Like to the ghost that sitteth down at table, welcomeless,  
amid the feasting guilty, roameth Tinuviel in her distress.

[The Great Solar. Luthien wanders through, appearing vague and distracted, looking around in rather a lost way. People stop talking briefly and look at her nervously, but do not approach her or speak to her. One woman in the robes of a Sage starts to get up and then sits down with her few companions in their alcove again. At the Carillon's court Celebrimbor is there doing something to the Chronometer; he watches Luthien's approach worriedly, but continues with his adjustments.]

 **Luthien** :  [aloud to herself]

 _Oh_.

[stopping in front of the fountain]

 _That's_ what I was looking for.

[She fills her hands and bathes her eyes -- it's clear she's been crying a lot. Afterwards she takes the cup and fills herself a drink, and then sits down on the edge of the fountain and starts pouring cupfuls of water back into the basin with a fascinated expression. In the distance the Sage gets up again, pushing aside the hand of one of her companions who tries to hold her back, and moves determinedly towards the Princess of Doriath, coming up behind her]

 **Sage** : [sharply]

Your Highness --

[But before Luthien has a chance to respond she breaks and flees back into the angles of the cavern, disappearing behind a column.]

 **Luthien** : [puzzled frown]

Yes--?

[She looks around, but does not know who addressed her; after a moment she shrugs and goes back to playing absently with the water. Noticing something, she starts looking more closely at the ornate carvings and eventually gets up and kneels on the floor to see the base of the fountain better. When she doesn't get up Celebrimbor of all the people staring or trying not to do so obviously leaves off his work and goes over.]

 **Celebrimbor** : [hesitant but concerned]

My lady?

 **Luthien** : [offhand]

I've found another one.

 **Celebrimbor** :

Another what, my lady?

 **Luthien** : [looking up at Celebrimbor, who kneels down next to her]

Another serpent. See? He's right there, pretending to be a stem, but look, there's his eye, and there's his smile, behind that leaf. They're all smiling -- happy little serpents. I've found seven of them so far now. --Finrod made this, didn't he?

[Celebrimbor nods]

They're like Beren's ring. --It's such an odd device. Oh look, there's another one, eating a flower, or carrying it. What are they? They look like grass snakes a little, but the scales are different, they don't have those lines down them.

 **Celebrimbor** :

I'm afraid I don't know what they're called here, my lady, I -- I think they only live in Valinor. "Green-eyed golden house-snakes" I suppose would be the closest translation.

 **Luthien** :

Do they really eat flowers?

[Celebrimbor nods]

They're not -- that _big_ , are they? Or are those supposed to be very small flowers? No -- there's one with a flag-iris, pulling it out of the water. Are they _real_?

 **Celebrimbor** :

Indeed yes, my lady.

 **Luthien** :

Oh, my.

[pause]

They still look sweet. Not like adders at all. --But surely they don't _make_ things? How would they do it? I can see why, I suppose, it would be like making a fancy subtlety for them, but still I don't see how they could do it with just their mouths.

[Celebrimbor looks at her rather anxiously]

\--Flowers. Wreaths. Making things with their food. --But they're _serpents_.

[as he still looks blank, with a touch of impatience:]

\--On the _emblem_.

 **Celebrimbor** :

Oh. For some reason they struck my great-uncle's fancy. I think there was a story about it, something funny--

[Luthien looks at him with mild interest, and he continues:]

Oh, yes, now I remember. --Finarfin had made a garland for Earwen, when they were courting, and brought it to where she was working, but then he got distracted when he saw the project and set it down somewhere, and started, er, _helping_. Except then they got into a bit of a disagreement where the piece should go that she was carving, and he wanted to do something to bring out the grain of the wood and she wanted to leave it to weather, and they got rather cross about it, and he said something like "Don't let's fight -- I brought you flowers."

 **Luthien** : [puzzled]

\--But what does that have to do with finishing wood?

[Celebrimbor gives her an odd look and laughs politely]

 **Celebrimbor** : [continuing]

\-- but then he couldn't find them, and she said he must have forgotten them, and it got a bit sharp again, -- and then they noticed that the pair of house-snakes had found them, somehow gotten the wreath off the bench, and were dragging it back to their hole. Except they weren't getting very far, because one of them wanted to stop and eat them right there, and the other was trying to keep going, and the string was slowing the first one down -- and Earwen started laughing and said, "Look! That's us!" So they decided to carve it for over the door, to remind them of . . .

[pauses, then goes on with a hint of bitterness]

. . . well, you know, need for cooperation and compromise and how silly they'd been and how easy it was to get caught up in one's own perspective without thought of anyone else having a valid point of view and so forth. And it just sort of stuck as a family joke, only after a few Great Years nobody even thought about it any more.

[without changing his tone, quietly]

\--My lady, if you're troubled it would be better to speak to the healers and send for music rather than resorting to excess of wine for your spirits.

 **Luthien** : [affronted]

I'm not tipsy.

 **Celebrimbor** : [regretful]

Forgive my impertinence, but it's . . . apparent that you've had more in so short a time than your stamina will bear.

 **Luthien** :

I'm _not_. I haven't touched wine at all today.

 **Celebrimbor** :

Then what's wrong, my lady?

 **Luthien** : [astounded]

Is that a serious question?

[pause]

 **Celebrimbor** :

I -- I meant anything most particular, right now. That -- I could help with.

[Luthien sighs]

 **Luthien** :

I don't think -- I've slept more than half a watch or so a night -- since Beren was captured. Sometimes not even that. And I haven't been let go outside since I came here, everyone says it's too dangerous.

 **Celebrimbor** :

Well, there _have_ been more wargs around this season than any time since the Fortress fell, so it isn't an exaggeration.

 **Luthien** : [shrugs]

 _I_ didn't see anything. And my people believe it's unhealthy to spend too long indoors, and I have to say it certainly seems to be true.

[splashes her hand in the water]

Maybe I'll just camp out here. I could probably sleep here all right. The fountain sounds so nice, I could almost forget I wasn't outside.

 **Celebrimbor** :

You're not serious--!

[realizes she is serious]

My lady, that's . . . not going to be possible. --You can't just, er, "camp out" in the Hall of Hours, as though it were a bivouac in the field!

 **Luthien** :

Why not? Finrod wouldn't mind if he were here. He lived on our main staircase practically all of one visit, copying the friezes -- we just put up extra lights and some ropes so no one would trip on him or step on the scrolls if he wasn't there, and Lord Edrahil kept bringing him meals and taking the plates way and poking him to make sure he ate and checking that he hadn't accidently rinsed brushes in his drinking goblet, and we all got so used to it that for months after they'd all gone we still were only using the other side of the steps . . . I wouldn't even be in the way, over by the wall here.

 **Celebrimbor** :

That's -- true . . . but . . . His Majesty isn't here and . . . that just isn't _done_ , Your Highness.

 **Luthien** : [uneven smile]

If I do it then it will be, won't it?

 **Celebrimbor** : [dismayed]

It's . . . beneath your dignity, to sleep on the floor, my lady.

 **Luthien** :

No, it isn't.

[pause]

The other option would be to bring the fountain to my room. Which would be less convenient and not very considerate of everyone else. Though I'm sure my cousin would give me it if I asked as well. --If he were here.

 **Celebrimbor** :

Does it have to be _this_ fountain, or would another do? I could probably make or find a smaller one, if you would like . . .

 **Luthien** : [shrugging]

It's the pitch of it. Some fountains just sound _hollow_ , others annoyingly busy. This one is properly musical. --That's how I knew it was Finrod's work before I saw the snakes on it, because of the tone. He retuned all the fountains at Menegroth, which was nice of him, even though it rather annoyed my parents that he started the project without asking. I didn't realize how much of a difference it could make -- did you even realize that, that water could be tuned like a drum?

 **Celebrimbor** : [regretful]

Yes, I know. We -- discussed it, a few times.

 **Luthien** : [frowning, as if realizing something]

You're Lord Curufin's son.

 **Celebrimbor** :

Yes.

[He looks like he would say something else, sarcastic, but doesn't]

 **Luthien** :

Your uncle said I should speak to him about getting my cape back from the Sages but I haven't been able to track him down.

 **Celebrimbor** :

He . . . can be a difficult person to talk to.

 **Luthien** : [earnest]

Will you try to get hold of him for me, tell him I need to speak to him, that I need my cloak back, or at least to know when they'll be done with it? I'm getting worried about it, and I don't want to be rude or seem ungrateful, but I can't find anyone who claims to know where it is, except your father secondhand through Lord Celegorm.

 **Celebrimbor** :

I'm -- I'm afraid I don't have any control over his doings or goings, Your Highness, which are -- many.

 **Luthien** : [forcefully]

I understand these things. Believe me, I do understand about the troubles of rulers, and the business of running realms, and the responsibilities of lords. _\--Talk to him_ for me when next you see him. That's _all_ I ask.

[long silence]

 **Celebrimbor** :

I -- I will, my lady.

[pause]

Was there anything else you wanted here? Anything you need that isn't being provided for you?

[Luthien stares at him for a moment]

 **Luthien** :

No. Huan wanted to come up here. I think it's _up_.

 **Celebrimbor** : [looks around]

 _Huan_?

 **Luthien** :

He's not here right now. He went off somewhere while I was getting supplies.

 **Celebrimbor** : [baffled]

\--Supplies?

 **Luthien** : [a bit frustrated, repeating with emphasis]

Yes, _supplies_. See?

[she unknots a corner of her mantle and shows him a handful of dried fruit and pastries]

 **Celebrimbor** :

But . . . won't the household bring you whatever you ring for?

 **Luthien** :

Yes, but you never pass up the chance to grab something when you can. --Beren taught me that, though I never expected to have to use the knowledge. I can't walk past a hazelnut thicket now without checking, or a tangle of berry canes, or a birds'nest, in case there's something I can scavenge.

 **Celebrimbor** : [faintly]

You don't _need_ to, now, my lady, you're safe and -- and provided-for, here.

 **Luthien** : [shrugging]

It gets to be a habit.

[sighs]

I wish I had the canteen I made out of reeds, it was such a nice compact one, but I dropped it when I was treed by Huan and forgot to pick it up.

 **Celebrimbor** :

\--Reeds . . . ?

[realizes too late to stop himself how annoying this is getting]

 **Luthien** : [very slowly]

The hollow things that grow in swampy depressions and along riverbanks. --And resin. The stuff that comes out of pine trees. It's very sticky. It makes the water taste odd but it keeps it in. --Did you not speak Sindarin much in Aglon?

[Celebrimbor blinks, doesn't answer; after a moment she bites her lip]

Um. That was really rude of me. I'm sorry. I'm just -- so horribly tired.

[she fights successfully to keep from breaking down.]

 **Celebrimbor** : [gently]

Shall I escort you to your suite, Your Highness?

 **Luthien** :

No, I should probably wait for Huan. He might get worried if he came back and couldn't find me. I'll just stay here.

 **Celebrimbor** : [still troubled]

Very well, my lady.

[He returns to working on his clock, and Luthien watches him for a moment before putting her head down on her knees. Curufin enters, obviously looking for his son, and stalks over to where Celebrimbor is taking something apart.]

 **Curufin** : [quietly enough not to make a public scene, but _not_ pleasantly]

Are you still wasting your time with that toy? Shouldn't you move on to something else? Or are you going to compulsively tinker with it for the _next_ Great Year, too?

[Instead of answering, Celebrimbor nods over in the direction of the fountain. Curufin following his look sees Luthien asleep next to it and frowns, not expecting or pleased by this.]

 **Celebrimbor** : [quietly]

She's been looking for you to talk to you, Father. Do you wish to wake Her Highness?

[Grimacing, Curufin turns quickly and strides off. Celebrimbor looks first relieved, then disgusted with himself at his stratagem. In the background Huan makes his way through the Hall of Hours, sniffing the air, and heads towards them. When he gets to where Luthien is sitting he stands in front of her, patient-dog-mode, huffing on her feet until she notices he's there and grabs his ruff to pull herself up. Trailing shreds behind her, she walks with a handful of his fur, as if they were arm-in-arm, and they go out without stopping or speaking to anyone else. A visible relief on the expressions of the crowd, save for Celebrimbor, who keeps working with a bitter & self-mocking smile.]


	21. Act III: SCENE IX

**Gower** :

   --Slipped in thus stealthily, poison to the mind  
most subtle, lingering, and potent one shall find--

[The apartments of Lord Guilin's House -- the style here is very high Noldor, even more so than in Orodreth's suite: more geometric and abstract, though still with natural and organic themes (more early Dynastic and Assyrian, less Amarna). There is a lot of glass in the ornamentation, both blown and cut, both functional and used for atmospheric effect of light and color. Finduilas and Gwindor are having an animated conversation in the main hallway.]

 **Gwindor** : [arms folded, very abrupt]

I can't _believe_ you're going on with this. It's _completely_ inappropriate.

 **Finduilas** : [exasperated and pleading]

It's been planned for months, Gwin. It would be far more awkward if we canceled it now.

 **Gwindor** :

It's _still_ inappropriate.

 **Finduilas** :

We _talked_ about it before -- if you were going to object you should have said something sooner.

 **Gwindor** :

 _If_ you will recall, Finduilas, -- I _did_.

 **Finduilas** :

Yes, but then you stopped.

 **Gwindor** :

Because you _clearly_ had no intention of listening to anything I had to say.

 **Finduilas** :

Well, I'm sorry. But it's too late, to change it, now.

 **Gwindor** :

It's never too late.

 **Finduilas** :

Gwin, your father _isn't_ going to cancel. Would you just -- oh, _honestly_ \--!

[she breaks off, shaking her head, turns away and folds her own arms. Brief pause.]

 **Gwindor** :

Well, perhaps I won't _be_ here.

[Finduilas whirls]

 **Finduilas** : [outraged]

Milord, are you trying to be _funny_? Because you're failing dismally.

 **Gwindor** : [just as haughty]

I wasn't jesting, _your Highness_. If you insist on holding celebrations with your snobby Eastern friends, you can just count me out.

 **Finduilas** :

Gwin! They're your friends too.

 **Gwindor** :

Not any longer.

 **Finduilas** :

You're not serious, are you? Do you know how humiliating that would be, for you not to be here? You don't mean it _really_.

 **Gwindor** :

I mean it. If you refuse to use your wits and your sensibilities and mindlessly accept things as they are, it's my duty then to think for both of us.

 **Finduilas** :

How _dare_ you!

 **Gwindor** : [offhand]

Someone's got to -- it might as well be me.

[not so snottily]

Please try to look at things rationally--

 **Finduilas** :

Do _not_ try to slip out of this after those words, milord Guilinion! I _will_ _not_ put up with such arrogant, insulting, rude behavior without an apology!

 **Gwindor** : [exasperated]

Faelivrin--

 **Finduilas** : [raising her voice still more]

Don't you _dare_ call me that right now!

[Enter Lord Guilin]

 **Guilin** :

\--Children, what's the matter? You're disturbing the whole household with your arguing.

 **Finduilas** : [holding out her hands]

Sir, your son is being impossible. _Again_.

 **Guilin** : [sighing]

Gwin, _why_ must you take out your ill-humor upon your lady? Isn't there enough sorrow these days?

[Gwindor rolls his eyes]

Finduilas, dear, what is this trouble over?

 **Finduilas** :

He's being hateful about the Gathering tonight. Calling me insensitive and frivolous, as if doing _nothing_ instead would help--

 **Guilin** : [reproachfully]

I'd _hoped_ you were going to be mature about this, Gwin. I -- if you're going to attack anyone, attack me. _Not_ the Princess. After all, I'm the one who made the decision; _I_ should bear your scorn, not she.

 **Gwindor** : [fiercely]

Father, if you cared so much for my good opinion, then why haven't you taken it into consideration before making decisions? Keeping me sheltered like so much glass _isn't_ going to bring back Gelmir. --Or the King.

 **Finduilas** :

Gwin! How can you be so cruel?

[Gwindor stands still, his expression angry and pained, and suddenly slams his fist against the panelling. One of the elaborate sculptures on the wall separates from its mount and drops onto the stone floor, shattering. Finduilas covers her ears instinctively, cringing, waiting for the breakage, and bursts into silent tears. Gwindor looks appalled and ashamed.]

 **Guilin** : [sadly]

Son. --Did that aid anything?

 **Gwindor** :

Faelivrin, I'm sorry--

 **Finduilas** : [sniffling]

It doesn't matter, I'll make another one.

[Gwindor goes over to her and puts his arms around her.]

 **Gwindor** : [whispering]

I'm so sorry, I lost my temper, I--

[she shakes her head]

I'll _be_ here tonight. I promise. I won't say anything. --I'm sorry.

 **Finduilas** :

It's all right.

[The Carillon sounds -- she starts.]

Oh! I've got to meet my father for dinner. I need to go change and see about a lot of things first.

[wipes her eyes]

Please excuse me, Lord Guilin.

 **Guilin** :

Not at all, my dear. Please give him my regards. --Are you quite yourself again?

 **Finduilas** : [bright smile]

I will. Yes, I'm fine, thank you.

[she gives Gwindor a quick kiss and goes off briskly. Her fiancee does not look away from his father's recriminating expression, but after Lord Guilin leaves he sighs and carefully begins picking up the broken pieces of blown glass.]


	22. Act III: SCENE X

**Gower** :

The lessons of an idle hour's gaming may be well-learned,   
by fairest maid no less than him whose scars hard-earned   
befell in fight more worthy than when ship and city burned-- 

[Luthien is sitting by the hearth with Huan, both of them watching the flames, him behind her rather like a sphinx with his head over/on her shoulder, (the way horses like to.) Celegorm, shown in by an attendant, looks around the solar for a moment before seeing them on the floor and is surprised. He has an ornate & longish box under his arm.] 

**Celegorm** : [hesitantly]

Er, hullo, I was just looking for Huan -- I see he's there with you still . . . 

**Luthien** : [looking around]

Yes, he's a little hard to miss. 

[She gets up and comes around the Hound and greets Celegorm with a polite nod as to an equal; he takes her hand and bows over it with just short of exaggeration. She does not look quite so drugged and haggard as before.] 

**Celegorm** : 

Well, how's my little pup doing? Behaving himself? 

[Huan stretches and whines, wriggling, conveying I'm-a-good-dog-but-I-don't-want-to-move] 

**Luthien** : [wistfully]

Oh, yes. Do you have to take him away so soon? 

**Celegorm** : 

No, not at all. In fact, -- I was thinking you might like to play a few rounds of chess to divert yourself, so I brought a set and a board along . . ? 

[looks at her with an expression of mild hopefullness] 

**Luthien** : 

There's already one in this room, 

[remembering manners] 

\--but that's kind of you. --Oh-- 

[her eyes light up] 

\-- wait! with _two_ we could play mortal chess. 

**Celegorm** : 

Mortal chess? 

**Luthien** : 

Yes, Beren taught me how to play it. It's very interesting. I'll teach you, if you like. I find our version rather dull now, to tell the truth. 

[she takes the box and carries it over to the table, grabbing the other set off a sideboard as she goes] 

**Celegorm** : [lightly]

Hm. Wouldn't have guessed he could fit a set in that little kit of his. Or was it yours? 

**Luthien** : [serious]

Oh no. You can play it with rocks and acorns, or bits of stick with the bark peeled off some of them. All you need is two colors and one bigger than the rest, to be the king-stone. And some flat ground and a twig or a flat rock and charcoal to draw the lines. 

[she takes out all the pawns, leaving the rest of the figured pieces in the case.] 

Now if you'll give me the other set-- 

[she takes out the red pawns only from this set and sets the pieces up tafl-style -- the red pawns go in clusters at the centers of the four sides, the white pawns go in the middle of the board, and in the center of them one white king.] 

**Celegorm** : 

Where do the rest of 'em go? 

**Luthien** : 

That's it. Now we play. 

**Celegorm** : 

You're joking! 

[Huan comes over and sits down between them, leaning his head over the table to watch the game curiously] 

**Luthien** : 

No. 

**Celegorm** : 

But you can't _win_ this. Or -- that is, only _red_ can win, all the time. The unlucky soul playing center certainly can't. 

**Luthien** : 

Oh, you can -- it's just very hard. That's why I find it so much more mentally stimulating than ours, with everything all equal and balanced to start with. Very symmetrical, _not_ very realistic. --Unless you could somehow bring out secret ones all of the sudden. 

[he is looking at her rather oddly] 

Just like in the Leaguer. This isn't realistic really, having everyone know what forces are on each side, since we're all trying to hide ours from the Enemy and he from us, and trick each other into mistaking what's what. --But at least this is more like what really happened. --And you _can_ win it, which I think is a hopeful sign. 

**Celegorm** : 

Even outnumbered. And surrounded. 

**Luthien** : 

Yes. As long as you don't lose your leader. The trick is to keep moving and get free. 

**Celegorm** : [rubbing his lips pensively]

How do you take pieces, if they all move the same way? 

**Luthien** : 

Any warrior trapped between two enemies is down. And you only move in straight lines, ahead, back, or either side. I go first -- see, like that. Now _you_ go. 

[They go through the next few moves carefully] 

**Celegorm** : 

Oh, you made a mistake, you just went two squares with him. 

**Luthien** : 

No, that's right: you can go as far as you think safe. Generally you don't want to get out ahead of the line, though. Realism again. 

**Celegorm** : 

Hey, wait, your chap's down -- he just went between two of my pieces. 

**Luthien** : 

No, you can dash between two enemies already there. 

**Celegorm** : [wry]

Now you tell me. 

**Luthien** : 

Sorry. It's just if you're engaged with one and someone else comes up behind you, _then_ you go down. I believe that's an accurate reflection of how it works in real life, reduced to essentials, isn't it? 

**Celegorm** : [heartfelt]

This is a weird game. 

[moves] 

**Luthien** : 

\--Path! 

**Celegorm** : 

Eh? What's that? 

**Luthien** : 

I have to _warn_ you -- I have a clear path for escape _there_. --That's another way games differ from real life. 

**Celegorm** : 

So . . . if I move this warrior _here_ , your king is blocked, and you don't have an out any more. 

**Luthien** : 

Right. But he won't last very long, because I'm coming up alongside of him here, and now -- he's down. 

**Celegorm** : 

But -- hmm. 

[he scowls at the board, a bit chagrinned] 

**Luthien** : 

That's all right, I lost all the time at first, too. No matter what side I was playing. It took a few bouts before I got the hang of it. 

**Celegorm** : [indulgently]

Oh, you mean before he let you have a win. 

**Luthien** : [sharply]

Beren didn't _let_ me win. 

**Celegorm** : [nodding in patronizing fashion as he moves]

Right, _right_. 

**Luthien** : [snapping her piece down]

He _didn't_. --He wouldn't dare, I'd _know_. 

**Celegorm** : 

You really think I'm going to believe this can be won by the defending side? 

**Luthien** : 

When you see it. 

[Celegorm moves, and she moves instantly, taking two of his pieces] 

**Celegorm** : 

You can't do that! 

**Luthien** : 

Both of them were flanked. It's just like draughts: as many as are in range. 

[he frowns, moves again, and she counters again] 

\--Field! 

**Celegorm** : 

What's that mean? 

**Luthien** : 

It means I win. See? 

[points] 

Even if you could block this side, you can't get your troops over to the other side fast enough to stop me from breaking through here. 

**Celegorm** : 

I'll be damned. You _did_ win. --Are you sure you didn't cheat? 

[Luthien looks indignant -- his expression and tone change completely to sincerest gallantry] 

Oh, what am I saying? Of _course_ you wouldn't cheat, you're a lady and far too fair and honorable for that. You've bested me in fair fight. 

**Luthien** : 

I've had far more practice at it. Here, I'll set up again and you'll know what to do now. 

[she starts rearranging the pieces; after a moment Celegorm catches her first words and gives her a wary look 

**Celegorm** : [aside]

\--Did she really say what I thought she said? . . . surely _not_ . . . 

[aloud, staring hard at the board] 

Of course, you realize it's really ironic, dont'ya know, when _winning_ consists of turning tail and running for dear life! You can tell no Noldor mind came up with this game-- 

[he chuckles, but stops at her look and settles down] 

\--All right, so I want to prevent you from bracketing my pieces, or they'll all be picked off and flattened . . . 

[suddenly stunned with realization] 

\--Wait, _I_ know this -- it's a confounded _sandastan_! 

[grinning] 

Hah -- my lady, you won't draw me into _this_ hedge so easily again. Your move, I believe, Your Highness? 

[intensely they go through the next series of moves in silence.] 

Well. I think -- I've won. Your warriors can't get out out of that quadrant, can they? And your king can't get to the edge with my men there, right? So either you surrender now, or, you come out and get cut down one by one. Hm? 

**Luthien** : [nodding]

Very impressive, my lord. 

**Celegorm** : [smiling into her eyes]

I'm a fast learner. 

**Luthien** : [not looking away]

But -- if this were real life, that _might_ not be the end of it. 

[She reaches into a box, takes out the rest of white pawns and sets them in a wedge at the opposite corner. Definitely--] 

\-- _Keep playing_. 

**Celegorm** : 

Hey! You can't do that! --Can you? 

**Luthien** : 

I just did. It's called -- the Serech Variation. _Your move_. 

[Silence. Huan whines. Celegorm swallows hard, and breaks from her glance to consider the board. After a moment, he makes an uncertain jerky slide, and she moves at once to counter. He gets back to business, and keeps pulling pieces away from her encircled king to throw them in front of her attack, but she just keeps moving, without stopping to consider the next move.] 

_Path_. -- _And_ field. 

[Celegorm stares at the board dismayed, and then looks up at her.] 

**Celegorm** : 

But you lost just about all of your forces to do it. 

**Luthien** : [coolly]

And that, too, is more like real life -- isn't it? 

[Celegorm doesn't say anything, although he tries. She reaches around the board and catches both of his hands in her own, staring intensely at him] 

\--You _know_ what we have to do. You know _how_ to do it. You've told me how it should be done. You've told me how Finrod befriended you and took you in and supplied your material losses out of his own stores without asking for any return or putting you "in your place" over it ever since the Sudden Flame -- and you told me I could depend on you. I _am_ depending on you. -- _We_ are. Celegorm Turcofin Feanorion, will you redeem your pledge to me and your debt to the King and avenge your father all in one? --Which may perhaps even help effect a reconciliation not merely between my family  and myself, but between our Houses as well, if only you but throw off this mirk that clouds all our minds and press forward without further delay! 

[Celegorm stares at her, entranced, visibly torn, struggling to speak] 

**Celegorm** : 

I -- 

[his expression changes from receptive to baffled] 

\--would, -- but-- 

[he shakes his head sadly] 

\--it isn't entirely in my control -- 

[meaningful tone] 

not as though I were _Regent_ , after all-- 

[Luthien lets go of his hands, flattens hers on the table and stands up from her chair] 

**Luthien** : [ominously]

Are you saying _Orodreth_ is a traitor? That he's delaying _on_ _purpose_ \--!? 

[Celegorm is intimidated in spite of himself by her expression and backs down] 

**Celegorm** : 

I -- I didn't mean to imply _that_ , my lady, only, only, -- only that he -- well, it's difficult to say, being friends for many years, but -- he -- he isn't -- well, you know, about the Fortress and all . . . 

**Luthien** : 

Know _what_? 

**Celegorm** : 

I really . . . shouldn't say . . . 

**Luthien** : 

You've said already -- too much, or too little, my lord. 

**Celegorm** : [sighing]

He's got no nerve left for fighting. It _seemed_ to happen with the onset of Sauron -- who as you might know is a spirit of no ordinary power and ability -- but _I'm_ convinced it really all started with the Bragollach -- 

[sp reading his hands regretfully] 

not that I can blame him, certainly, not like he's the only Elf to be undone by that disaster -- but giving up the Fortress without a fight, running back here without even a retreatin' action -- there's a _reason_ why he's never held command or even taken the field since then. 

**Luthien** : 

But _he_ is not the only warrior -- soldier or officer -- in Nargothrond! 

**Celegorm** : [more confidently]

But he's in charge. He's the one who sets the tone, you know, that a command takes its lead from the commander, and so on. Without the will bein' there at the top, the bottom ranks can't have it either. Morale and whatnot, doncha know. 

**Luthien** : [shaking her head, bewildered]

But -- but that doesn't make any _sense_ \-- if he can't handle the responsibility of ruling, then it would make sense to do everything possible to get the one who _can_ back safely-- 

**Celegorm** : 

True -- but, you know -- people don't always behave rationally, what? 

[rising] 

Oh -- Lady Luthien -- you won't mention to him that I told you about this, will you? He's very -- sensitive, about the rout -- understandable, of course. 

[he takes her hand and bows over it] 

**Luthien** : 

Are you going so soon? 

**Celegorm** : [awkwardly]

I -- I must. 

[sudden inspiration] 

You asked me to see what I could do. 

**Luthien** : [taken aback, uncertainly]

Oh. Oh, _good_. Thank you. --May Huan stay a while longer? If you please, my lord? 

**Celegorm** : [smiles]

Of course, my lady. 

[He bows again and leaves, still a bit shaken, though covering it well] 

**Luthien** : [beyond upset]

\-- _Oh_! 

[leans on the table, her head hanging down] 

Did I actually accomplish anything? --I don't _know_ \-- 

[Listlessly she starts putting the remaining chessmen away -- then struck by a sudden inspiration she picks up one of the white castles and turns it around in her fingers] 

**Luthien** : [thoughtful]

So cousin Orodreth was there . . . I'd not realized that. For _years_. That means he knows the area well -- _and_ the Fortress. 

[A look of focussed determination comes over her face. She puts the piece away, tosses the end of her mantle over her shoulder like a cape and folds her arms squarely.] 

I need to _talk_ to him. About everything. And the way to reach him is _Finduilas_ \-- I'm afraid I've got to catch her and not let go, even if I lose what's left of my mind as a result. --Oh well-- 

[looks at Huan; without irony:] 

\--Could I trouble you to find her for me, milord? 

[Huan gets up, wagging his tail slowly, not unwilling, but not enthusiastic, and he sounds rather troubled when he replies:] 

**Huan** : 

  [short bark] 

**Luthien** : 

You don't have to stay while we talk, unless you want to. 

[Huan comes over to have his ears scratched before going out on his mission; Luthien goes over to a "window" and perches on the frame as if it was a real windowsill.] 

**Luthien** : [musing]

\--He didn't even _notice_ that I let him win the second time . . . it's worse than I realized! But I don't know what to do, except _talk_ \-- if it's being underground, really, I've got no hope -- but if it's being cut off from the sky, you'd think it would be the same at home -- hah, perhaps it is! -- but no, nobody stays all the time in the Thousand Caves. Or perhaps it's also the fact that Mom's there, and her presence counteracts the lack of stars. And then -- that could explain, actually -- with Finrod gone there's no one here who's strong enough to make up for the absence . . . 

[traces the joins along the edges of the carved trees with her finger] 

I wish _Galadriel_ were here -- _she_ wouldn't allow such a muddle and nightmare to go on. She'd know what to do, and do it. But instead -- we've just got _me_ . . . 

[she sighs heavily and leans back on the frame, closing her eyes] 


	23. Act III: SCENE XI

**Gower** :

A broken faith less easy to repair when riven,   
one finds; yet may the pieces, severally, be truly given-- 

[The royal apartments. Celebrimbor enters from one of the farther chambers with a small chest and sets it down on the table, where there are a number of pieces of carved marble and bronze piping. Taking a piece of cloth from the chest he starts wrapping up the disassembled fountain and packing it in the box. One small basin he picks up, and blows across it like a flute, with a distant look. Behind him Curufin comes in, and he is all business again.] 

**Curufin** : 

So first you sneer at me, and then you go and help yourself to our lamented kinsman's belongings. --I do admire your mental flexibility, son. 

**Celebrimbor** : [not looking at him, going on packing]

I _helped_ with this project. There's a difference -- _subtle_ , but I should think you'd appreciate subtlety . . . Father. 

**Curufin** : 

You watch that disrespectful mouth, boy, unless you wish to fend for yourself in the Wilds. I _could_ arrange for you to stand a season on the remote watches, you know. How much fiddling about, I wonder, could you manage out on patrol or in a roundhouse? I doubt you'd get such a dose of fawning appreciation from your comrades as you do around here. 

[Celebrimbor flushes but doesn't say anything else.] 

What are you thinking? 

[his son grimaces, but still doesn't answer] 

I asked you a _direct question_. Your continued silence is insolence. --What are you thinking there, Celebrimbor? 

**Celebrimbor** : [looking at him defiantly]

That -- as usual -- our mothers were wiser than ourselves. 

[it is Curufin's turn to flush] 

**Curufin** : [biting off each word]

I don't _expect_ you to understand my motives, nor consequently to appreciate them -- but you could at least _try_ to make an effort -- particularly when it's for your benefit-- 

[Celebrimbor's expression hardens -- before things escalate further, Celegorm enters. To Celebrimbor:] 

**Celegorm** : 

Get out, I want to talk to your father. 

**Celebrimbor** : 

Presently -- I'm almost done. 

**Celegorm** : 

_Now_. 

[He comes over and starts to grab a component and toss it in: Celebrimbor seizes the valve back from him and leans defensively over the table, blocking him.] 

**Celebrimbor** : 

_Don't_ touch any of this! 

**Celegorm** : 

Snap at me and I'll muzzle you. --Punk. 

[Glaring, Celebrimbor quickly but carefully puts the remaining pieces inside and closes the lid. As he picks up the chest to go--] 

**Curufin** : 

Where are you taking that lot? 

**Celebrimbor** : 

To Her Highness of Doriath. She misses the sound of water. I offered to help. 

[as he is almost out the door] 

\--I _do_ follow through, when I make promises. 

[The Sons of Feanor give the grandson of Feanor a dirty parting Look] 

**Curufin** : 

What's going on? 

[Celegorm wanders around the chamber for a minute, not answering right away, leaning on furniture and tapping on mantlepieces.] 

_Well_? Out with it! 

**Celegorm** : 

I just had a . . . very troubling encounter with Her Highness. 

**Curufin** : 

Sparkly? Or the other one? 

**Celegorm** : 

Her Highness of Doriath, nitwit. Finduilas just looks down her dainty nose at me, and I just smile at her, and she just goes off in a huff. _She's_ no trouble. 

**Curufin** : 

What sort of trouble are we talking about, here? 

**Celegorm** : 

She was putting some kind of _trance_ on me, something that made me start to forget all about our priorities and all. I've never felt anything like it. 

[he looks at Curufin with desperate hopefulness, waiting for explanation and reassurance] 

**Curufin** : 

Was she singing? 

**Celegorm** : 

No. Not even humming. 

[pause] 

She just looked into my eyes, and I wanted to tell her everything and grovel on the rug and beg her pardon. Five minutes longer and I'd have been arming up to head out, I swear! 

[Curufin looks alarmed and angry] 

Oh, and she did invoke my full name. 

**Curufin** : [thoughtfully]

Well, _naming_ is the second oldest form of power there is, after song -- though to hear our cousin go on about it they're the same thing. But if you were able to walk away from it without any difficulty I wouldn't worry about it. She isn't that strong, it can't have taken that much power to overwhelm a couple of Dark-elven sentries, probably already sharing a wineskin and careless with overconfidence. Concentrate on impressing her -- though I'd recommend _not_ looking at her eyes. 

[Celegorm sighs regretfully] 

**Celegorm** : 

Most prudent thing, I guess. Oh well. Besides, as long as I'm paying attention it isn't like she can get anything past my guard. Right? 

**Curufin** : 

I'd think not. 

**Celegorm** : [smugly]

You'd be proud of me -- I managed to make Orodreth take the fall, and at the same time appealed to her delicate sensibilities not to bring it up to him. The way he's hiding from her, there's no chance she'll get the chance to, anyhow. Well, thanks for taking a load off my mind! --I think I'll go bother our good Regent for a bit, now that I think of it. He can give me some pointers on how to achieve rapport with Sindarin Elves, eh? Being related to 'em and all. 

**Curufin** : 

Just don't give the plan away to him by accident. He may be unimaginitive, but he isn't a complete fool. 

**Celegorm** : 

Don't worry, I won't breathe a word. I was thinking I'd make it seem like I'm worried about her health, her state of mind and all. I mean, obviously she's not quite normal, what? 

**Curufin** : [smiling dryly]

The "Mad Princess of Doriath." _Obviously_ she needs the best care we can give her. --I _like_ it. 

[they share a complicit grin] 

Well, much as I'd never admit it before him that I've overlooked anything, 'Brim's reminded me there are all sorts of storage areas and work facilities about here that I've not investigated. So that should keep me busy for quite a while. Good luck on your, er, _fishing expedition_ . . . 

[Celegorm claps him on the shoulder and goes out cheerfully; Curufin begins opening cabinets fitted into the marquetry and panelling of the apartments]

 


	24. Act III: SCENE XII

**Gower** :

No hits so palpable, so lasting keen, shall e'er be felt  
as they that strike hearts where once friendship dwelt-- 

[Orodreth's office. Boxes of scrolls and bound ledgers are lined up along the walls and next to his desk, and stacks of them and loose sheets of parchment cover the top of it. He is holding a page in his hand as though reading it but not looking at it. The door opens suddenly: he looks up, startled, then angry, as Celegorm strolls in.] 

**Orodreth** : [biting]

It _is_ customary to knock, even if one is too busy and overwhelmed to manage to schedule an appointment, you know. 

**Celegorm** : 

Oh, come off your high horse, cousin, I've seen you silly with wine too many times to take you seriously-- 

[Orodreth continues to look around past him] 

What? 

**Orodreth** : 

Where's your shadow? Or did he finally figure out how to make her invisibility cloak work? 

**Celegorm** : 

_Ha_ _ha_. Cur's busy. 

**Orodreth** : [setting down the paper and shaking his head]

 _That's_ a change. 

**Celegorm** : 

You could at least be civil, you know. 

**Orodreth** : [sighs]

I could, I suppose. --What can I help you with, my lord? How may the Regent's office be of service to the House of Feanor today? 

[Celegorm grimaces but forges on] 

**Celegorm** : 

You've been to Doriath; I haven't. --Don't say "Obviously" or anything like that. Just -- answer the question, all right? 

[Orodreth says nothing] 

What's it _like_ there? Is she typical? All this independence and do-it-yourself and not seeming to notice the -- the -- grandeur of everything or the honor that's rendered her? I mean, it's almost like she's some kind of wild creature that doesn't recognize the work of people as being any different from trees! 

**Orodreth** : [drumming his fingers on the desk]

Typical? No. I would _not_ say that. Not even _before_. But yes, Doriath is a very different place from anything our people have ever built. It has to be. There are so many different ethnic groups living there, with separate traditions and their own historical soveriegnties, and they mix them all up and swap them around, which makes it even more confusing to someone from Aman. 

**Celegorm** : 

What do you mean, "swap 'em around" --? How do you do _that_? 

**Orodreth** : 

Oh, Teler using Sindarin names, Singers borrowing Telerin musical instruments, Sindar copying Laiquendi pottery designs on leatherwork, and _everyone_ trading songs back and forth. 

**Celegorm** : 

But -- "sovereignties" --! That can't be what you meant. 

**Orodreth** : [shrugs]

Then I must have imagined the time that Angrod was arranging a fishing trip down to the Confluences and Elu told him to check with our great-aunt about whose it was then, as the local tribes had been exchanging it for stories and they'd had a Singing recently, and he wasn't sure who would have to grant us permission to take fish from the waters. 

**Celegorm** : 

What, they gave it away for a _song_? You're joking! 

[Orodreth shakes his head; Celegorm snorts in disgust] 

Daft! 

**Orodreth** : 

And of course there is the fact that the boundaries of Doriath proper are impenetrable, so that there is no need for the kind of careful watching and intensive security and secrecy that the rest of us must maintain outside. 

[leans back in his chair] 

After all, if no one can get inside, you don't need to worry about the presence of Enemy agents or invaders, and after a few Great Years of that I don't think anyone from Menegroth would even understand the basis for our policies and rules. It may be the model for this City, but it runs on a logic all of its own. 

**Celegorm** : 

Is _logic_ even the right word for it, eh? 

**Orodreth** : 

Well, if there's no chance of invaders getting near your gates, what do you need to have people on them all the time for? The doors just stand open all the time, and you haven't wasted anyone's time that could be better spent on creative pursuits. And with all the preexisting cultures and lines of authority that converge there, there's little of what we would call formality -- does a Sindarin Lord outrank an Elder of the Following of Denethor? When a craftswoman of the local village recalls the Second Kindling and a war orphan with no name from father or mother is one of the foremost warriors of the land -- then best offer the same honor to all, and not worry about who ranks whom. 

**Celegorm** : 

Sounds like a proper mess. 

**Orodreth** : 

It works, though. 

**Celegorm** : 

I don't see _how_. 

**Orodreth** : 

No? Well, I _have_. It just does, somehow. I gather that when you have a minor goddess as Queen, many of the ordinary little difficulties of getting people to cooperate, and do their jobs responsibly, simply disappear on their own -- they don't require alternately bludgeoning and coaxing people into keeping up with their duties. 

[shakes head, ironic expression.] 

For instance -- _you_ might find this story interesting -- we heard that in the aftermath of the Burning there was a spillover of enemy troops into Brethil, which isn't in Doriath but is technically part of their domain . . . as even you should concede, since they've managed to _hold on to it_ , so to speak. 

**Celegorm** : [uncomfortable]

Oh come, don't be such a bad sport-- 

**Orodreth** : [impassive, slightly mocking tone]

It was after I lost Tol Sirion, to put a precise date, and cause, upon it. My great-uncle won't have anything to do with the people who live there, they being mortals, which suits _them_ admirably, as they're not much for government -- you might remember them, they used to stay in _your_ brother's territory until they were almost wiped out by a fair-sized army of Orcs, and decided they'd prefer a home with a less exposed location, which is another story entirely -- but he still sent in Captain Strongbow and a massive relief force at lightning speed to deal with it _before_ they were almost wiped out this time. 

[he does not appear to notice Celegorm's glare] 

\--Though knowing Beleg, it probably went more like: "Orcs in Brethil -- I'm rounding up volunteers and we'll already have gotten there by the time you receive this and Her Majesty will already have told you so I'm not sure why I'm sending this at all." 

**Celegorm** : 

Can't imagine anyone of my people talking to _me_ that way. Or any Noldor ruler. 

**Orodreth** : [bitter smile]

\--Can't you? Never paid much attention around here, did you? 

[Before Celegorm can figure it out] 

Elu _really_ has to be upset to be handing out death threats and locking people up -- I can't think of anything to compare to it, except for when he threw us all out temporarily as a matter of principle and banned the Old Tongue for good measure, after he found out about the Kinslaying. 

**Celegorm** : [frighteningly grim]

Do _not_ bring that up _again_ , cousin. 

[Orodreth just looks at him, raising one eyebrow, not acknowledging the order] 

[brightly:] 

Go on, go on, I can't believe _you_ don't have any more to say about it! 

**Orodreth** : [raising his hands]

What else is there to say? To describe it properly would take -- an Age, and then not be done. It's too much, too real, for that. But it's generally very easygoing, once you're inside -- Doriath is the sort of place where if you want to live in a tree, instead of a cave, no one will mind -- and they won't, ordinarily, make you _stay_ there if you don't want to, either. 

**Celegorm** : 

So -- is Elwe really a proper King at all? Sounds like _anarchy_ to me. 

**Orodreth** : 

Oh yes. Very much so. Make no mistake of that. 

**Celegorm** : 

_Why_? If people just wander in and out, and no one's in charge and everyone is equal-- 

**Orodreth** : 

\--Because he is the _center_ of it all -- or rather, _they_ are, for you can't think of Elu without Melian -- the axle upon which the Stars revolve, so to speak . . . and because _all_ choose to follow, remaining in their Circle. 

[softly] 

\--That's the heart of it, isn't it? That's all that matters -- the rest is just . . . _ornament_ , when you think about it. It doesn't mean much, if there's no _holding-to_ there, nothing to keep one from spinning off into the Void as one pleases . . . 

**Celegorm** : [oblivious]

So what's she _like_? I mean, really? 

**Orodreth** : 

She isn't crazy, if that's what you're getting at. She just sees things . . . _differently_ from . . . nearly everyone, that I know of. 

**Celegorm** : 

What do you mean? 

**Orodreth** : [shrugs]

She has a strange way of looking at things, as though from an angle high up, or far below, the best I can explain it -- as though someone were to paint you a picture of a ship from under the sea -- you'd look at it and wonder what it was, before your mind adjusted to it and it would still be the same painting but you would understand it, now. 

**Curufin** : 

You're talkin' rot, cousin. Things are _things_. How you look at 'em doesn't _change_ them. 

**Orodreth** : 

No? Then perhaps it changes _one_. Looking at them and thinking about them and not being able to go back to seeing them the old way only. But what do I know? I was never the Sage in our family -- you are of course free to agree with that humorously as you no doubt will-- 

[standing up and pacing as he remembers, while speaking] 

What's a good example . . . ? --There are some flowering trees native to Doriath similar to summer-snow, but with dark-rose blooms . . . Once I remarked that I wished we had them growing around here, and the conversation turned to geographical distribution of species and migration patterns and the usual sorts of reasonable discourse you'd expect. Luthien was walking backwards practicing pirouettes on the gallery railing where we were sitting, by the way. 

**Celegorm** : 

Didn't anyone tell her to sit down and take part like a grown-up? 

**Orodreth** : 

No. Why? 

**Celegorm** : [nonplussed]

Well, when people are talking, having a quiet, civilized get-together, you don't usually have someone dancing through it at the same time! Time and place for everything, and so forth. Nobody thought it was -- well, _odd_? 

**Orodreth** : 

Not in the least. And after a moon or so there, _you_ wouldn't either. 

[Celegorm rolls his eyes, shaking his head] 

Then a while later when we were talking about returning home, she came up to me and handed me a little jar, all done up nicely. "Your trees," she said to me, and I thought it was a joke at first. "You packed them very well," I said, and she answered, "Just don't let them get wet until you're home. There's a grove at least in there." I started laughing, and said, "Oh, they're _seeds_ , not trees," and very seriously she told me, "No, they're trees, they're just very small right now. I can't give you their parents, they'd be unhappy at being sent away, even if you could carry them." 

[Orodreth stops pacing and leans on a pillar] 

\--At that point I got a bit patronizing and she said very definitely, "No, they are trees -- if they weren't already trees, they couldn't become them without being _changed_. Food-and-water is not a change." And then my _sister_ said, "She's right. Think about it." And I did, and you know what -- she _was_. They've grown quite well around here, there's quite a grove of them around the Falls now, I'm sure you've noticed . . . 

[shrugging] 

But that's how she is: you think she's totally wrapped up in her art, and oblivous to everything going on around her, and in fact she's noticing everything and then some, and then she _thinks_ about it, while she's singing or dancing or up in a tree somewhere, and then she simply goes and does -- whatever she thinks needs to be done about to it. 

[pause] 

**Celegorm** : [catching the subtext at last]

 _You_ don't approve of this mad attachment of hers, surely-- 

**Orodreth** : 

It is not particularly relevant, one way or another. _I_ have no authority over her. 

**Celegorm** : 

Oh, don't be coy -- tell me I haven't the authority either! Be bold! 

**Orodreth** : [unaffected by sarcasm]

I know very well why you hold her here, and I have forfeited my right to interfere -- have pledged it, in fact, unbreakably. 

**Celegorm** : [looks guilty]

What do you mean? 

**Orodreth** : 

You fear she will indeed prove able to rescue her true-love and with him my brother and his followers -- and so you dare not let her go, any more than I dare let her go, and let open war break forth in the breaking of our unwritten accord -- which, by the by, is a figment of your imagination: I am under Royal Mandate to keep the peace here, which is the salve by which I staunch my bleeding conscience. 

**Celegorm** : 

Cousin, cousin, _cousin_! Can't we at least make peace and be friends again, on a personal basis, for old times' sake? 

**Orodreth** : [gravely]

I'm sorry you're so lonely. But it's you who've isolated yourself, not the other way round. 

**Celegorm** : 

No? I'm not the one who's too proud to accept the way things are, pretending to be independent and honorable and all the while no better than the rest of us! 

**Orodreth** : 

Nor am I. But I am _not_ your friend, either of policy or of private choosing. 

**Celegorm** : 

Didn't I save you a nasty skewering from that mutant boar up in the North Quarter? 

**Orodreth** : [nods]

You did indeed. 

**Celegorm** : 

\--Didn't I stand up for you after Tol Sirion, when everyone was _whispering_ and questioning and giving you Looks? 

**Orodreth** : 

You did. And I was grateful. 

**Celegorm** : [nastily]

Short-lived, though. 

**Orodreth** : 

Do you _really_ not understand? Can you really not _see_ \-- that there is -- can be -- no going back to what _was_ now? That place . . . doesn't _exist_ now, for us -- there is no _way back_. The time for turning back was _then_ , and you chose to press on, to . . . burn your ships behind you. 

**Celegorm** : [sneering]

So much for "forgive and forget," eh? 

**Orodreth** : 

That's not how it works: what -- what happened at Losgar is become of a piece with this, and since _you_ are the sort of person who can so casually and thoughtlessly betray your friends, I find that there is _no one there_ with whom I can have any kind of a friendship -- and that there _never_ was. I was simply deluded. 

**Celegorm** : [upset]

\--That's not it, you don't understand-- 

**Orodreth** : [interrupting]

\--Perhaps. Perhaps I would have to be -- someone else, entirely, to understand -- your kind of treason. _You_ , at least, are loyal to each other. 

[pause] 

If it's any consolation, I don't think you consciously regard your fellow Elves as tools, as mere _means_ to further your ends, and not truly your Kindred at all -- I judge it's more that no one beside your siblings has any _substance_ to you, exists save in relation to yourselves, and so it really is less monstrous than . . . others' behavior. I don't put you on the same level as . . . Morgoth, for example. 

**Celegorm** : [sarcasm]

\--How generous of you! Well, I'm off to defend _your_ borders from wolf-spies and hell-boars -- _you_ can go on flagellating yourself, since you seem to prefer it. 

**Orodreth** : 

No, as it happens I'm going to sit here and sort through paperwork, which is far worse punishment. 

[Celegorm laughs disbelievingly] 

You try it sometime -- going through leaf after leaf, scroll after scroll, when the handwriting's as familiar to you as your own, or in a page of dull clerical copy there's a note dashed across that makes you laugh out loud because you can just hear the tone of voice -- and then you _remember_ . . . Surely you can understand -- What about going through your father's things? 

**Celegorm** : [stricken]

That -- you -- that wasn't-- 

[raising voice] 

We didn't betray him! We _tried_ \-- 

**Orodreth** : [gently]

I know. --Goodbye, Cel. 

[Celegorm stares at him, then storms out, slamming the door behind him. Orodreth bends to collect the documents swept off by the air, and just _stops_ , standing by the desk, closing his eyes with an anguished expression. Then he goes back again behind it, sits down and starts going through the Kingdom's records again. After a moment, however, he looks up in sudden realization, rises and hurries into the outer chambers.] 


	25. SCENE XII.ii

SCENE XII.ii [no dialogue]

[A hallway in the heart of the City, running along a carefully-sculpted channel of one of the underground watercourses of the Narog. Huan trots through in a businesslike manner sniffing a trail. People stop talking as he goes by and look around him guiltily for Luthien.]


	26. Act III: SCENE XIII

**Gower** : 

\--Nor state nor ceremony shall e'er suffice  
to stand for power, that no more present,  
returns not twice-- 

[The Regent's private office -- Finduilas is pouring wax carefully for her father to stamp with the royal seal, which is a challenge because a circle large enough to take a state seal wants to keep pouring off the page. She blows on it, watching it closely from an angle and waves him off when he goes to impress it.] 

**Finduilas** : 

\--Not yet, not yet -- it's just like molten glass at this stage, hard on the surface, pure liquid underneath. You'll ruin it and we'll have to peel it off and start over again. 

[He smiles at her officiousness, and she smiles back] 

\-- _Now_. 

[Orodreth emblazons the document.] 

**Orodreth** : 

No matter how many assistants I have, you'll still be the best. 

[Finduilas tosses her head in mock arrogance] 

**Finduilas** : 

Of course I shall. 

[reproachfully] 

\--But did you have to shout at him so? 

**Orodreth** : [grimacing]

Yes, I did. He was _supposed_ to be doing his job. I'm sorry if he got a sudden inspiration and wanted to sketch it down right away, but I didn't accept his application to mind the door and deal with the small matters and keep trespassers out of my office _except_ when he feels like doing something else -- I took him at his word that he would, in fact, _mind things_ for me and if I can't rely on him to do that, then _he_ needs to find me someone who will be responsible enough to put his or her own enjoyments to the side for the duration of service and go back to his studio. --Grinding Ice, _I'm_ doing it now. 

[sighs] 

Anyway, he hasn't bolted yet, so the shouting seems to have done some good. --Either that, or he's waiting to assassinate me. 

**Finduilas** : [appalled]

Father! 

**Orodreth** : 

But I don't think so. I do think it was necessary to get through to him, unfortunately. 

**Finduilas** : 

I don't know -- it just seems so -- _uncivilized_. 

**Orodreth** : [wry]

Unfortunately, civilization requires a good deal of work to keep it so. And sometimes the work is rather rough on one. A good deal of suffering and sweat goes into creating any worthwhile performance, on a musical instrument, or out of a forge, or -- here. 

[shaking his head] 

I had no idea so _much_ of it. It . . . all . . . seemed to take care of itself. Now -- I feel like someone building a city out of _sand_ \-- no blocks, only mortar -- and dry. Grain by grain by grain . . . I don't know how he did it. I'm beginning to think he wasn't joking when he said _sleep_ was a waste of time. 

**Finduilas** : [uncomfortably]

I do wish you wouldn't keep dismissing yourself, Father . . . He wouldn't have chosen if you if you weren't capable of doing it well. 

**Orodreth** : 

No, it's only that -- the alternative -- was even _more_ unacceptable. 

**Finduilas** : 

But . . . I know you thought that there were things that should have been done better, or that didn't get done and should have, that _you_ would have if, well-- 

[he doesn't say anything, and she looks away] 

That is -- I mean -- you -- _I_ always thought that people ignored you, that you felt relegated to the back ranks, overshadowed . . . by . . . him . . .   

**Orodreth** : [sighing]

Overshadowed? . . . Yes. As one feels overshadowed by a mountain, or by the forest itself, and -- never having known or experienced anything else -- cannot even conceive of what absence of same would entail. And now . . . 

[shakes his head, runs his hands along the just-signed proclamation] 

And the diplomatic complications . . . I swear I'd no idea there were so many different ethnicities in Narog alone, each with their own completely different idea of what's fitting and proper! Even in a single village . . . And they don't -- that is, mistrust is too strong a word -- but they don't trust me to understand what they're getting at or referring to, not without complicated explanations -- quite correctly, I'm discovering -- and that just leaves so much open to simple misinterpretation, and I hardly dare decide anything for fear of offending against someone's legitimate claims. 

**Finduilas** : [frowning]

Is it true that the natives don't really understand what we did for them? That they think _we're_ to blame for all the troubles in Beleriand? That's ridiculous, isn't it? I mean, _obviously_ we're _not_. 

**Orodreth** : 

Who said that? Her Highness of Doriath? 

[Finduilas nods] 

I'm not sure that I would agree with the Doriathrin interpretation of history in all particulars, but the stance is not entirely without validity and the concerns worth bearing under consideration. 

**Finduilas** : [wryly]

Is that a "yes" or a "no"? 

**Orodreth** : [brief real smile]

Of course. 

[considering look] 

Are you going to invite her to your Gathering tonight? 

**Finduilas** : [blushing]

I -- I hadn't -- I didn't think she'd wish it. 

**Orodreth** : [pragmatic]

It's going to look very singular and undiplomatic if you don't. You've invited Lord Celebrimbor, haven't you? 

**Finduilas** : 

Yes, but he probably won't come. 

[pause] 

It would be so -- awkward -- if she did . . . 

**Orodreth** : 

As would _not_ inviting your cousin and seniormost member of the nobility present. 

**Finduilas** : [grimacing]

But-- 

**Orodreth** : 

I know. Believe me, I know, dear. There are no good decisions, sometimes. 

[silence -- Finduilas moves things about in distracted "tidying" of the desk] 

**Finduilas** : 

Are _you_ coming? 

**Orodreth** : 

Most unlikely. I feel guilty in advance for taking the time away from _this_

[gesturing inclusively of the office mess] 

to eat dinner with you. Whether Her Highness attends or not. 

**Finduilas** : [doubtful, a bit sceptical]

There isn't _really_ that much work, is there? 

**Orodreth** : 

You haven't any idea, child. -- _I_ haven't any idea. But I'm starting to. 

**Finduilas** : 

Father! You're not going to slide out of it, are you? You promised! 

**Orodreth** : [snapping out of it]

What? Oh no. Even if _you_ were willing to overlook such abuse of your patience, it would be most ungracious to the chefs and disrespectful of their work. This isn't going anywhere, and a few hours won't make much difference, I'm afraid. 

[stands up] 

Would you mind putting out the warmer, dear? 

[Finduilas extinguishes the flame under the wax and takes his arm; as they walk into the inner rooms of the suite:] 

You'll have to tell me all about your latest composition over dinner; I'm afraid I didn't completely understand what you were trying to accomplish with the variations in the fourth movement when you described the idea to me last Summer... 


	27. Act III: SCENE XIII.ii [no dialogue]

Act III: SCENE XIII.ii [no dialogue]

[Huan arrives at the entrance to the Regent's apartments. He goes into the antechamber and lies down rather surreptitiously among the raised beds of waterplants, not having been noticed by the Aide, who is working in the files with the rather set and diligent expression of someone who has been thoroughly dressed-down in very recent memory.]


	28. Act III: SCENE XIV.i

**Gower** :

    --What would the melancholy heart, of peace,   
of quiet, or songs whose sadness is their beauty,   
_will_ may yet forsake, for sake of duty-- 

[Luthien's apartments -- Finduilas enters, looking very exasperated, with Huan beside her holding her hand carefully in his mouth the way retrievers often like to do.] 

**Finduilas** : 

Huan, what's wrong with you? Do you know how -- _why_ do you want to follow _me_? 

[he lets go, giving a penitent twitch of his tail; to Luthien] 

I was coming to talk to you and he insisted on sticking to me like a burr -- he couldn't have been closer if he'd been sewn onto my skirts! And holding my hand -- ugh! I can't imagine _why_. 

**Luthien** : 

Er... 

**Finduilas** : 

One moment, if you please, cousin -- I've got to wash my hands. 

[Luthien looks mildly guilty but says nothing while Finduilas goes into the private part of the apartments. Huan wags his tail, grinning] 

**Luthien** : [whisper]

Thanks -- I didn't think she'd be so hard to find. 

[He wags harder and flops down on the floor next to her. Finduilas returns, still shaking her hands reflexively] 

**Finduilas** : [genteelly peevish]

I don't know what's gotten into him: he's never been clingy like this before. I know some dogs who are given to hand-holding, but it's rather different with a Hound that size. 

**Luthien** : [innocently]

Oh. You, um, were coming to find me? 

**Finduilas** : 

Yes -- 

[she gives Luthien a funny look, finally realizing she's not sitting on a bench or chair but perched on the wall, and sits down in a chair herself, smoothing her skirts nervously] 

I'm so sorry, but with everything I'd forgotten to mention it to you earlier -- we're having a little get-together tonight, at Gwin's -- well, actually his father's hosting it, but I'm mostly in charge, and -- it occurred to me very belatedly that I hadn't remembered to invite you. 

[her tone of voice throughout is distinctly dismissive of it, oh-you-wouldn't-like-it designed to discourage interest, and she doesn't look enthusiastic either.] 

**Luthien** : [neutral voice]

A get-together. 

**Finduilas** : 

\--Just a small Gathering, some friends of ours and House Guilin. Perhaps some music, discussion of theories, nothing very elaborate -- nothing inappropriate, of course-- 

**Luthien** : [musing]

I've not had much heart for music, since my parents broke us up. 

**Finduilas** : [relieved]

Well, I was pretty sure you wouldn't want to come, but I didn't want to make you think we were leaving you out-- 

[starting to rise] 

**Luthien** : 

\--Who's going to be there? Your father? Anyone else I might know from Doriath? 

**Finduilas** : [sitting down again, wringing the fabric of her dress nervously]

Well . . . I'm not sure that Father will be able to make it, but . . . there might be some people you'd recognize. Mostly friends of Gwin's, from the army, or mine, from here . . . 

**Luthien** : [decisive]

I'll come. It might do me good to get out and talk to people, take my mind off things. 

[Finduilas looks stricken, though covers well] 

**Finduilas** : 

Oh! Oh . . . er, of course . . . 

**Luthien** : 

What's the matter? Don't you want me to come? Isn't that why you asked me? 

**Finduilas** : 

Well -- please don't take this the wrong way, but -- I can lend you a dress, without too much trouble, since you're tall for being Sindar, but we'll have to to start _now_ to accomplish anything with your hair. 

**Luthien** : 

What's _wrong_ with my hair? 

**Finduilas** : [apologetic]

Well . . . it looks like you cut it yourself in the dark. Or without a mirror. 

[pause] 

**Luthien** : [flatly]

That's exactly what I did. As you know. 

**Finduilas** : 

Yes -- but -- it _looks_ it. 

[longer pause] 

**Luthien** : [ice]

Well, then, we'll _match_ , won't we. 

**Finduilas** : [sighs]

Please don't be so sensitive about everything. Nobody takes you seriously when you're so touchy and, well, _messy_. It's as if you're trying to attract attention and be unpleasant, and that just rubs everyone the wrong way. 

[Luthien glares at her, and Finduilas looks away in discomfort] 

**Luthien** : [aside]

No one takes me seriously like this, hm? 

[aloud] 

Very well. This is _your_ City, I'll do as you would, then. 

**Finduilas** : [dismayed]

Oh . . . You're sure about this? 

**Luthien** : 

Once I make up my mind about something, I stick with it. 

**Finduilas** : 

Er -- yes. 

[sighs] 

All right, then, we'd best go and find something for you now. 

[she stands up, and Luthien jumps down from the ledge] 

I've got one outfit that I think would suit you particularly well, and it wouldn't point up your haircut the way most of mine will. In fact-- 

[she walks towards the door, sounding a bit more enthusiastic] 

I really think that will work well, because it's a style my aunt designed to wear her hair braided up with, and if we can just do something with the ends, then-- 

[Luthien, not listening, stops and bends down to scratch Huan's nose] 

**Luthien** : [aside to Huan]

I don't expect _you_ want to come to this. But thank you for finding her for me, and providing me moral support. I expect I'll see you later-- 

**Finduilas** : [curiously]

Luthien? 

**Luthien** : 

\--Coming! 

[aside, shaking head] 

\--The things one does... 


	29. Act III: SCENE XV

**Gower** :

       --"Faithful as a hound," the adage old,   
yet how shall faith be held with faithlessness?   
Of little use to have a form both strong and bold   
when mind and heart are held in such distress—

[On the terrace in front of the Gates Huan is lying down like a statue of a lion, while the sentries give him uneasy looks, wondering what he's doing there and if he senses something they can't. A party of hunters rides up from out the woods, Celegorm in the lead, and dismount, some of them leading the horses, others carrying the game. Celegorm notices his Hound when the rest of the pack goes up to greet him. (Needless to say, it's somewhat loud.)] 

**Celegorm** : [unpleasantly surprised]

What are _you_ doing here? You're supposed to be entertaining the Princess Luthien. If you're not going to do that -- you should have been attending _me_. We could have used you, you know. 

[shakes his head] 

Now, you go back to Her Highness' rooms and _stay_ this time, boy. 

[Sadly Huan gets up and walks in with the rest of the party, while the other hounds make worried noises when he doesn't respond to them.] 


	30. Act III: SCENE XVI

**Gower** :

As well might gild the gold day-lily   
or plate with silver the brighter stars of night,   
as render fair yet fairer still by handwork silly   
changing changeless pattern to accustomed sight- 

[The Regent's apartments, Finduilas' rooms -- Luthien is sitting on the bed looking rather ironic and put-upon. She is wearing a sumptuous and graceful gown of deep reds while Finduilas sits behind her fussing with her hopeless hair. She still holds on to her own dress and wrap, rolled up tightly in her hands, however. A jewelry casket is open on a small stand nearby.] 

**Finduilas** : 

No, of _course_ you can't wear blue, it's _Autumn_. 

**Luthien** : 

But _you're_ wearing blue. 

**Finduilas** : 

Yes, but I'm blonde. 

**Luthien** : 

\--Is there someplace in Arda that that makes sense? Because I never heard anything like _that_ from Mom. 

[Finduilas laughs] 

Why does everyone think I'm trying to be funny? 

[aside] 

I'm beginning to think I _know_ why Galadriel never stays here very long -- nor Finrod! 

**Finduilas** : 

Do you want the gold earrings with garnets, or the red-enameled earrings that I made to go with it? They're both quite nice. 

**Luthien** : [trying not to be rude]

If you made the enamels to match then I guess they'd go best with it, right? 

**Finduilas** : 

Well, _I_ think so -- but then you might want to wear real gems, because of your rank. Either set has matching hair ornaments, so it doesn't matter. 

**Luthien** : 

Well that's how I feel about it all. 

[she pokes listlessly through the jewelry in the case.] 

Oh -- no, I think I'll wear _these_. 

**Finduilas** : [looks]

Oh, _no_ , those won't do. 

**Luthien** : 

Why not? They have matching hair ornaments too, I see-- 

**Finduilas** : 

But those are for Summer. You can't wear _roses_ right now. 

**Luthien** : 

But they're made of white enamel and gold. How can it matter _when_ you wear them, since they don't fade? 

**Finduilas** : [shaking her head in dismay]

You just can't. It would look so -- _odd_. 

**Luthien** : 

Well, they're what I'm wearing. Sorry. 

**Finduilas** : 

Oh Luthien, _please_ \--! 

**Luthien** : 

Nope, nope, it's _that_ or no jewelry at all. 

**Finduilas** : [humoring]

Oh, very well, _as_ you please. 

[pause] 

\--Does everyone in Doriath talk that way? 

**Luthien** : [defensive]

What way? 

**Finduilas** : 

Oh, you know, --your accent. 

**Luthien** : 

_I_ don't have an accent. You lot are the ones with the funny accents, changing all the sounds around. 

**Finduilas** : 

No, it's _you_ who have changed the language: we spoke it the original way. --And those expressions. "Nope," "Yep" and the like? 

**Luthien** : 

Oh, that's North Country Sindarin. I picked those up from Beren. I got into the habit of using them to annoy my parents, it was an ideological thing, before I tried to run away and got shut up in the tree. --Now I don't even remember I'm doing it. 

[half-smiles] 

I've tried to get him to teach me his old language, the one they spoke before Finrod taught them Sindarin, but he says there's no point-- 

**Finduilas** : 

Well, there isn't, really, is there? I mean, it isn't as though there's anyone left to speak it _with_. 

**Luthien** : 

How can you talk so casually about the death of an entire civilization? 

**Finduilas** : [uncomfortable]

Well -- it isn't the same as if Nargothrond were destroyed, really. 

**Luthien** : 

Oh, _don't_ start that about their culture being all derivative and all -- I don't want to hear it _this_ time, either. 

[Finduilas gives her a worried frown] 

**Finduilas** : 

You're not going to be like that all night, are you? Will you at least make an effort to be sociable and civil? 

**Luthien** : [wry]

Don't worry. I will be sure to uphold the family honor. 

[Finduilas gets up and goes out of the room to put away the jewel box. Luthien, frowning, looks at the rolls of cloth in her hands; after deliberating she briefly sets them down on the bedspread, but after a moment's hesitation picks them up again and stuffs them up the long sleeves of her gown, not trusting to still be there when she gets back.] 

**Finduilas** : [businesslike]

Now, let's see if I can't make your hair a _little_ more presentable. Perhaps if I use the roses to hold down the worst of these tufts . . . 

[Luthien's expression becomes completely glazed as Finduilas gets more enthusiastic.] 


	31. Act III: SCENE XVII

**Gower** : 

Fleeing ceremony and the affairs of state,   
the princely artist ne'er can 'scape   
the burdens of his blood, duty, nor fate—

[Luthien's chamber. Celebrimbor is setting a final piece of coving in place around the fountain just installed across from the bed, where it can be seen as well as heard. Some trouble has been taken to make it fit into the surrounding decoration, which he pauses to admire. When Huan comes in behind him he doesn't look around to see who it is.] 

**Celebrimbor** : 

All right, you can turn the water on again, I've got everything connected up-- 

[starts when Huan breathes in his ear] 

Oh! It's you. I thought you were one of the guards. --Don't, _don't_ put your nose in that, I had to touch in some of the frieze around it and it's still wet in parts. 

[the Hound gives him a reproachful Look and sits] 

Sorry. I'm just so used to people being careless with my things. I guess the fact that _you're_ back means my uncle's back as well, eh? 

[Huan thumps the floor with his tail once and whines] 

I suppose that answers my question -- am I going to this wretched affair tonight or not? 

[sighs, gets up] 

Well. I'll check this first, then head on over to Gwin's House. What joy. 

[looks at Huan] 

Aren't you coming? 

**Huan** : 

[whining, lies down] 

**Celebrimbor** : [lifts his hands]

If her Highness doesn't mind you underfoot, it's no business of mine what you do. 

[looks around at the room again] 

_Superb_ . . . Somehow between "technical and organzational genius" and Orodreth's "terrifying warrior goddess" -- "intuitively brilliant artist" seems to have gotten overlooked. Not that I imagine she'd give me so much as a "good day" after this . . . 

[snorts] 

It's not as if I had anything to do with it, or as if I could have done anything -- Can you begin to understand what it's like, being the only person in our family with even the barest capacity for empathy? It's hellish. Everyone assumes that I approve of Grandfather and the rest of the lunatics without even bothering to ask, and even my friends who know better are treating me as though first of all I must have known in advance, and secondly as though I must benefit from it. And you know what that means? Half of them won't speak to me, and the rest are _too_ polite, and I can't figure out which of them want me to put in good words for them-- 

[short laugh] 

\--as if that would help them! -- and which ones are afraid of me now. Oh, the honour of belonging to House Feanor -- it's _almost_ more than I can stand. 

[He turns, realizing that someone has entered the chamber and is witnessing his rant] 

**Guard** : [warily]

My lord? 

[he looks around the room, confirming that no one besides Huan is present] 

**Celebrimbor** : [savagely]

What? 

**Guard** : 

Er -- you -- you did want the water turned back on, did you not? 

**Celebrimbor** : [haughty]

As a matter of fact I was on the verge of coming to do it myself. --Should I? 

**Guard** : 

No, sir, I'll . . . take care of it. 

[he leaves, but can't help checking one last time. Celebrimbor shakes his head and laughs bitterly before beginning to put away his tools.] 

**Celebrimbor** : 

You don't know how lucky you are, being a Hound. No conflicts of loyalty, no agonizing decisions for you, just to be happy doing a job you love! 

[Huan sighs, putting his head down on his paws] 

 


	32. Act III: SCENE XVIII

**Gower** :

\--As though no auguries most solemn should presage,   
lightness and pretense hold sway in Nargothrond,   
where all have else forgot their most solemn bond,   
else pretend, penning self-reproach in pleasant cage—

[Guilin's House apartments. A long solar with a very high ceiling, set with gold mosaic -- very bright effects. Luthien is standing next to Finduilas, the ambient light and the dark outfit doing nothing for her pallor. Superficially she looks like a model of royal dignity and sophistication, but her eyes are suspiciously wide and her smile a little too set -- if she wasn't too proud she'd be hiding behind her cousin right now or looking for a corner to lurk in. Despite promises, Gwin is scowling off by the wines and not mixing at all, or else his expression is keeping everyone at bay. The people who have brought instruments are tuning up and/or having an argument about it.] 

**Finduilas** : [aside to Luthien]

\-- _Please_ don't look like this is such an ordeal -- you wanted to come, after all-- 

[to a newly-arrived guest] 

Oh, I'm so glad you're here -- we'll be able to make up the full ensemble, tonight, I think. --I don't believe you've had the honor of being introduced to my cousin, Princess Luthien of Doriath? 

**Bard** : [startled, belated recognition]

Oh! Stars, I hadn't realized how tall you were when I saw you at the feast, the other night. 

**Luthien** : [baffled]

Er, yes -- one often is, if one's parents are . . . 

[she waits for some explanation; the Bard is embarrassed realizing the social blunder] 

**Bard** : 

Quite . . . so . . . 

[Awkward pause] 

I'd best go find out what tuning they've agreed upon. --If you'll excuse me? 

[Luthien turns to Finduilas, frowning.] 

**Luthien** : 

That's the seventh person to make a comment like that. Starting with our host, who at least managed not to laugh about it. What is so -- incredibly _fascinating_ , not to say amusing, about my height? 

**Finduilas** : 

Oh -- Well -- most of the locals aren't anywhere near as tall as we are. It's, er, just surprising. 

**Luthien** : 

But why is it so -- _humorous_? 

**Finduilas** : [whispering]

You wouldn't -- I'll explain later. 

**Luthien** : 

Explain what? 

**Finduilas** : [trying to shush her]

Please, I'll tell you _later_. 

**Luthien** : [edged]

Tell me why it's funny -- or I'm leaving right now. 

**Finduilas** : [pleading]

You won't understand-- 

[Luthien turns and walks towards the nearest door, which turns out to be a closet.] 

**Luthien** : [not backing down]

Where's the exit? 

**Finduilas** : 

Luthien -- it -- 

[gives up] 

Beren -- _isn't_. 

**Luthien** : 

. . . 

**Finduilas** : 

I told you so. 

**Luthien** : 

I don't believe it. I'd ask _why_ but I'm afraid the answer would completely destroy any remaining traces of sanity. -- _Why_? My mother's taller than my dad. 

**Finduilas** : 

Yes -- but -- so much? 

**Luthien** : 

Well. _No_. --So what? 

**Finduilas** : 

It . . . just . . . looks awfully strange. 

**Luthien** : 

How would _you_ know? You haven't seen us together. 

**Finduilas** : 

Cousin, please, I -- I have to go see to my guests-- 

[Flees. Luthien glowers, starts to look fierce and dangerously alert instead of wan and overwhelmed.] 

**Luthien** : [aside ranting to self]

 _Listening_ isn't working, since no one's saying anything meaningful to me. But how to start a conversation without throttling it in the same breath? If I just say, "Don't you all realize that the Enemy has put a forgetting spell on you so that you can't think about fighting him?" then won't they just forget what I said? I swear this feels more like one of Beren's weird stories from Dor-Lomin than anything real at all -- if you throw a stone into a certain pool you turn to stone or kill a bird and no one recognizes you after -- Like the world, only a little mad. Perhaps I've got to become mad myself, to speak to them? That's rather a frightening idea-- 

[The lady of House Feanor's following who was so patronizing to Beren sees Luthien alone and approaches, interrupting her deliberations] 

**Lady** : 

So! You're the famous Luthien of Doriath. Your mother really is a goddess, as they say? 

**Luthien** : [brightly]

Yes, and I'm taller than you. _And_ your consort. 

**Lady** : [checking, at a loss for the next thing to say, her lines having been stolen]

Ah, yes, I -- I -- I admit to having been rather -- er, surprised, at that. 

[frowning] 

\--Is that the fashion in Menegroth these days? 

**Luthien** : [manic cheerfulness]

Yes, it's quite stylish, being tall, though I don't know what we'll do if it goes out. --No, I borrowed it from my cousin. 

**Lady** : [struggling to regain composure]

No -- I meant -- that is to say -- your _hair_ , Princess Luthien. 

**Luthien** : 

You haven't heard? I cut it off to make a cape out of it. And a rope. 

**Lady** : 

Truthfully? That -- wasn't _exaggeration_? 

**Luthien** : 

Hardly. 

**Lady** : 

It truly was that long? 

**Luthien** : [shrugs]

When I finished with it, it was. 

**Lady** : [shaking her head]

I still can't believe you did that. Everyone thinks it's completely bizarre. 

**Luthien** : [finds this blunt curiosity rather refreshing, smiles not entirely hostilely]

Well, one does what one must. Sometimes I find it rather unbelievable myself. 

**Lady** : 

When are you going to grow your hair long again? 

**Luthien** : 

No idea. 

**Lady** : 

But don't you miss it? 

**Luthien** : 

Very much. But I'm working on getting it back. 

[her interrogator looks confused] 

You wouldn't happen to know who's got it at present? Supposedly I'm being all generous in allowing your Sages to study it, but I'm afraid it's gotten shoved off and forgotten, and if that's the case I'd really like to have it back. 

**Lady** : 

Your -- _hair_? 

**Luthien** : 

The rest of it, yes. 

**Lady** : 

Oh, your cloak! --No, I'm so sorry but I haven't the faintest idea. I assumed it was still in your possession. 

[The way it often happens at parties, now that someone is talking to her, a little knot of conversation begins to form around Luthien. Finduilas drags Gwindor over as dubious moral support] 

**A Musician** :

So -- is your mother really one of the Powers? 

**Luthien** : 

A minor Power, yes; she's Maiar, not Valar. 

**A Courier:** [from Gwindor's old outfit]

But still a goddess, nonetheless. --I find that very difficult to imagine. 

**Luthien** : 

She looks just like anyone else -- well, not _just_ like, there's nobody quite like my mother, but -- she isn't really different from any other Elf, except for what she can do. 

**A Sculptor** : [dryly]

 _And_ the fact that people become legendarily tongue-tied upon first seeing her -- even those born in Aman -- and can't explain what it is about her afterwards. 

**Luthien** : [shaking her head]

Oh, I don't think it was _her_ , I just think it was the awkwardness of the situation and the fact that we'd never met them. --And the effort of editing out recent events and all, which rather puts a strain on conversation. 

**Lord** : [yes, this is the same chap who was so snide to Beren, joining his wife now]

Why ever did Melian come to Middle-earth, your Highness? I've always wondered about that. 

**Luthien** : 

The same reason as you, pretty much -- to explore, see the world, get out on her own. 

**Lord** : 

Of course, that all is long in the past, now, that she's settled down and devoted herself to looking after one small area. 

**Luthien** : 

Doriath isn't small. --But that does seem to happen, doesn't it? 

[pause -- this begins to register on her audience] 

Or are you really wondering why she married my father? I'm getting the impression that that's what you're _really_ trying to ask. 

**Lord** : 

Er -- as a matter of fact, yes. 

**Luthien** : 

Because she fell in love with him, obviously. 

**Lady** : 

But why would one of the divine Powers marry so far beneath her? And not only a mere _Elf_ , but a Dark-elf to boot? 

**Luthien** : [heated]

My father is _not_ a Dark-elf. _My_ _father_ was one of the three Chosen ones, just like your kings. He went to Valinor, with Ingwe and Finwe, he just stayed here with my mother instead of going back. He didn't _need_ to go to Aman again. 

[Perhaps in response to her own informal manner, perhaps not, the crowd of guests becomes less and less formal and more direct in their interrogations and opinions -- she is both very much "at bay" and holding her own, for the moment] 

**Bard** : 

But then why did he choose to reject High-elven culture? 

**An Archer** : [from Gwindor's old company]

Especially after we saved you all from the Dark Lord and taught you how to fight. 

**Luthien** : 

No, you didn't. You all showed up at the last minute, after we'd been fighting for Great Years, and acted like you invented warfare. We watched you relearn everything we knew for centuries. 

**Lord** : 

But if it wasn't for us rescuing you, _fortunately_ before it was too late, you'd all have been thralls speaking the Black Speech in Angband long ago. We might not have "invented warfare" but we certainly improved upon it. Our weapons and armor protected you from invasion, Princess, whether you wish to believe it or not. 

**Luthien** : [getting hotter]

No, actually, it was _Denethor_ and his people who did that, long before you arrived. And then my mother set up the Labyrinth around and made a haven where the Enemy's powers can't come, though he keeps trying anyway. And again, that was _completely_ without any Noldor help. The Singers didn't have your arms or horses, but they kept their pact with my father anyway -- why do you think we gave them complete freedom of our realm? They earned it with their blood! 

**Lord** : 

Oh, I think I'd have heard about that if it were so, your Highness. 

[pause] 

**Luthien** : [shrugs]

Well, it's like the old saying goes -- "Talks much, listens little." Hard to hear when you're making noise, or when you think there's nothing of value to be heard, or when everyone around you simply agrees with you. 

**Sculptor** : [aside to Gwindor]

I think she just insulted all of us. 

**Gwindor** : [dry]

You don't say. 

**Finduilas** : 

This is becoming a disaster. 

**Gwindor** : 

You'll note I've refrained from saying -- I said as much. 

**Finduilas** : [sharply]

Until now. 

[Enter Celebrimbor unobtrusively. He drifts up in the background, nods to Gwindor] 

**Lord** : 

But don't you think, your Highness, that you ought to show some gratitude for all the benefits that we brought you from the West? 

**Luthien** : 

What benefits? All the benefits of Aman that we've got came from my mother, before you were even born. All you did was go off and make your own closed societies up north and out east and ignore the rest of us, until Morgoth trounced you and you had to find people to take you in. 

**Bard** : 

But if you're going to talk about closed societies, shouldn't you turn your mirror upon yourself, first, Highness? After all, it's _your_ House that sealed off a quarter of central Beleriand and banned not only us but our very language from popular usage. 

**Luthien** : 

That was _symbolic_ \-- 

**Bard** : 

It seemed entirely _real_ to myself, at least. 

**Celebrimbor** : [breaking in]

I always assumed it was a particularly clever way of protecting local cultural differences and dialects, myself. Who could argue with a gesture of grief? Far more effective than any encouragements or logical arguments to that effect. 

**Luthien** : 

No, it was completely sincere, sir! 

**Celebrimbor** : [placating (but rather lecturing  he can't help it)]

I didn't mean that it wasn't, my lady, I only meant that there could well be more than one reason for a ruler to do something. I know that our cousin for instance was quite troubled by the rapid abandonment of native art forms and linguistic variations for imported ones, and was quite helpless to do anything about it, since any attempts to encourage the, er, retention of older forms were regarded with suspicion. Attempts to withhold those benefits of Aman, you know. We talked about it on several occasions. 

**Luthien** : [a little doubtful]

I still don't think you're right, I don't think Dad would do things for ulterior motives like that. 

**Finduilas** : 

But you yourself talked about how subtle and underhanded his way of getting around his promise to you was, Luthien. And then locking you up afterwards. 

**Bard** : 

That wasn't just an exaggerated rumour, then? Your family really did keep you as a prisoner? 

**Luthien** : 

Well, it was house arrest, not a dungeon -- but thirty-odd fathoms of airspace is an extremely good barrier to leaving. 

**Sculptor** : 

Why did you escape that way? It sounds like utter insanity. 

**Luthien** : [raising her eyebrows]

What better way would you have recommended? 

**Sculptor** : 

But -- your _hair_? That's just so -- unspeakably peculiar. 

**Luthien** : [shrugs]

I didn't _have_ anything else. It wasn't like I could have carved steps down the trunks without anyone noticing, or, in all likelihood, killing myself. So I just thought: what am I best at? --Music; healing; fibre arts; making things grow. --What have I got to work with? Not much. But if you can make a bowstring out of hair, why not a longer cord? It's sort of like a cape already, it's dark, I want to be invisible in the dark -- I just need _more_. So what do I need? Tools. What could be more natural than for me being bored to ask for some harmless crafts projects to keep busy with? 

[raises her hands] 

I guess I could have asked for a potted plant, some kind of creeper like flowering bindweed, and grown _that_ down to the ground -- but it would have been hard to make camouflage out of it. So I just -- made enough of it to go round and made it strong enough to work. 

**Bard** : [expert opinion]

I'm afraid I simply don't see how that's possible. You shouldn't be able to change the fundamental nature of anything. 

**Luthien** : 

I could try to explain what I did, but if you're convinced it won't work it probably won't make any sense to you. Essentially -- I just channelled every comparable thing out there into it, and combined their qualities with my own power to, hm, encourage it to imitate them. It wasn't a _change_ so much as an -- oh, _enhancement_. 

**Bard** : 

Ah, I do understand the "sympathetic principle," your Highness; I'm simply unconvinced that so great an -- enhancement -- could be accomplished. 

**Luthien** : [amazed]

The fact that I did it isn't enough? 

**Bard** : 

I would never deny _that_ , but I feel certain that some other interpretation of the process must be looked for. Quite possibly some conjunction of forces aligned between Arda and the nearer stars, occurring simultaneously, might have been responsible for the results, do you not think more likely? 

**Luthien** : 

\--No. 

**Lady** : 

Well, _I_ for one cannot imagine even attempting such a ploy. 

**Luthien** : [nods]

I suppose I _could_ have asked for a rucksack and camouflage and a compact tent and so forth, but that would have been rather obvious, wouldn't it? --Not that it wouldn't have been more comfortable, but I can't imagine no one would have commented on it. Besides, I'd have had to ask for rope to get down with, and none of that would have solved the problem of what to do about the sentries. 

**Archer** : 

But weren't you frightened? A bowstring is one thing, but a lifeline! 

**Luthien** : 

More like terrified out of my mind. But I'd done all the calculations, and it should have been strong enough for the tension. 

**Archer** : 

But what if you'd been wrong? 

**Luthien** : [shrugs]

Then we wouldn't be having this conversation, would we? 

[the meaning of this occasions some rather dismayed looks, when it sinks in] 

**Archer** : [admiring]

I say, you're fabulously brave, Princess Luthien -- no wonder the Enemy's never been able to conquer Doriath, if you're typical of its people! 

**Luthien** : 

Hm -- _they_ wouldn't say I was typical, because they think I'm a complete lunatic. And I didn't _feel_ very brave. 

**Archer** : 

Well, we could have done with more of your sort of "terrified" in the Leaguer, without a doubt. 

**Luthien** : 

Oh, were you at Serech too? Did you know Beren's family? 

[extreme embarrassment all around, especially among the veterans] 

**Archer** : 

No -- that is -- not at the Fen, but -- I -- I did know the Beorings, of course, from the siege, and -- over the years, you know, here -- and at our other forts. 

**Luthien** : 

You were stationed at the Fortress? 

[awkward looks] 

**Gwindor** : 

We were there -- sometimes. Rotation. 

**Luthien** : 

Were you there at the end? 

**Finduilas** : [hissed]

\-- _Luthien_! 

**Luthien** : [ignoring her]

I understand that the Fortress was abandoned intact. Wouldn't that mean that the defenses would be the same as when you left them -- so they'd be more vulnerable to you, since you know their strengths and weaknesses? 

**Courier** : 

That -- would only be the case if the Enemy hasn't made changes. It's far from a safe assumption that he hasn't, your Highness. 

**Luthien** : 

Couldn't you tell? 

**Archer** : 

Well, by that time, it would be too late. 

**Luthien** : 

I don't mean when you're actually fighting there. I mean spying on their headquarters over the years. 

**Courier** : 

I'm afraid there haven't been any definitive reports since we were forced to retreat-- 

**Luthien** : 

\--You haven't kept it under observation? 

**Courier** : [even more patronizing]

The _entire_ _region_ is under the Enemy's control-- 

**Luthien** : [annoyed]

\--Yes, I _know_ \-- 

**Courier** : [less superior, more defensive]

I meant, your Highness, that it's too dangerous to try to infiltrate. It would just be wasting lives. We've concentrated on a strong front line of defense to prevent further encroachment. 

[she frowns] 

**Luthien** : 

I don't understand why they left the bridge and the gates intact, if nothing else. I know that the ones we use are wood, but still, can't you pull down stonework with enough horses? Or dig under it, or something? 

**Archer** : 

You weren't there, your Highness. There was -- wasn't time for that. 

**Celebrimbor** : [curious]

What about the Master Word? Or was there not one used there? And hence it left standing? That would explain why no counterattack was ever mounted. 

[uncomfortable silence] 

**Gwindor** : [embarrassed & rushed]

Anyhow that would have been the first thing to have been changed. 

**Luthien** : 

But still, even if they _have_ changed things about the defenses, they can't have changed _all_ , right? There must be posterns, or, or, ledges in the rock that you know about, or what about for the water to go through? Aren't there conduits going into the castle from underground? You wouldn't want to have to go out for water while under attack. Wouldn't it be easier to make a culvert under the surface than try to drill down farther for a well? 

[more silence] 

I mean, I know I don't really know what I'm talking about, but I'm trying to look at it rationally. It almost seems as if you've got this idea of Sauron as invincible and of the castle as impenetrable, and so you're not even able to _think_ of ways around it. 

**Finduilas** : [undertone, grabbing her arm and very severely]

Luthien. This is _hardly_ the proper time nor place to bring that up. 

**Luthien** : 

Well, if I'd ever been able to talk to your father today, I would have asked him instead. 

**Finduilas** : [outraged]

Holy Stars! Have you no sense of propriety whatsoever? Don't you _dare_ persecute him about the Fortress, he doesn't need any more stress and that's the most tactless thing you could say or do-- 

**Gwindor** : [tersely]

\--Faelivrin. _Stop_ making a scene. You're behaving worse than anyone right now. 

**Finduilas** : 

Do _not_ tell me what to do--! 

**Luthien** : 

Instead of fighting with each other, shouldn't we be fighting with the _Enemy_? Is there anyone here who disagrees with that? 

[turns, holding out her hands] 

Surely all of us, together, cannot be daunted so easily? Don't tell me that the best and brightest of Nargothrond can't with all the resources here manage to overcome the confusion of your leaderless state and recover our people -- _and_ the advantage in the War! -- by concerted effort? 

**Musician** : [blurting it out & instantly regretting it]

But they wouldn't be allowed back in any case. 

**Luthien** : [whirls]

What do you mean? 

[everyone tries to avoid looking at her -- or each other, which complicates things] 

**Guilin** : [finally]

No one taken by the forces of Morgoth is permitted to return to any of our Cities, Highness. 

**Luthien** : 

Why ever not? 

**Courier** : 

Well -- of course -- the Enemy's power -- to permanently turn people into agents of _his_ side -- 

[rallying] 

Surely even you in Doriath know about that -- 

**Luthien** : 

We've heard about it, yes -- but what barbaric custom is _this_ , and when did it start? 

**Guilin** :

Not custom, Highness, but the Law -- yet one more consequence of the War, made in response to unhappy discoveries too often repeated. 

**Luthien** : 

But he's your ruler! 

**Guilin** : 

Not even Kings may be above their own decrees -- among _our_ Kindred, at least. 

**Luthien** : [horrified]

You mean _Finrod_ wouldn't let prisoners-of-war come back? 

**Celebrimbor** : [grave]

He had to; he had no choice. 

[she gives him a severe Look] 

\--No _legitimate_ choice, being ruler. Personal liking or distaste come not into it, my lady, -- only the good of all. 

[pause] 

**Luthien** : 

That's _terrible_. 

**Celebrimbor** : 

_War_ is terrible. But the rest of us do not have the advantage of an impenetrable barrier surrounding our domains. 

[Luthien puts her hands to her temples, shaking her head] 

**Luthien** : 

\--But what about your uncle? 

**Celebrimbor** : 

\--My uncle? 

**Luthien** : 

Yes, Maglor, the one who was captured and had his hand cut off. 

**Celebrimbor** : 

That wasn't Maglor, that was Maedhros-- 

**Lord** : 

And he wasn't maimed by the _Enemy_ \-- it was during the res-- 

**Luthien** : [agitated]

\--That -- _that_ isn't important, none of it, it -- that -- but he was caught and kept in Angband for _months_ , right? That was the story _we_ heard. You said none of you allowed prisoners to come back to your holdings. 

**Celebrimbor** : 

He -- he wasn't brainwashed, only punished. 

**Luthien** : 

How do you know? 

**Celebrimbor** : 

He -- couldn't have been. You would realize that if you met him. 

**Luthien** : 

You don't _know_ that, though, for certain, if the only way you've found out before is when they turn out to be working for the Enemy, and that's why you've had to make a preemptive decision. You're just _hoping_ you're right. 

**Lord** : 

But he's -- he was the High King, and the head of our House. 

[Luthien raises an eyebrow, says nothing] 

**Finduilas** : 

You don't understand-- 

**Luthien** : [fierce]

 _What_ don't I understand? Explain it to me. Explain why you're willing to hide behind this rule of yours to justify not trying to save _your own King_ , your own family and friends, and pretend that they don't exist any more! _My_ cause is personal, nothing to do with my country's good one way or the other, but yours is _both_. Do you really believe that it's the better course, that it's even _permissible_ \-- not just for you, but for Finrod, to leave Nogrod leaderless, I can't believe that anyone would seriously think that, law or no law. 

[waits] 

**Bard** : 

Nothing is that simple, your Highness-- 

**Luthien** : 

You all seem to think it is. So _tell_ me. 

**Finduilas** : [answering almost in spite of herself]

It isn't that -- easy, you've no idea, you're not Noldor, you can't understand it and you don't want to-- 

**Luthien** : 

Because your father wants the throne for himself? I've heard that rumour. 

**Finduilas** : 

No! That's not-- 

[breaks off] 

**Luthien** : 

I doubted it rather, myself. What then? You're afraid of going to war again, and you've deluded yourselves into thinking that you can hide from it altogether here? We can't even do that in Doriath. 

**Lord** : [stiffly]

No one who's spent her entire life hiding behind a maze should put the name of _coward_ to another. 

**Gwindor** : [half-aside, ironic]

Not _entire_. 

**Luthien** : 

I want to know -- _Who's in charge here?_

**Bard** : [wildly]

You can't ask that, Your Highness-- 

**Luthien** : 

Why not? 

**Celebrimbor** : [into resulting silence]

Because then they'd have to answer. 

**Guilin** : [severe]

My lord, that is unseemly -- such mockery is unfitting the times-- 

[Celebrimbor bows, doesn't say anything] 

**Luthien** : [fierce]

 _What_ , sir, would _better_ fit these times? You hold the rank of Counsellor -- what counsel of rescue have you given, what cunning plans to save your dear lord and mine are underway, what forces of arms are readied, what spies sent forth to get the lie of the Enemy's lands before setting forth? 

**Guilin** : 

Highness, it is only to be expected that your ideallism and inexperience would make simple all matters of state-- 

**Luthien** : [with a cutting gesture of her hand]

 _None_. I know. I've guessed it. 

[she wheels, looking around at them all.] 

**Finduilas** : [pleading]

. . . Cousin . . . 

**Luthien** : [voice shaking but not weak]

\--There is a _darkness_ that fills this City for all the brightness of your illuminations and _no_ torch, no lamp, no flame you can light will serve to brighten it while your Sun is gone from here -- you stay underground, where Elves were never made to stay, and the cloud of our Enemy's will darkens your minds without wind and light to disperse it, and you paint the sacred stars on your ceilings but you can't _hear_ them, you're deaf and blind because Finrod was your vision, your senses, and without him you're lost -- can't you see it, can't you break free for an instant and _think_ , act, do what has to be done?! 

[she pauses for breath, panting, and waits for response. No one will meet her eyes.] 

\--Doomed. All of us. 

[looks around, with an expression of extreme concentration, remembers and fixes on one of the doors to the outside halls. Curtseying to Lord Guilin, but without any polite words of excuse, Luthien turns and sweeps out of the apartments. The strained silence persists.] 

**Gwindor** : [awkwardly, aside to Finduilas]

Should I go after her? 

**Finduilas** : [tightly]

\--And then what? You won't get any thanks from her more than I have. Don't worry -- she'll just press someone into guiding her around again. 

[tossing her head with an exasperated noise] 

I _knew_ it was a mistake from the beginning. It's all very well for my father to talk, when all _he_ does is _hide_ from her. 

**Gwindor** : 

What's worse -- empty gestures, or nothing at all? 

**Celebrimbor** : [ironic]

Or deception and interference -- surely worse than either, wouldn't you say? 

[Gwindor's expression locks down] 

Well, if _I_ can't say it, who can? 

**Guilin** : [low voice]

My lord, it would probably be for the best were you to depart now. 

**Celebrimbor** : [not angry]

At once, sir, but I can do better than that: I'll remove hence with any of our people that are present and leave you in such peace as remains -- though, regrettably, nothing but a most limited removal. Gwin, I expect I'll see you at the pels? 

[Gwindor nods stiffly] 

Until then. My lords -- my lady -- 

[bows to the three of them. To the guests:] 

Gentles of my House, let _us_ retire to our own devices, and not burden our hosts' graciousness further this evening. --Though phrased as a request, you'll note that was not a suggestion. I'd rather not be obliged to imitate my seniors' style, but if I must, I certainly shall. --Shall we? 

[gesturing to the assembled visitors, gathering up the ones from the following of Feanor. Over his shoulder:] 

By the by, you do realize that Her Highness is entirely correct --? We are, in fact, _all_ Doomed. 

[The remaining company react silently to this parting shot in a frozen tableau.] 


	33. Act III: SCENE XIX

**Gower** : 

\--Conspiracy's full measure, half-unveiled,   
hath yet to be revealed; yet now assailed,  
shall out, to light -- yet to what avail? 

[Luthien is going quickly down a long spiral case, not stairs, but a very wide shallow ramp with an ornate railing that opens onto each floor.] 

**Luthien** : 

I know we came up this way, and it was three -- no four -- no it _was_ three floors up, so that means this next one will be the landing, and then I'll just find another side door and hang on to Orodreth like a burr until he gives in. 

[goes into the hallway - but it's a circular gallery, going around the width of the spiral] 

This isn't right -- but I know I counted it right -- this is lke the Labyrinth at home, it doesn't make sense, I don't believe it -- Oh -- _Maps_! 

[The walls are painted with huge fully-rendered terrain shots in realistic color, divided by ornamental borders and with the lettering artistically integrated into the topography.] 

Seven rivers -- that's got to be Ossiriand -- yep, there's the name, so that's Amon Ereb, and that's Aros, and there's Esgalduin -- Oh, that has to be Hirilorn! Star and water, that's a lot of detail -- so where did I come? 

[she starts walking slowly around the perimeter, looking at the maps] 

Ah, right, there's Amon Rudh. So south from that . . . And that has to be the Gates -- Here we are -- unfortunately! so somewhere in here's where I was caught. I knew it was a long way, but it looks much longer here. So how far is it to the Fortress? 

[steps back to look up] 

Oh. 

[flatly] 

I hope this is not to scale. 

[looks around] 

Perhaps there's a more accurate one . . . ? 

[moves a little farther around the curve] 

_That_ doesn't look so bad . . . Oh. That's got to be the ocean. I guess it is to scale after all. 

[runs her hands over her face -- when she looks up realizes that there are other people in the gallery as well.] 

I'm sorry -- I didn't mean to disturb you, I didn't know there was anyone here. I was looking for the Regent's quarters, but I think I got off on the wrong floor. 

[The others don't say anything. They look surprised and worried, at first, before recognizing her. The conspiratorial group consists of the Sage who tried to accost Luthien earlier in the Hall of Hours, and her companions there: a Scribe, the Royal Guard who refused to go, and likewise a Ranger.] 

I beg your pardon. Is something the matter? 

**Guard** : [bowing formally]

Your Highness. 

**Sage** : [not at all formal]

\--Is something the _matter_ , she asks! How nice to be so _carefree_ as to be able to enjoy one's self at festive gatherings! 

**Luthien** : 

What are you talking about? 

**Sage** : [caustic]

Of course, what else should one expect, from someone who thinks so highly of herself as to demand a _Silmaril_ for her dowry! 

**Luthien** : 

_What_?! I never asked for the cursed thing -- _I_ had nothing to do with that! 

**Sage** : [gesturing disdainfully at Luthien's dress]

Of course not. You never sent anyone on a fatal quest, never started up the Curse again, never blithely accepted the ill-gotten gifts from those hands your thoughtlessness played into, forgetting the people you've destroyed by it -- oh no--! 

**Luthien** : 

What are you talking about? I came here to get help for Beren, and I'm still trying to get the help I was promised, and some kind of interference from the Enemy seems to be stopping the people in charge from actually _doing_ anything. 

**Scribe** : [astounded]

You really _don'tknow_? 

**Luthien** : [exasperated, runs her hand through her hair, scattering pins and jewels]

How do I know? What _is_ it that I'm supposed to know? 

**Sage** : 

She doesn't. She's no idea. 

[flings up her hands] 

**Luthien** : [tight smile]

"She" is also losing her temper. 

**Sage** : 

You really pretend that you've no idea of the devastation you've caused, that you're really that naive as to believe everything you're told? That you've no notion whatsoever of the catastrophe you and your mortal boy have brought to our realm? 

**Luthien** : 

Did I ever say I believe "everything" I'm told? You're the first people willing to do anything besides offer me platitudes and meaningless comforts -- but if all you're going to do is make cutting-yet-incomprehensible remarks and melodramatic gestures, I really haven't the time to waste. 

[turns to go] 

**Sage** : 

Princess Luthien! 

[she looks back over her shoulder] 

You said you knew it when the Beoring was captured. 

[Luthien nods, her expression closed. Tautly:] 

\-- _What's happened to them?_

**Luthien** : 

I don't know. I can't scry, I'm not a Seer, I only know that Sauron has Beren because my mother said so, and how she knew that I don't know, and all I knew was that I felt like I've been told being shot feels like, that I was suddenly more frightened than before the First Battle, and it wouldn't go away. 

[looks at them for a long moment] 

\--You know them. They're your family, your friends, your loved ones and what are you doing _here_ instead of moving all Ea to help me get a task force out and underway-- 

[whirling and stalking down on them as her voice rises] 

What, for Nienna's sake, do you know that you're not _telling_ me? How can I work with nothing but lies and silence to spin? 

[They stare back at her, guiltily. The Sage looks away, as does the Guard] 

**Scribe** : [whispering]

Your Highness-- 

**Luthien** : [through clenched teeth]

 _Tell_. _Me_. 

**Sage** : [savagely]

Civil war, that's what. Your fiance started the trouble with your insane demand. 

[the Guard starts to say something and stops] 

**Luthien** : 

Not _mine_ , my father's, and this does _not_ look like a place that's seen fighting, so what are you talking about? 

**Sage** : 

The sons of Feanor threatened it. And the King's honor wouldn't let him back out of this damned quest of yours. And so, thanks to you, those _wretches_ have taken everything that King Felagund made and we've lost the best of our champions to your selfishness. 

**Luthien** : [icy]

There's more, isn't there? _Why_ didn't you put a stop to it? This is your City, _your_ Kingdom, and you just let them take it away from you? They're two Elves, even if they are great warriors -- what can two do against thousands? 

**Ranger** : 

They invoked the Oath. 

**Luthien** : 

Oh yes, the famous _Oath_. The one that makes any means justifiable. So what? Let them. Then lock them up. 

**Guard** : [desperately]

You don't un-- 

[stops at her Look] 

They have a large number of supporters here, and -- there's already been one Kinslaying, your Highness. 

**Luthien** : 

Then if you're not of that number -- what are you still doing here? If you're on Finrod's side, why aren't you with him? Where are the rest of you -- there must be others -- and why didn't you go too? 

**Scribe** : 

To Angband . . . ? 

[trails off] 

**Luthien** : [snorting]

And yet -- you'll blame me, blame Beren, blame your King, blame your friends -- all before you blame those whose fault it is -- my bloody-minded cousins -- and yourselves. 

[pause] 

**Sage** : [quietly]

You don't seem at all surprised. 

**Luthien** : 

Surprised? At being betrayed and waylaid by my relatives? What in Arda's surprising about that? --Or that the sons of Feanor are just as bad as ever the rumours painted them way back when? Not that either. 

[narrowing her eyes] 

\--So I take it that means it _isn't_ , in fact, a public service on my part and an act of gratitude that I allow you tech people to keep my cloak. 

**Sage** : [checking in surprise]

 _We_ don't have it. 

**Luthien** : 

Who's got it, if you're not working on it? 

**Scribe** : 

Lord Curufin. That's what my cousin, who's married to one of their Healers, said. No one can handle it, you know. They've given up trying to figure out how it works: whenever anyone touches it it makes them all sleepy and stupid. 

**Luthien** : 

_Stupider_ , you mean. How can they think to rule a country they neither know nor care anything about? A throne's more than a fancy chair, to put here or there or forget about when you've something else to amuse yourself with. All they've done is destroy Finrod's power; they've done nothing to consolidate their own. 

**Sage** : 

On the contrary -- your Highness -- I would say that they have succeeded quite well at that. 

**Luthien** : 

No, they've not. It's only that no one cares enough to do anything about them, because you're all insane. 

**Scribe** : 

No, you don't _understand_ the circumstances-- 

**Luthien** : [tossing her head]

Yes, so everyone keeps saying. I suppose I could have said, "because you're all cowards," but that would have been redundant. 

**Guard** : [angry]

Your Highness, that word is _unacceptable_ \-- 

**Luthien** : 

But true-- 

**Sage** : [impatiently]

 _Quiet_. The fact remains, Princess Luthien, that you are _here_ , and the lords of Aglon-and-Himlad are _here_ , and they are in power and you are not, and rumor has it they mean to use you as a pawn against your father, and what are you going to _do_ about it? 

**Luthien** : 

Go find Beren. 

**Sage** : 

How? By yourself? 

**Luthien** : 

If I must. Which increasingly seems to be the case. 

**Sage** : 

You'll be killed. Or captured. 

**Luthien** : 

Possibly. 

**Sage** : 

Not possibly -- _certainly_. 

**Luthien** : 

Then your Foresight's better than mine. I'm only _mostly_ sure it's hopeless. But I'm still going to try. 

[she glares at them one by one] 

Or you could _come with me_. We would have a better chance that way, right? It would be _less_ hopeless. _You_ \-- 

[to the Sage] 

\--could get me my cape, and I could hide our activites from observation, the Enemy's -- and the enemies', and -- 

[to the Scribe]

you can get hold of the plans of the Fortress and any information in the archives about Sauron, about his weaknesses and whatever else might be relevant, while you two can get us gear and provisions and horses, and make yourselves useful if we end up having to fight. Though I hope we don't. I'm thinking I could disguise myself as a slave -- everyone keeps telling me I look like one as it is -- and sneak inside, but we really, really need good maps for that-- 

**Ranger** : [shaking his head in dismay]

Your Highness -- you can't -- seriously mean to go against the Abhorred One and his wolves by yourself. 

**Luthien** : 

If you come with me then it won't _be_ by myself, will it? 

**Guard** : 

But if -- if even His Majesty couldn't do it -- what chance have any of us? 

**Luthien** : 

Then at least we will have failed trying to accomplish something. Can you live with yourself, not having done that? --I can't. 

[pause] 

**Sage** : [slowly]

If we meet you at your apartments it will be obvious that something is afoot and we will be prevented. 

**Luthien** : 

Where's a better place for it? _Here_? I can wait here. 

**Guard** : 

No, someone could come through at any time. That's why _we_ come here, because it can look like a chance encounter on the causeway. 

**Luthien** : 

Somewhere near an outside door? Then we would be right there to go at once. 

**Scribe** : [shaking head]

That would be too obvious. 

**Luthien** : 

Well, it can't be anywhere too far, because I'll get lost and have to ask directions. --Which would be rather unhelpful. 

**Ranger** : 

What about the Hall of Morning? It would be very hard to get lost going there, and no one will be there for almost two bells. 

**Sage** : 

Ah. That's a good idea. An _excellent_ idea. 

**Luthien** : 

? ? ? 

**Sage** : 

It's right at the very top of the ramp. The gallery ceiling is a system of prisms and reflectors so that sunlight from the hills over us comes down through the crystals and illuminates the chambers. There's nothing to see at night, though, so it's deserted. 

**Luthien** : 

Very well. But be quick about it. We need as much time as possible, so that we can make as much time as we can before we're discovered. I don't know how well I'l be able to conceal us in broad daylight. 

**Scribe** : 

Are you certain you'll be able to extend the working to all of us? 

**Luthien** : 

Yes. --Well, _reasonably_ certain. 

**Sage** : 

That does not inspire much confidence, your Highness. 

**Luthien** : [shrugs]

I'm sorry for being so honest. Subterfuge doesn't come naturally to me, I have to work hard at it. Would you rather I tricked you into helping me? I'll try that, if you'd prefer. 

**Sage** : [shaking her head]

I confess you're far from what I'd expected. 

**Luthien** : 

My parents would undoubtedly agree with you there. 

[giving them all a stern Look] 

_Do not fail us_. I will be waiting for you. 

[the conspirators part ways, leaving the Hall of Maps, some down the ramp, some up -- Luthien continues upwards to the top story] 


	34. Act III: SCENE XX.i

Act III: SCENE XX.i [no dialogue]

[Luthien's apartments. Huan gets up from beside the bed with the impatient heave of a bored dog and starts to go down the hallway, but stops in the solar and whines in distress, furrowing his brows, and circles around the room. He moves towards the outer door again, but can't bring himself to disobey and flops down in front of the fireplace, ears drooping, to wait for her.]


	35. Act III: SCENE XX.ii

**Gower** :

    --Hope doth flame brightly, yet   
absent further fuel, like straw outburneth swift, to let   
dark despair return, as the sun forever shall be set—

[The Hall of Morning. It's very dim -- only a bit of discreet artificial illumination, with some scattered white light coming through the prisms overhead from the not-quite- full moon. Luthien is pacing, arms tightly folded around her, but stops as the camera nears and sits down heavily on a bench with a tense expression.] 

**Luthien** : [decidedly, gloomy]

\--Not coming. 

[she shivers] 

That leaves me one option. Of course that only makes it more hopeless than before . . . But then, that isn't really so, is it? It always _was_ hopeless -- I was just wrong about it. As usual. 

[shivers again, rubbing her arms] 

Well, if I can't get my cape back, I can take whatever I need in exchange. It's worth at _least_ a horse and some heavy clothes, I should think. 

[shaking her head] 

By rights I could take anything I wanted, for the purpose of rescue, but I've no idea _what_ besides my cape would help. --Well, Finduilas' _dress_ won't, that's for certain. 

[Starts to pull hers out of the sleeves, but stops when she hears something outside. Stands up at once, looking alert] 

**Curufin** : 

No, I really don't think we should send to any of the others until it's all -- 

[breaks off] 

\--Who's there? 

**Luthien** : 

_I_ am. 

[The sons of Feanor come the rest of the way around the curve of the ramp and stop when they see her, very surprised] 

**Curufin** : [surreptitiously taking his hand off of his knife]

Your Highness? What are you doing here all alone in the dark? 

**Celegorm** : 

Are you lost? 

**Luthien** : [hiding her disappointment]

 _Thinking_ , my lords. I like to do that, sometimes, up high. --One _might_ ask the same of you--? 

**Celegorm** : [ignoring her question]

I'm glad to see you've taken my advice and gotten some decent clothes for yourself. _Much_ better. 

**Luthien** : 

There was an affair tonight that Finduilas talked me into going to. Hence all this. 

**Celegorm** : 

Well, good for you! Good to get out and enjoy yourself. 

[looks around for anyone else] 

\--But surely they didn't throw you out, what? 

**Luthien** : 

No -- there were too many people there and it got rather overwhelming. 

**Curufin** : 

Was my son there, did you notice? 

**Luthien** : 

He _was_ still there when I left, but I've no idea if he's there now, my lord. 

**Curufin** : 

Hmph. 

**Luthien** : 

My lord, I've been looking to ask you for -- for a long time, now: do you know when I will be able to get my cape back? 

[Throughout the following exchanges she watches them both closely for any sign of guile] 

**Curufin** : [shrugging apologetically]

I'm afraid it's rather out of my hands at the moment, though I assure you I'll certainly check on the progress of the researchers for you. --But you don't really _need_ it, anyway, correct? 

**Luthien** : 

Whether I need it or not is irrelevant: it's _mine_. 

**Curufin** : [carefully, as to a child]

I don't believe that anyone has challenged that, your Highness. 

**Luthien** : 

But no one seems to know who's got it, or where it is, and it's extremely valuable to _me_ , at least. 

**Curufin** : 

Nargothrond is a very large place, with a great number of people in it. 

**Luthien** : 

So I have noticed. How is that relevant? 

**Curufin** : 

I meant, my lady, that these things take time. 

**Luthien** : 

Ah. 

[glances around, worried and torn] 

Well, my lords, I suppose you would prefer to have the peace and quiet to yourselves, for your own conversation, so I'll bid you good evening and return to my own apartments now. 

**Celegorm** : 

Oh no, you can't go gettin' lost again -- we'll take you that way and make sure you're home safely. 

**Luthien** : [defensive]

I'm not _lost_ , I just don't know where everything is. --No one's ever taken me through it all and explained how it connects up, or drawn out maps for me. I remember some of the plans that Finrod showed us, but those weren't complete and changes have been made since then. 

**Curufin** : 

A lamentable oversight, I'm sure -- one of _our_ people would be able to remember it all from the first, and so we forget that it might not be that easy for an outsider, and fail in our duty. 

**Luthien** : [aside]

What a backhanded insult! 

[aloud] 

But I don't want to be an inconvenience to you . . . 

**Curufin** : 

Not at all, my lady. 

[bows] 

**Luthien** : [doubtfully]

Well, if it isn't any trouble-- 

**Celegorm** : 

Good! That's settled. 

[takes her arm and leads her down the circular causeway] 

Impressive place, what? But you need to see it properly in the morning. Perhaps you'd like to come up and see it tomorrow? 

[Curufin looks around suspiciously one more time to make sure no one else is about] 

**Curufin** : [catching up to them]

Of course it's nothing to compare with Formenos, but for Middle-earth Nargothrond isn't bad at all. --Not that it couldn't stand improvement. 

**Luthien** : 

That's true of most things, though, isn't it? 

[aside] 

And _this_ is one that could have gone far worse. There's still a chance. 

[aloud]

So would you be so kind as to show me how the layout of the City goes? And perhaps I'll even be able to remember it, with your capable instruction? Then I'll be able to feel a bit more at home here. 

**Celegorm** : 

Well, this, right here's the southernmost vertical shaft that goes all the way through all the levels-- 

**Curufin** : 

No, there's one more farther south than this, you're forgetting about. 

**Celegorm** : 

But that's only an air-shaft, Cur, not a proper access . . . 

[they go out of sight, the sons of Feanor correcting each other. No one arrives to rendezvous with Luthien as the scene fades to darkness] 


	36. Act III: SCENE XXI

 

 **Gower** :

Small waves and winds may mark a passing gust, soon oe'r;  
\--or signify the coming of a gale-wind's flood and roar--

[The Regent's office. Orodreth is standing with hands clasped behind his back, listening to Gwindor, and looking at a painting over the fireplace showing a seascape with sunset castle (which is probably Barad Nimras, not imaginary view. )]

 **Orodreth** :

So she knows.

 **Gwindor** :

I'm afraid so, sir.

 **Orodreth** :

Well. In a way, it's a relief, I must confess. --Do you know what she means to do?

 **Gwindor** :

I -- couldn't say.

 **Orodreth** :

I'm not asking you to betray any confidences.

 **Gwindor** :

Truly, sir, I don't. I -- my guess is that she would take independent action, again. But I don't think it would be feasible, because of their orders, and their partisans among the Guard--

[hopeful]

\--unless _you_ were to intervene, sir.

 **Orodreth** :

You know I can't do that.

 **Gwindor** : [lightly]

You know, _this_ time they didn't even have to raise a hand to profit by others' work. Well, if guile and coercion are what it takes to rule, along with ruthlessness, then they're as fit to be sovereigns as the Enemy himself.

[Orodreth gives him a sidelong glance, and he reddens]

Sorry, sir -- I meant no disrespect.

 **Orodreth** :

You did. But that's all right.

[sighs]

Whatever one may truly say about a somewhat casual and proprietary attitude evinced towards their own followers, it's true that during the chaos of the battle their primary concern was to effect the safe retreat of the greatest number of their people, with little regard for the salvage of property and possession.

[musing]

\--Of course if your attitude towards property is that you can always acquire more of it from someone else, so long as you have a sword, then that isn't perhaps so creditable after all...

[turns to face Gwindor]

Stay attentive. Let me know what you hear, both what's reported and -- what isn't.

 **Gwindor** :

Yes, my lord. --There's far more of the latter than the former, I'm afraid.

 **Orodreth** :

Do your best. It isn't your fault that you're resented -- I had to put someone in charge, Gwin, and I'm sorry it was you.

 **Gwindor** :

It isn't that, sir -- not only that. It's also that there are things I don't know to ask, or that I'm expected to understand, that Intelligence doesn't even think to tell me because I should already know. --Quite apart from the fact that no one trusts anyone else these days.

 **Orodreth** : [grim smile]

How can they, when we cannot even trust ourselves?

[Gwindor bows and leaves, wearing a frown pretty much permanent now]


	37. Act III: SCENE XXII

**Gower** :

Masking disappointment with cheerful mien,  
Tinuviel pursues gleam of hope half-seen. 

[The Great Solar. Luthien -- back to her usual outfit -- comes in with Huan, to the not-surprising lull in conversation. Although she has the red gown folded up in a parcel in her hands, she keeps glancing around even after she's spotted Finduilas, playing with a couple of other luthenists. No luck, however -- though there is a suspicious flurry by one of the farther doors, as if someone has just dashed out upon spotting her.] 

**Luthien** : [brightly]

Here's your dress, cousin. Thank you for the loan. Oh, and I clipped all the hair ornaments I could find into the neck of the shift. I'm afraid some of them must have come out. 

**Finduilas** : [wary]

Just -- put it there, please. On that hassock. 

[pause] 

You could have had someone bring it to our House, you know. 

**Luthien** : 

Oh. You're right, I could have. Should I do that instead? 

**Finduilas** : [rolling her eyes]

It doesn't matter _now_. Just -- just leave it there, I'll take care of it. 

[pause] 

I can't _believe_ you didn't wear the shoes. 

**Luthien** : 

They didn't fit. 

**Finduilas** : 

And you didn't _say_ anything? 

**Luthien** : [shrugs]

It didn't matter, with a floor length skirt. --Besides, then I'd have been even _taller_. 

[another pause, awkward for Finduilas at least, expectant for Luthien] 

**Finduilas** : [finally]

Where are you going? 

**Luthien** : 

Just right here, by that clock thing. 

**Finduilas** : 

It isn't working -- he's got it apart again. 

**Luthien** : [bland]

Oh, is that why he's got all those bits of crystal and wire on the floor around it? --Come on, milord, let's go thank Lord Celebrimbor for the fountain. 

[She tugs Huan's collar and they cross over to the Chronometer; Finduilas, chagrinned, tries to ignore her, but keeps on paying attention even while she's playing. Luthien & Huan come up and sit beside Celebrimbor, flanking him -- he looks up and gives her a questioning look but doesn't open conversation] 

**Luthien** : [low conversational tone]

Thank you for setting that up for me. It's helped. If I said that I thought I was being followed today, what would you say to that? 

**Celebrimbor** : 

That you were being paranoid-- 

[her expression darkens] 

\--but not necessarily incorrect. 

[Luthien nods slowly] 

**Luthien** : 

I don't suppose you can tell me _who_. Or _why_. 

**Celebrimbor** : [scanning the crowd, shakes his head]

\--Too many possibilities. 

[she looks disappointed but not surprised] 

**Luthien** : 

I need to ask you something -- about last night. This one you can answer. 

[Celebrimbor nods warily in encouragement] 

What did you mean by a "master-word"? Is it like a _key_? Something to close or open the gates? 

**Celebrimbor** : 

The Master Word . . . it's not a "word" of course, but a Word in the larger sense, a saying of power and binding words -- or rather, in this case, of _un_ binding. A key, all right, but not merely to the _gates_ of a place. I've never seen one used -- never actually heard of one being employed, save in miniature for experimentation, but -- in theory -- it works by reversal, taking the energies of place that are trapped within each stone, indeed any object raised up and set in place, and using that very power to force the stones and structural elements apart . . . 

[rapt in speculative imagination] 

It should -- as I was taught -- unbind every stone one from the other, in the order of their setting, last to first, so that the structure is unfolded, outwards, opening slowly like an enormous flower, like a rose or a water lily, or more like a snowfall, perhaps, if a snowfall were like a fountain of stone . . . I'd love to see it, it would be spectacular beyond description. --But a great waste and a shame, of course. 

[this last does not sound quite as sincere as what preceded it] 

**Luthien** Is there a Master Word for Nargothrond? 

**Celebrimbor** : [understanding perfectly what she's getting at]

Not that way. Nargothrond is built upon a natural system of caverns, not built up lfrom the ground. Maker's Words would have been used -- indeed, _are_ , as work still goes on -- to aid in the process, but it is principally cosmetic, or at least not integral, to the city's foundation. 

**Luthien** : 

But not all of it is carved in one piece: I know that there are hallways that are not at all natural, and which aren't merely facings. Even the gate pillars are partly _added to_ the living rock. 

**Celebrimbor** : [shaking head, not unsympathetically]

It wouldn't work. The Gates are their own Working entirely. All that invoking a Maker's Word here would accomplish would be massive destruction and damage, but no outside access, I'm almost entirely certain. 

**Luthien** : 

_Maker's_ Words -- but what about the Master Word? 

**Celebrimbor** : 

Even if there was one, and even if you had it, you couldn't use it. It would require an almost unimaginable amount of power to enforce it. It isn't a matter of merely _invoking_ it, but of _Unworking_ , -- you don't have to understand how it works, according to the theory, but you have to _will_ it, without any hesitation or distraction, and it does help to know what you're doing as well. _I_ would be very reluctant to attempt such a thing, on such a scale. 

**Luthien** : 

But the Master Word would open the Gates as well? It opens everything within its compass, you said. And if it took _infinite_ power to wield it, there would be no point to it, would there, so while it shouldn't be easy, for obvious reasons, it shouldn't be _impossible_ either . . . ? 

**Celebrimbor** : 

Yes. But it's no good. Assuming that there is one, because this was never intended to be a garrison at all, only two people would know it, so far as I know, and I'm neither of them. Not that either of us two would ever countenance such a deed, of course . . . 

**Luthien** : 

_Who_? Finrod of course, and . . . Orodreth? Being Regent? 

**Celebrimbor** : 

So indeed would I assume. 

[Finduilas, catching the relevant word in the conversation, sets her lute down and comes over] 

**Luthien:** [intense]

I need to get out of here. 

**Finduilas** :

\--What _about_ my father? 

**Luthien** : [innocent]

I was just remarking that he's the Regent. 

**Finduilas** : 

Everybody knows. People are going to think you really are crazy, Luthien. 

**Luthien** : [raises her hands]

It isn't as though I can do anything about that. 

[gets up] 

**Finduilas** : 

What are you doing now? 

**Luthien** : [mildly]

Going for a walk along the ways Lord Curufin and his brother mapped out for me so that I don't get lost again. Hopefully. But I've got Huan, so I can just follow him back if I do. 

[To Celebrimbor, who is frowning over some of the Chronometer's figures] 

\--Don't worry about getting it exactly right and finishing it. It's more like the world if you _don't_. 

[she drifts off again, followed by the Hound. Celebrimbor frowns] 

**Celebrimbor** : 

How did she know that was what I was thinking? I never mentioned the design to her at all. 

**Finduilas** : [shaking her head]

 _Well_. Mortals say madness and prophecy go together. Perhaps it's _true_. 

[they look at each other, both daring the other to say something about prior events. Both decline, however] 


	38. Act III: SCENE XXIII.i

**Gower** : 

\--Striving to ordain in plots and scheming dark,   
both strong and subtle eke shall miss their mark-- 

[The royal apartments -- Celegorm is trying out several different bows and equipment cases. Curufin is reading.] 

**Celegorm** : [dissatisfied]

Eh, I think I like my own better. This one's too long, this one's not springy enough, and the grip's all wrong for me on the other one. Which is a real pity, because it's got a simply beautiful case -- but it wouldn't do to break up the set. --Maybe I'll keep the quiver though; I really do like the closures on it, and it hangs well. 

**Curufin** : 

You talking to me or yourself, Cel? 

**Celegorm** : 

Oh, both. --Too bad it's so wet out, I'd like to go for a ride but no chance of raising a decent chase, what? 

**Curufin** : [absently]

Probably. Why don't you go and work on cheering up Her Highness some more? You seemed to get along well with her last night. She actually smiled a few times that I saw. 

**Celegorm** : 

Yes. --But I'm worried about her, wandering like that. Sometimes she seems all there, and sometimes she really doesn't. I mean, what's to stop her from taking off in another crazy fit? Apparently she made some kind of scene at Finduilas' party, embarrassed herself and went off in a tizzy, though I didn't hear exactly what it was all in aid of. 

**Curufin** : 

Well, I doubt that there's much in the way of elegant manners in Thingol's backwoods palace. It wouldn't be hard to make a social gaffe, even if she was paying attention. 

**Celegorm** : [frowning more]

And then -- and she would have been all right, if no one had stopped her, because Huan was with her -- but she was drifting around the water-gates, and had no clear idea of what she was doing down there when the guards asked her. I shudder to think what might've become of her, if she'd slipped out and Huan hadn't been along to bring her back! 

**Curufin** : [sighing]

Yes, I heard. It's taken care of -- I spoke to the staff and arranged that she's to be accompanied at all times about the City. Honor guard, you know. She is a Princess, after all, and should be treated with all due respect. No need to worry about our little bird taking flight into the forest again. 

**Celegorm** : 

You don't suppose-- 

[A knocking at the outer door. Irritably:] 

\--What now? 

**Attendant** : 

Sirs, someone from the Regent's office is here with -- a request . . . ? 

[Orodreth's Aide comes in and tries to hand Celegorm several sheets of parchment; the elder son of Feanor, weighing quivers, gestures to give it to the younger, which the Aide does, with every sign of distaste] 

**Aide** : 

Milords. My master requests that you peruse these and return the answers to him as promptly as you possibly can without sacrificng accuracy. Both accuracy _and_ speed are of the utmost importance. Good day. 

[With the shallowest bow possible he leaves; Curufin looks at the pages and snorts] 

**Curufin** : 

\--Is this some kind of joke? He demands "The amount of resources consumed by your Household for the past three winters, with projected use for this coming season, as itemized on the accompanying lists, titled and ruled for your convenience" --Does the fool have nothing better to do than harrass us with paperwork? 

[He crumples them up and flings them into the fireplace.] 

What were you saying, there? 

**Celegorm** : [shakes his head]

Nothing. Just -- silly notion. Never mind. Hey, do you think if I kept this quiver you could make a matching bowcase to go with it? 

 

 

XXIII.ii

[Luthien's chamber. She is washing her face in the fountain, and is still crying a little. Huan is watching her with his head on one side ] 

**Luthien** : 

I suppose that was stupid of me. I should have guessed there'd be sentries on duty even at the river, even if it is inside the City -- it's still a gate. I'm going to have to think this through more carefully. 

[suddenly struck] 

\--I shouldn't have involved _you_ , either. I didn't even think of that -- but you have to obey your master, don't you? This is just as bad as it was at home. Only he wouldn't kill you for helping me, would he? You're immortal, aren't you? That's what he said when he was telling me all about you. Except for the Prophecy. 

**Huan** : [whining]

[thumps tail twice] 

**Luthien** : 

But you didn't bark at the guards or anything when I was trying to find the controls for the wicket. Thank you. 

[shaking her head] 

I wonder how long it will be, before I really do go crazy here? Not long, I'm betting. 

[sighs] 

All right, starting from scratch -- what have I got to work with now? 


	39. Act III: SCENE XXIV

**Gower** : 

None hath guessed how, desperate, Tinuviel should try   
E'en without her work of power, from Nargothrond to fly -- 

[The royal apartments -- Curufin is working with a largish device on the central table, something made of polished metal that is hinged in many different ways and seemes to be composed equally of flat plates and curved bars -- it looks a little like vines growing over a pile of sheer-plane rock, in its current folded state. Celegorm enters; his brother only nods absently at him.] 

**Celegorm** : [abrupt]

We have to do something else. She nearly walked out of here. Seems I was wrong. 

**Curufin** : [suddenly attentive]

What about the guards? 

**Celegorm** : 

She called them in to look at her fireplace, said it was smokin' and could they see if the system was jammed up -- and while they were working it over she walked out right behind them. 

**Curufin** : [ominously]

I'll have their _names_ for that -- how could they be so unobservant, they're _guards_ , dammit! 

**Celegorm** : [shrugs, half-admiringly]

They swore that she was standing there right next to them, making admiring noises all the while. Turns out it _was_ jammed -- only she'd done it herself -- bent it all up so it took a third of a bell to fix it. By that point she was already down in the stables, where she'd manage to convince everyone that she was just another kid looking after the horses -- only reason it didn't work is that the horses didn't recognize her and got all jumpy. 

**Curufin** : [looking at the closed, locked casket on a small table by itself]

And no one saw her in the halls? 

**Celegorm** : 

Oh, they _saw_ her all right -- they just had this idea that she was "someone who was supposed to be there doing something" no matter where she was. So -- question is -- what are we going to do about it? Just a bunch of little illusions, and a few folded baffles -- kids' tricks -- but all together it adds up to -- no bird in our hands. Nearly. 

**Curufin** : [tapping his lips]

If she can work that kind of game upon that many people, sequentially and at once, then we need something that cannot be fooled. I wouldn't rely on any kind of a mechanical lock at all -- too easy to fox, and too easy to make it look _fixed_ \-- and I wouldn't rely on _any_ lock alone, but in conjunction with a redoubled guard, I would think that a name-boundary set for her only should do the trick. You want to do it, or shall I? 

**Celegorm** : 

No, that's all right, I thought that's what you'd say but I wanted your input first. I'll go take care of it right now. --What is _that_? 

**Curufin** : 

I don't know . . . yet. Where is she? It might be awkward -- if you had to _explain_. 

**Celegorm** : [smiles broadly]

I sicced her on Orodreth -- you know how he can't stop talking when he gets nervous. I figure they're good for another bell at least. 

**Curufin** : [looking up in alarm]

You're not worried about what he might say to her? 

**Celegorm** : [snorts]

Him? He's not going to say anything that will make his job any harder. And the more nervous he is the less he actually says in all those words. I'm not worried -- you think he wants to explain _his_ role in the affair to her? 

**Curufin** : [relaxing]

True. --Aha -- _that's_ how that goes -- 

[unfolds the device into a huge openwork array] 

\--But what is it? 

**Celegorm** : 

Daft! 

[shaking his head, he hurries off to set up the security system on Luthien's apartments] 


	40. Act III: SCENE XXV.i

**Gower** : 

 --'Gainst Time's all-consuming power, pleads   
Beauty in vain; likewise fair Justice, where the seeds   
of rivalry in rank Discontent hath flowered, and needs   
must go begging -- finding Law and Rule but broken reeds. 

[The Regent's office. Orodreth is seated behind his desk, looking rather at bay himself, but not saying anything. Luthien is standing in front of him, arms akimbo, frowning; Huan is standing with her, looking a bit at a loss; he circles halfway around and lies down in front of the fireplace, muzzle on paws] 

**Luthien** : 

You've been avoiding me, cousin. 

[He raises his eyebrows but doesn't bother denying it.] 

\--All that wierd formality and distant behavior, when I arrived, as if you'd never gone on hikes with us or spent the night dancing at Menegroth, and I thought you were just _worried_ , and not knowing how to act in your new role, and trying to be proper about it -- But then I recognized it. I might have sooner, if you'd not _hid_ from me so well, but eventually I remembered where I'd seen it before. 

[narrowed Look] 

In everyone who was ordered to look after my wants and needs whilst I was under house-arrest. It's _guilt_. Not quite as bad as Daeron's, but -- very near to it. 

[sharply] 

Why? 

[he doesn't answer -- she leans over the desk, fiercely:] 

\-- _Level_ with me, Orodreth. 

[He gives a sudden nervous laugh, and she glares at him] 

**Orodreth** : [apologetic]

I'm sorry. It's just so -- so very unexpected, to hear mortal expressions like that, coming out of your mouth. Please forgive my levity. 

**Luthien** : [severe]

There is _nothing_ remotely amusing about our situation. 

**Orodreth** : [completely somber]

No. 

[she looks at him expectantly, but he keeps looking at her without saying anything] 

**Luthien** : [sighing, runs her hand through her hair]

\--Shall _I_ spin this tale for you, then, and warp it too, I dare say, and leave the gaps and doublings for you to fix instead? It might be faster, at this rate. --Not that time matters to _you_ , of course. 

**Orodreth** : [upset]

\--Luthien-- 

**Luthien** : [ignoring]

The only question is, where do I start? How long ago shall I begin? Don't worry, I'm not going to start at the Song -- but I _do_ wonder how far back your part in this strain goes, and was it a trio, or merely a resting measure? If it _was_ the former, they seem to have written your part out rather definitely as well-- 

[He understands what she's getting at and looks shocked, shaking his head in denial] 

So you weren't part of it in advance. Not knowingly, at least. --That's something. 

[Finally she takes the chair placed for her, not as a supplicant but as if she were conducting the interview by rights. With her head on one side, slowly (not hesitantly though):] 

I think -- this discord begins in the Sudden Flame, then -- but only as the resumption of a theme long played. I remember a dinner-table story -- as should _you_ , since you told it -- about swords being drawn on family members way before Morgoth resumed his old tune. --How long in any case, would it have been, would you like to bet, before one or another began to rehearse the burden of "We are the eldest, it should _all_ be ours"--? 

[pause] 

And once again many voices joined in the chorus -- but how many, or how few, were raised _against_ them this time? 

[Orodreth looks away -- but has to meet her eyes again. Huan, on the floor, keeps looking anxiously from one to the other of them, not taking his head off of his paws.] 


	41. Act III: SCENE XXV.ii

Act III: SCENE XXV.ii [no dialogue]

[The halls outside the royal apartments: the Sage is reading in an alcove far down the corridor, but at just enough of an angle to allow visibility of the doors from where she's sitting. Nervously she takes a small casket out of her sleeve, as if checking to make sure it's still there, and then tucks it into the stack of books on her lap. After a moment she takes it out and puts it back into her sleeve again.] 

[Curufin leaves the chambers with a small entourage; the Sage gets up and slowly approaches the door after they're out of sight. We see her engaging in a conversation with the guards at the door, explaining something about the manuscripts, and they gesture her to bring them inside -- but she hesitates, and after a brief pause hands them over instead and takes off.] 

[Out of sight around the hallway she stops suddenly and slams back against the wall, eyes closed, biting her lip and clenching her hands -- she takes the box out, looks back over her shoulder, torn -- and puts it away again.] 


	42. Act III: SCENE XXV.iii

[The Regent's office. Luthien is pacing again, her arms folded, and halts leaning against the mantlepiece as the scene opens. Orodreth is looking at her anxiously] 

**Luthien** : 

Well. That was worse than I expected. --Which I should have expected. What's the best way to get into the castle unobserved? Are there any secret tunnels through those caves along the cliffs? Or is that too obvious? Probably. 

**Orodreth** : 

I'm afraid I don't understand what you're getting at. 

**Luthien** : 

If I can't get proper help, if you won't go openly against the Fortress, then I've got to try to infiltrate by stealth and trick my way in to get the keys to the dungeons. Since that was your base of operations, I'm assuming you know all the ins and outs of it, and I need to know everything I can so as to minimize the likelihood of _actually_ getting caught while I'm _pretending_ to be a prisoner there. 

**Orodreth** : [aghast]

You're -- Luthien, you're _insane_. 

**Luthien** : 

No, just desperate. There's a difference. 

**Orodreth** : [horrified laughter]

You -- no, you're not being rational. You _cannot_ just trick your way in and walk through the Enemy's defenses as though you were -- were-- 

**Luthien** : [raising an eyebrow]

Bluffing my way through here? Through Doriath? 

**Orodreth** : [rallying]

Walking through a place you already know, to some degree, where everything is somewhat familiar, at least, as opposed to a completely-unknown territory full of vigilant hostile soldiery and protected by very-real Enemy magic, without any sort of defenses to assist you? It isn't possible. 

**Luthien** : 

You could help me get my working back. 

**Orodreth** : 

Frankly, the mere fact that you're talking about trying to challenge Sauron on your own is enough to guarantee that I would _never_ countenance returning your cloak to you, if I could be sure that that would be enough to dissuade you from this folly. 

**Luthien** : [flinging up her hands]

Obviously it would make it much easier. But if I don't have it -- well, if I hadn't had to make it to escape, then I wouldn't have it now either, and I wouldn't know about it so I wouldn't miss it, and I'd still have to do the same thing. So it doesn't really make any difference, unless I let it, I'd say. 

[The Regent looks bemused at this rapid assessment. Huan whines quietly.] 

**Orodreth** : 

Luthien. Believe me. I wish I could have your-- 

**Luthien** : [interrupts]

\-- _Don't_ say "naive"-- 

[brief pause] 

**Orodreth** : 

\-- _optimism_. But there is nothing -- nothing -- about this plan of yours that warrants it. If it can even be called a plan. You're assuming that you will be able to even think clearly and react accordingly when you get there, and you're not taking into account at all the debilitating effects of the Necromancer's aura. It -- it generates a kind of solid, physical, terror that replaces the air itself around him. 

**Luthien** : 

Well, obviously it's going to be frightening going into hostile territory. That only stands to reason. 

**Orodreth** : 

This is entirely another matter. It -- it is as far beyond ordinary, rational/tt> apprehension of danger as _that_ is beyond the mild concern one might feel that bad weather might spoil a planned festival. It -- Can you imagine a sound as loud as the Valaroma, which instead of making your heart leap, fills you with the same sort of awe and agitation but with horror, not gladness? Or a wind that fills you with utter nausea, as if it came from a battlefield, but there's neither sound nor smell, only the feeling of a black cloud full of spikes surrounding you, on all sides, wherever you turn? -- _That's_ what Sauron's power is like, and nothing like it _at all_ \-- for that's nothing but paltry, empty words -- as little to do with the real thing as saying the word "ice" should have-- 

[silence] 

**Luthien** : [earnest]

I live with that _every single day_. Every night, every hour, every heartbeat, that's the way it is, _exactly_ what you're describing. I simply have to get up and keep going. Otherwise I'd be curled in a corner somewhere, shaking. But I can't let myself -- I _have_ to keep hoping. --And trying. 

**Orodreth** : [aside]

The courage of ignorance . . . I, too, possessed that, once-- 

**Luthien** : 

Besides, it isn't as though I'm completely oblivious, the way you make out. I did pay attention when Beren was telling me about his War. Sauron isn't completely invincible, Beren got him once, and tricked his minions until he had to give up. 

**Orodreth** : [bemused]

That -- isn't -- what I'd understood of it-- 

**Luthien** : [impatient gesture]

He had to bring in massive numbers of troops and start burning down all of Dorthonion. That isn't invincible, omniscient power, that's just brute force; he couldn't win _fairly_. So -- he has weaknesses. The trick is using them. And finding them, of course. 

[silence. Orodreth sighs.] 

\--Can you order my escorts to -- be conveniently distracted? Or are they _all_ partisans of the Feanorions? 

**Orodreth** : [shaking his head]

Some are, some not. Regardless of which I cannot give such an order, implicitly or otherwise. Whatsoever direct action I should take, should inevitably be reported upon. The consequences -- I cannot accept them. I have to protect what I can. 

**Luthien** : [snorts]

They really have you outnumbered, don't they? Just the two of them, against all of Nargothrond, saying "War!" and it might as well be the whole horde of Angband, the way you don't dare stand up to them. 

**Orodreth** : [grim]

\-- _Not_ just two. And you weren't at Alqualonde. You _weren't_ at the Breaking of the Leaguer. You _do not know_ what you are talking about, Luthien. War is not something from a song or a story. 

[silence] 

**Luthien** : 

What do you recommend? That I close my heart and soul and mind to truth and pretend I never knew otherwise? Let Beren die, let his name disappear from the world and live in the frivolity of the moment the way my parents want me to -- in spite of my loss -- the way _you_ seem to be able to do? 

**Orodreth** : [agonized]

 _Luthien_ \-- 

**Luthien** : 

Because _I can't_. I will not stop, not having come so far, not if it kills me, or worse. With help or without. 

**Orodreth** : 

What are you going to undertake to do now? 

**Luthien** : [shakes head]

No. Better for both of us if you don't ask that. 

**Orodreth** : [formal again]

I am most terribly sorry I can't help you, my lady-- 

**Luthien** : [brittle smile]

So am I. 

[she gathers up her mantle around her, defiantly, and sweeps past the desk towards the door -- then stops, and looks back at him with a baffled, pitying expression] 

\--What was it? 

[as he looks blank] 

How did he fail you? --Was it because of Angrod and Aegnor? Did you blame him for sending them up there, or was it something else in the War? 

**Orodreth** : [pale]

I -- I don't understand what you're trying to convey-- 

[she shakes her head with a wry expession] 

**Luthien** : 

Yes, you do. Or you'd not try to deny it. 

[long pause. Orodreth lowers his eyes] 

**Orodreth** : [whispering]

You're an only child, cousin. You haven't the experience to -- to understand -- what it was like -- being the last in the family -- and then 'Tariel, bracketed between those two, only ever known as _someone else's brother_ \-- with nothing deliberate in it at all, only that none could help following them, doing what they suggested, wanting to be noticed by them, and not noticing one at all -- and not being able to help the same, either-- 

**Luthien** : [sad]

No? --Are you sure you weren't one of the ones who listened to Melkor before he was Morgoth, too? 

**Orodreth** : 

\-- _Ah_ \-- 

[his defiance falls apart and he puts his head down on his hands, stricken. Luthien looks at him for a few seconds in frustration; then sits on the edge of the desk, rubbing his shoulders, her expression sympathetic] 

**Luthien** : 

I'm sorry, Orodreth, I really am. --But I can't _do_ anything for your pain, and I can't grant you _pardon_ , because you won't heed my advice, and there's no other way out of this. No one is going to come rescue us this time. No army out of Ossiriand, no Sun out of the West -- _we're it_. 

[she stands and goes out, leaving him there, while Huan hastily scrambles up and trots out after her] 


	43. Act III: SCENE XXVI

**Gower** :

    --Hot-wielded in needful time, words  
may cross purposes no less than swords-- 

[Luthien's suite -- she is sitting on the floor looking up at Huan and talking to him, and does not apparently notice when Finduilas walks in behind her, having tapped a few times on the open panel but not gotten an answer] 

**Luthien** : 

So then I told him that I could accept that that was how he felt, but I couldn't really see where he was coming from at all, and that since he couldn't explain it any better himself he could hardly expect _me_ to understand it either. And _then_ I asked him -- _again_ \-- why he didn't just come up and _say something_ to us, or to _me_ , privately, even, and what was up with the _lurking_ off in the distance and watching us from hillsides like some kind of spy, and he got all twitchy again. --At that point I just gave up because it was clear that I wasn't going to get an answer because he didn't _have_ one, and that my guess was as good as his. 

[sighs] 

Which so far as I can tell comes down to a combination of pride and embarrassment -- though actually that's the same thing, really -- too proud to admit that he hadn't been able to see me as a grown-up and a person in my own right, not just "Elu and Melian's little girl," until someone _else_ from outside had first, and then too embarrassed to admit that he'd spied on us-- 

[biting] 

and so _logically_ he just kept doing it, and moping about hoping someone would notice and solve his problem for him. --Which _happened_ \-- 

**Finduilas** : [worried]

Luthien, what _are_ you doing? 

**Luthien** : [looking up but not getting up]

Explaining about Daeron to Huan. 

**Finduilas** : [remaining standing]

\--Why? 

**Luthien** : 

Because he wanted to know. 

**Finduilas** : 

But -- he's a Hound! 

**Luthien** : [narrow look]

If you really think he's just a dog, and no more, then you're blinder than I thought. 

**Finduilas** : 

Well, obviously he's _different_ \-- but he's still an animal, Luthien. 

**Luthien** : [staring hard]

That's funny, I don't see anything wrong with your eyes. 

**Finduilas** : [ignoring this]

If you need to _talk_ to someone, there are people here who can help you. _I'm_ here. 

**Luthien** : 

But I don't _want_ to talk to you. If I have to talk to anyone in this horrible place, I'd rather talk to Huan. 

**Finduilas** : [exasperated]

Luthien, this is not a horrible place. You make it sound like Angband or Dungortheb! 

**Luthien** : 

Even if I didn't need to save Beren I couldn't stay here. It's making me _physically ill_. 

**Finduilas** : [patient but strained]

No, _you're_ making yourself sick with your unreasonable behavior. 

**Luthien** : 

I need to get _out_ of here. I'm _suffocating_! I've never been underground this long in my _life_! 

**Finduilas** : [a bit patronizing]

Oh, you wouldn't really rather be outside in the cold and the wet. It's practically Winter. 

**Luthien** : 

Before I was brought here I'd been living in _trees_ for the past month. They're _much_ better when you can get out of them, by the way.  And my cape works perfectly well at keeping the rain off me.  --I really don't understand why you expect me to be grateful for being kept in a beautiful prison rather than a gloomy one. At least in a dungeon there's no _pretense_ of hospitality, and no one expects anything of the prisoner but escape! 

**Finduilas** : [sighs]

You're _not_ a prisoner-- 

**Luthien** : [interrupting]

No? Then I can go? All right then, _let's_ \-- 

**Finduilas** : 

Don't be tiresome -- you know that's impossible. You can't just _leave_ \-- 

**Luthien** : [interrupting]

That would, I'd say, be the _exact_ definition of a prisoner. 

**Finduilas** : [reaching down to touch her shoulder]

It's for your own good -- we're simply concerned for your _safety_ , cousin. 

[Luthien impatiently shakes her off] 

**Luthien** : [very slowly and forcefully.]

 _I've heard that one before_. 

**Finduilas** : 

Well, it's _true_ , you-- 

**Luthien** : [interrupting]

Cousin, if _your_ fiance was taken prisoner by the Enemy and you knew it, would you just _stay_ here making bowls and earrings in your studio? Or would you take your torches and your chemicals and your iron rods and do whatever you could with what you had? 

[Finduilas laughs nervously] 

Well? 

**Finduilas** : 

Don't be silly, Luthien. 

**Luthien** : 

_Silly_? You mean you _wouldn't_? 

**Finduilas** : 

Not that it could ever happen, but -- what could I do? _I_ couldn't just go traipsing across the wilds singlehandedly to attack the Enemy, that's absurd-- 

[longish pause] 

**Luthien** : 

You know something? I'm going to make myself very unpopular with you by saying this, but -- I don't think you really love him. Because if you did, you wouldn't be able to _imagine_ that possiblity without getting upset. And there wouldn't be any question in your mind about the necessity of doing whatever it takes to save him. 

[Finduilas gives a short laugh, shaking her head in dismay] 

**Luthien** : [relenting]

Look, I'm not trying to hurt your feelings, just to get you to _think_ \-- 

**Finduilas** : 

Oh, I'm not upset. _Everyone_ goes through stages of romantic idealism and juvenile fixation in their lives. Eventually one grows out of it, though. 

[Luthien gives her a Look] 

**Luthien** : 

Finduilas -- I'm _older_ than your parents. 

**Finduilas** : [kindly]

Yes, but you don't act like it. 

**Luthien** : 

. . . ! 

**Huan** : 

[whines] 

**Finduilas** : 

\--Besides, it could never happen, anyway. 

**Luthien** : 

Oh, _that's_ a principle to run your life on! "It can't happen so I won't worry about it" --? Wasn't that what they used to tell your High King about Morgoth breaking through the siege? Your uncles complained about that to my parents lots of times, how nobody listened to them -- especially your precious "Lords of Nargothrond" here -- and unfortunately, _they_ were right, weren't they? 

[pause] 

**Finduilas** : 

I can't believe you're so callous. 

**Luthien** : 

_Oh_! Honestly! Just _go_ _away_ , I can't take this any more. If my time's going to be wasted in prison, I shouldn't have to put up with being treated like an _idiot_ on top of it. 

**Finduilas** : [sighing]

Can I bring you anything else? More books? Some music? 

**Luthien** : [deadpan]

How about a pick-axe? 

[The Regent's daughter gives her a sympathetic look and leaves.] 

**Luthien** : [shouting]

Shut the door behind you, please! 

[aside] 

If I'm a prisoner, let's not pretend otherwise, all right? 

**Huan** : [getting up and pacing]

[several short whines] 

**Luthien** : [shaking her head, amazed]

I just don't get it. What's wrong with her? --But -- well, I suppose -- I mean, given that _everyone_ in her family did that, just up and walked out on each other, not knowing if or when they'd ever be coming back -- perhaps it doesn't seem irrational to her. I wish I hadn't been too polite to ask Galadriel about it, after. I mean, it might not be any of my business, strictly speaking -- but then we are family after all, so on another level it is. I'm beginning to think that _all_ the Noldor are crazy. --Or maybe it's just everyone who left Aman. 

**Huan** : 

[short loud bark] 

**Luthien** : 

I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt _your_ feelings either. But I'm not used to things that make absolutely no sense at all. 

[jumps to her feet and runs to the door] 

I have to get _out_ of here! 

[she flings wide the hallway entrance and shouts at the Guards:] 

What in Morgoth's name is _wrong_ with you people? 

[She tries to slip past them but they stop her, gently but firmly, and lead her back into the parlor. She yells after them as they close the outer door again, panting:] 

Damn you to Angband! Let me _go_! 

[As soon as the door is shut she stops looking distraught and helpless -- though still crazed. Feral grin:] 

\--That'll put them off their guard for now. 

[She gathers up her mantle and starts knotting fruit and biscuits from the bowls on the table into the corners before going over to the door. To Huan, whispering:] 

\--You won't tell anyone, will you? 

**Huan** : [worried look]

[thumps tail, twice] 

**Luthien** : [touching the door, sings very slowly]

I love my love and well he knows--   
I love the ground whereon he goes   
and if my love I no more should see   
my life would quickly fade away-- [opens the door quietly and walks out without any fuss] 


	44. Act III: SCENE XXVII

**Gower** :

\--Her fears full-formed,   
the captive guest of  _welcome_  well-outworn   
herself would free, her hopes stillborn—

[The Armories. Celegorm is coming back from the practice area, grinning broadly, helm under his arm, while various warriors give him wary and/or dirty looks. All are a bit disheveled. Curufin shoves through in the opposite direction, grabs his brother, and drags him behind a rack of spears.] 

**Curufin** : [urgent whisper]

You're not going to _believe_ this-- 

**Celegorm** : [hand jumping to swordhilt]

\--They came back?! 

**Curufin** : 

No. _She_ got out again. 

**Celegorm** : 

I _swear_ I worked it properly! 

**Curufin** : 

I _know_ you did. --Don't worry.  The main security system stopped her, at the Gates -- _not_ the guards, though. They didn't notice her until the alarms started up -- seems she isn't any good at guessing passwords -- and then they brought her back inside to her rooms. 

**Celegorm** : 

So how did she _do_ it? 

**Curufin** : [grimly]

Apparently -- by whatever rules govern the rules of Arda -- an aftername given by a _human_ is just as good as any other. --I wouldn't have thought of that either. 

**Celegorm** : 

So . . . she just . . . walked right through it? 

**Curufin** : 

Didn't even realize it was there, apparently. Didn't stop her at all. 

**Celegorm** : [frowning]

I don't like _that_. Mortals shouldn't be able to have anything to do with power. 

**Curufin** : 

I agree. One more oversight on the part of the gods for the list. But -- one good thing's come of it, now _everyone_ realizes that she's -- _eccentric_ \-- trying to run out barefoot and coatless with no provisions into the woods at this time of year. So I didn't even have to look responsible for suggesting that she be -- politely -- restrained; someone else already suggested it to the Master of Defensive Illusions and he took care of it. I removed all trace of your working before he got there, by the way. 

**Celegorm** : [apprehensive]

Do you think she'll be angry about it? 

**Curufin** : [shrugs]

Probably. But not at _you_. What I wonder is if she'll _say_ anything, or pretend she hasn't noticed it. Given her family's pride I'm guessing the latter. --Hey, want to go a few rounds? I could do with the exercise. 

**Celegorm** : 

  Sure -- I'm not tired at all. This was childs' play. 

[They come out into the floor and Curufin starts taking down practice gear.] 

**Celegorm** : [to bystanders]

Anyone else up for some more bruises? No takers? Oh well-- 

**Curufin** : 

Oh, you don't want to fight _children_ , you want _real_ competition! 

[They head off towards the pells; the native Nargothronders scowl after them] 

**First Warrior** : 

Someone needs to _flatten_ that lout. 

**Second Warrior** :

Which one? 

**First Warrior** :

\--Both of them. 

**Third Warrior** :

 _You_ up for it? 

[Bitter looks all round] 

 


	45. Act III: SCENE XXVIII

**Gower** : 

Not for the first time nor the last, recalling words hard-spoken,   
Tinuviel rueth yet again the fact of them unwitting broken,   
ne'er to trust repose in kindred souls, whose loyalty's but token—

[In the solar of her private wing, Luthien looks at the artificial Northern 'window' and leans on the stone frame as if it really overlooked a landscape.] 

**Luthien** : [hardly more than a whisper]

[sings]

The trees they do grow high   
And the leaves they do grow green   
Many is the time my true love I've seen   
Many an hour I've watched him all alone   
   -- He's young but he's daily growing   
[She sighs, dispiritedly tracing the carved ornament with her forefinger. Behind her Celebrimbor enters the solar and watches her in silence; sensing his entrance, she gives no sign of awareness.] 

Oh, what's the use? I can't sing underground, where's no air, no light, no wind or stars to give me voice. And even if I could -- I set so much of my power into my Work, heart and soul and song and love -- it's as much myself as these my hands are now.  I could not go far from it, or far without it, or do much after if I did, I'm afraid. 

[After a moment she begins to sing again:] 

Father, dear father, you've done me great wrong --   
You've married me to a great lord's son --   
I am twice twelve and he is but fourteen!    
  -- He's young but he's daily growing 

Daughter, dear daughter, I've done you no wrong  
I've married you to a noble lord's son --   
When he's grown, he'll make a lord to wait upon  
   -- He's young but he's daily growing 

One day as I was lookin' o'er my father's castle wall   
I spied all the boys a-playing at the ball   
My own true love was the flower of 'em all   
   --He's young but he's daily growing

At the age of fifteen he was a married man   
At the age of sixteen the father of a son   
At the age of seventeen his grave it was green   
   And death had put an end to his growing --

[speaking without looking around to Celebrimbor] 

That isn't how it was, of course.  Quite the opposite, in fact. But there's something in their story that calls to my heart. I don't even know if they were real people: it might have happened long ago in the Forgotten East, but mortals often tell stories that are about no one real, and yet they seem to be about _everyone_. I've learned so many, many stories about mortal Men that are nothing like what our sages believe. 

[caustic]

\-- _When_ will the host of Nargothrond be ready to set forth? 

**Celebrimbor** : 

I cannot say. 

**Luthien** : 

Then why did you bother to answer my message, if you haven't any news? 

**Celebrimbor** : 

I only wanted to tell you -- that you should not let your hopes soar too high -- lest the fall be too much for you. 

**Luthien** : 

You could come with me. You could _help_ us. You're good at technical stuff, everyone says: you could figure out how to get past the security systems. I've never done anything like that. 

**Celebrimbor** : 

But you escaped from Doriath, in a rather . . . complicated and . . . technically involved way, I understand? 

**Luthien** : 

That was just talking people into doing what I wanted, people who don't stop to think about what you're asking, or why, or know they shouldn't be obstructing you in the first place. The rest was easy. 

**Celebrimbor** : [pained smile]

\-- As you're doing to me at this moment, my lady.  Congratulations: 

it nearly worked. 

**Luthien** : 

But I'm _asking_ you -- as a friend -- or one who could be a friend -- 

**Celebrimbor** : 

I'm afraid, Your Highness, if you're looking for _friendship_ \-- you will not find it here in Nargothrond.  Not now. 

**Luthien** : [slowly, chillingly]

Then it _is_ true -- that there is something dark in Nargothrond, something biting at its roots, draining out the Light from its soul. I've felt it, but told myself it was just my own fears, and the oppressiveness of the hills over us. 

**Celebrimbor** : 

My lady -- 

**Luthien** : 

_Don't_ "my lady" me! 

**Celebrimbor** : 

I can't -- my father, my uncle, they would -- 

**Luthien** : 

_Join us_. 

**Celebrimbor** : 

But duty to my kin-- 

**Luthien** : [savagely]

\--What's "kin"? What's the word worth, if it doesn't mean _friend_ first? What does it add, to friendship? I _have_ no kin. 

**Celebrimbor** : 

You don't understand -- it's the Curse, the Doom, it _cannot_ be denied -- 

**Luthien** : 

_I_ deny it. I will not give my beloved and my friend to an undeserved fate, because you ex-Valinoreans are _fools_ , and the Sons of Feanor mad, wicked, and beyond all help. --Choose, Lord Celebrimbor, choose -- _before_ it's too late. 

[He goes out again, silently; she bows her head against the stone mural] 


	46. Act III: SCENE XXIX

**Gower** : 

\--Her simple efforts foiled to fly,   
the Princess-prisoner turns to guile;   
Simplicity she feigns, maintains, sly   
allowing all to judge her  _fool_  this while . . . 

[In the antechamber. Luthien is seated at the table, with Celegorm across from her. Huan is drowsing beside his master's chair, his head on his outstretched forelegs. Luthien wears an expression of somewhat strained politeness, but she would be polite to Morgoth himself if it might get her out of here. Not knowing her moods, perhaps, Celegorm does not seem to notice the strained atmosphere at first.] 

**Celegorm** : 

So we thought to find wolves on that day as well, but instead we found something _amazing_. --Guess what it was. 

**Luthien** : 

A boar? 

[Celegorm shakes his head] 

A bear? 

[Celegorm again shakes head in negative] 

A wild ox? 

[Again the negative response. He is smiling guilelessly.] 

I give up. 

**Celegorm** : 

A deer. 

**Luthien** : 

But aren't there many deer hereabouts? Why is _that_ amazing? 

**Celegorm** : 

It was a white one. Don't see too many of those -- wolves get 'em all first, because they show up like a star in the dark woods. 

**Luthien** : 

And did you catch the white hart? 

**Celegorm** : 

_Doe_. It was a 'white doe, white as snow, shining bright as she did go--' 

[as if to say: See? _I_ can give you poetry too...] 

Led our hounds and horses a merry dance, she did. 

**Luthien** : [not liking where this seems to be going.]

Poor thing! 

[deciding to play along for the sake of information/confirmation] 

Did you catch her? 

**Celegorm** : 

Mm . . . not yet.  She still is wild for to hold, though I think she could be tamed. 

**Luthien** : 

What will you do when you catch her? 

**Celegorm** : 

Why eat her, of course! --Only joking, dear lady, I would never harm such a rare and lovely beast, but keep her safe in a walled garden filled with every manner of flower and tree she could long for, where no wild animals could ever come near to injure her. 

**Luthien** : 

But _she_ is a wild creature too, is she not? 

**Celegorm** : 

Only because she hasn't met a worthy master. Her nature is far too gentle for the wolf-haunted wilderness and the harsh winters of the world beyond. 

**Luthien** : [frowning decidedly]

 _I_ don't think that wild animals should be trapped and held. My mother's nightingales are never caged. 

**Celegorm** : [looking at her with sad eyes]

You don't seem to be amused by my company. I am crushed, positively _crushed_. 

**Luthien** : [apologetic]

My lord, the hour grows late, and I grow weary -- of waiting. 

[before he can make too much of her last words, she adds in a piqued tone, and much lighter:] 

\--Besides, you _laughed_ at me about that -- that _bug_ , the other night. 

**Celegorm** : [smiling indulgently at her]

Oh, but you've got to admit it _was_ funny. 

**Luthien** : 

It was in my clothes, and it was _not_ funny at all. 

**Celegorm** : 

Well, at least I killed it for you. 

**Luthien** : 

I didn't want it _killed_ , I just wanted it _off_ me. 

**Celegorm** : 

I don't see how you can be so scared of a little beetle -- well, all right, not so little -- but still, there have to have been beetles in Doriath. Whatever did you do, traveling through the forest?  Trees are full of 'em, don't you know? 

**Luthien** : 

I'm not _scared_ of them, I just don't like their claws and feet and the pointy armor on them and the oily way they move.  They make me think of how I imagine Glaurung, or those monsters that roamed around in the Outer Darkness before the Sun. And I'm always afraid their legs will pull off when I try to get them loose.  Anyway, I _expect_ them outside -- not _indoors_ , in a place supposed to be impenetrable by invasion! 

[brief pause] 

_Beren_ never makes fun of me about beetles.  He just moves them someplace else, usually before I notice them.  --At least that's what he thinks, and I let him go on thinking that I haven't noticed. He's _very_ kind. 

**Celegorm** : [his smile unchanging, and his voice still pleasant]

You know, I don't really want to hear about Barahirion any more. 

**Luthien** : [in the same manner]

You know, I'd rather gathered that. 

**Celegorm** : 

So where does that leave us? 

**Luthien** : 

With nothing more to talk about, my lord. 

**Celegorm** : 

Oh, I'm sure we can find _something_. Your eyes -- your lips -- your hair -- 

[He reaches out and takes her hand as he speaks. He does not hurt her, but his grip is fast.] 

**Luthien** : [tersely]

My _hand_ , my lord -- 

**Celegorm** : 

\--is lovely. [lifts and kisses her fingers] 

**Luthien** : [pulling back to no avail]

Let _go_. 

**Celegorm** : [earnestly]

Let me first convince you that you deserve no less than _the_ _best_ , and will be satisfied with no _inferior_ thing, by disclosing to you the currents of my heart-- 

**Luthien** : 

\-- Lord Celegorm, let _go_ of me! 

**Celegorm** : [smiling widely]

Say 'please.' 

**Luthien** : [through her teeth]

 _Let_. _Go_! 

**Celegorm** : [pulls her closer, so that she must rise from her seat and lean towards him]

You don't really want that, you _know_ you don't -- 

[Luthien braces her left hand on the table edge, puts her foot on the arm of his chair and kicks hard, sending him over backwards with a crash. When he involuntarily lets go of her in reaction she flings herself spinning across the table with the momentum and braces herself to fling that over at him too. She may not be a match for a warrior who spends his free time hunting big game, but her arboreal upbringing and art haven't left her a lightweight either.] 

**Celegorm** : [panting, grinning, a mad light in his eyes]

\--Not a shy nightingale at all, but a falcon she is! Foot _me_ , will you? You'll pay for that strike, milady, with a softer touch. Ah, but you'll fly to my hand soon enough -- 

[He moves toward her, and she moves sideways along the table, keeping maximum distance between them] 

**Luthien** : 

Stay back! 

**Celegorm** : 

Else what? 

[A huge grey wave crashes between him and the table, knocking him backwards. Huan half-turns, blocking all access to Luthien, his fangs bared. 

**Huan** : [loud snarling growl]

 _!_ _!_ _!_

**Celegorm** : 

_Huan!?!_

**Huan** : 

[series of short, imperative barks] 

**Celegorm** : 

_Down_ , I say! _Down!!!_

**Huan** : 

[drawn-out growl, ending in a sharp, reproachful bark] 

[He continues to block his master's efforts to flank him. It is a standoff, as Celegorm is unwilling to go hand-to-teeth with a dog the size of a horse.] 

**Luthien** : [her voice a bit ragged, but cold and tearless]

Lord Celegorm, you will leave now, and not return until you have learned better than to assail a guest in her own chambers. 

[Celegorm stands still, his face growing ashen, his breathing growing unsteady with something like fear now.] 

**Celegorm** : [shaken at his own bad behavior and loss of control]

Y-your Highness, please underst-- 

**Luthien** : 

\-- _Go_. 

[There is no relenting or uncertainty in her expression. The Noldor lord accepts his dismissal, turning his anger on his dog instead of himself.] 

**Celegorm** : [savagely]

 _Huan_. -- _Heel_. 

[Huan drops down to an alert crouch between Luthien and Celegorm. He is clearly not going anywhere just now -- but just as clearly able to go anywhere fast if he needs to] 

**Celegorm** : 

You treacherous Hound! 

**Huan** : 

[angry bark] 

**Celegorm** : 

You'll follow anyone who gives you sweetmeats, you wolf-at-heart! 

**Luthien** : 

Please. Leave. _Now_. 

[Celegorm cannot think of anything else to say.  As he stalks out, Huan rises and trots over to push the door all the way shut with his nose. Safely shielded behind it, Luthien at last dares to give in to stress and sinks down to the tiles, shaking. Huan returns and sits beside her, and she hugs him, leaning against the Hound's massive shoulder, crying into his coat.] 


	47. Act III: SCENE XXX

**Gower** :

Conscience belated in full weight returning as of boulders,   
     Lord Celegorm seeks to shift this burden from his shoulders—

[The royal apartments. Curufin is rummaging through chests and caskets, having covered the table with boxes and their contents. Opening yet another he takes out a handful of gold chains and links, and jingles them before tossing them casually into a pile with other ingots and piecemetal. Celegorm enters looking distraught, shuts the door hard behind him] 

**Curufin** : 

What's wrong? 

**Celegorm** : [looking around warily]

Is this place secured? 

**Curufin** Of course -- _always_. What's the matter? 

**Celegorm** : 

I went to visit the Princess again. 

**Curufin** : 

Things didn't go well? 

**Celegorm** : 

I've _ruined_ it. I -- I don't know what came over me -- I've ruined everything. 

**Curufin** : 

You didn't _tell_ her!?! 

**Celegorm** : 

I didn't need to, she'd already guessed. I -- I _frightened_ her, Cur. I rushed her -- rushed _at_ her, not like I was a person but like some damned unreasoning brute of a two-year-old colt just turned loose with the herd-- 

**Curufin** : [dryly]

And did you get your jaw kicked in for it? 

**Celegorm** : 

Close enough. Now she won't even let me apologize to her. 

[wildly] 

I don't understand! I'm _Eldar_ \-- not some _animal_ , or Man hardly better than animal -- how could I be overcome, how could my reason be overthrown by passion in such a -- a _counter-productive_ way? Because things were going so _well_ \-- she really seemed pleased to see me, to talk to me, --right up until I _terrified_ her! 

**Curufin** : [musing]

Well, there's always 'Brim -- I think he's intoxicated with her, too. . . perhaps we should steer that way, eh? I don't think he's ever done anything incautious in his life-- 

**Celegorm** : 

No! -- No, I think we should stick with our original plan. 

**Curufin** : [dawning realization]

You've fallen for her. _Hah_! 

[Celegorm scowls at him] 

**Curufin** : [frowning]

She can't really prefer Survival Boy to you, can she? Obviously old Shadows is right and she's under a spell. But who could put a spell on one of the Kindred? Even if she _is_ a Dark Elf. Could he have been an Enemy agent after all...? 

**Celegorm** : [uncomfortable with this self-deception now]

She's _hardly_ that -- and he's as shallow and obvious as they come. That's not Morgoth's style at all in turning double-agents. He's not _twisted_ , just insane. 

**Curufin** : 

Are you _really_ in love with her? Not just the illusion going out of control and the act taking on its own reality? I mean, I know all the advantages and reasons -- I thought of them myself -- but she's hardly the equal of one of us, regardless of the almost-blasphemous lineage she claims. 

**Celegorm** : 

_Act_? The act was -- that it was ever an act. How can I begin to describe what it is about her -- that queenly way of going and the flashing look in her eyes when she gets angry  -- she -- she _glows_ almost, like silver hot in the mold, and she stands there in that ratty old dress of hers with her hair chopped off like a slave's, and -- laugh not, but I tell you it's as though one of _Them_ stood there, as though Varda walked in disguise, standing an arm's length away. --And yet she seems so _approachable_ , with that cute little half-skip in her walk and that quaint old-fashioned accent of hers . . . Don't tell me you're unaffected by it, little brother! _Everyone_ watches her -- no one can help it! 

**Curufin** : [shrugs]

She's aesthetic enough -- or would be if she took care of herself -- and the kingdom she will inherit should any, ah, tragic accident befall Elwe is more than charm enough for anyone. But the fact that _you_ feel this way obviously means that you're meant for each other. "Soul mates" and all that. 

**Celegorm** : [sarcastic]

Only _she_ doesn't know it, somehow-- 

**Curufin** : 

She hasn't thought about it carefully. I'm sure that once I've talked things over with her and forced her to look at facts, to think carefully about the realities -- the impossibilities -- of her obsession, then she will realize how flattered, and and how honored, she is, and ought to be, that you've stooped to notice her. You know that I can make anyone see reason, you mustn't worry that I can't deal with this, too. Now -- sit down and tell me what happened, exactly, so I know what I have to work with . . . 


	48. Act III: SCENE XXXI

**Gower** : 

Friendless, imprisoned, fearful and distraught,   
Tinuviel awaits in golden cage she knows not what,   
\--yet not all forsaken, though her own folk heed her naught:   
 _one_  still heeds her, attends her, still supports her cause,   
both lesser and greater than his lord, wrestling with the laws   
that set Duty against Duty, for Elf, for Mortal, for those with paws-- 

[Luthien is pacing back and forth still, running her hands along the carvings on the walls, while Huan lies down in the hallway connecting the solar with the private chambers, watching her alertly with mournful eyes.] 

**Guard** : 

My lady, the Lord of Aglon-and-Himlad is here to speak to you. 

**Luthien** : [very curt]

Which one? 

**Guard** : 

Er -- Lord Curufin. 

**Luthien** : 

Show him in. 

[Curufin enters, indicating dismissively that the attendant should close the doors behind him. He looks closely at Luthien, appraising her state-of-mind. _Note_ : Curufin never raises his voice throughout the following exchange.] 

**Luthien** : [before Curufin has a chance to speak]

\--You may tell your brother, my lord, that I will accept his apology only with the tangible mark of his penitence -- that is to say, when he returns my cloak to me. And the best horse in your stables, in reparation. 

**Curufin** : [innocent]

I beg your pardon? Your Highness, I fear I haven't the least notion of what you're speaking about. 

**Luthien** : 

You mean you're _not_ here to bring his apologies, since I forbade him my presence in his own person? Or perhaps you haven't heard--? 

**Curufin** : 

I am here on my brother's behalf, yes, -- but I'm afraid you're mistaken as to the nature of my visit. I am here to approach you with formal notice of my brother's suit as claimant to your hand in marriage. 

[Luthien stares at him in total shock] 

I steadfastly urge you to accept him, without hesitation, as a proposal which will do you honor and increase your estate in Middle-earth, bestowing upon you and your family not only rank and prosperity and widened realm, but a connection with the highest House of the noblest race of the Eldar, -- a fair exchange, for your fair self, your Highness. 

[long pause] 

**Luthien** : [slowly and emphatically]

 _I am betrothed to Beren_. _I will never love another_. -- _Why_ is this so _hard_ to understand? Is my accent too strange? I understand _your_ Sindarin perfectly well -- and Beren understands _me_ , even though his dialect is far different from ours. --Or is everyone in Nargothrond just _deaf_? 

**Curufin** : [just as slowly and emphatically]

 _Beren is dead_. --Deal with it. 

**Luthien** : [alight]

 _No_! I would know it, if he were. 

**Curufin** : 

Are you so sure of that? 

**Luthien** : 

\--Would you know if the Sun were struck out of the sky? Even _here_ , even in this buried place where I cannot feel her, I would know. The same way I'd know it, if _he_ was no more beneath the Stars -- Arda being dark and lifeless would tell me! 

**Curufin** : [shaking his head]

Such the romantic, Lady Luthien -- though it is _charming_ indeed. But you are old enough to put aside such childish fancies and face facts, and the facts are thus: 

Barahirion is no fit mate for such as you, nor will you in any case ever set eyes on him again. Better, then, to take what is _available_ to you, and freely offered, and to your great advantage, and put your _mortal_ folly from your mind -- end this war of yours with your parents, and make in your own person peace between our estranged Houses, and enjoy the rewards of your rationality. 

**Luthien** : 

If you have no wish to hazard yourself in rescue of my true love nor your kin, my lord, and don't care to strike at our common foe in deepest insult possible -- then let me go on my way as I've been asking, and I'll do it myself. You have no right to keep me here, and you know it. 

**Curufin** : 

What, without your hair-cloak even? 

**Luthien** : 

If I must, though I would rather not. 

**Curufin** : [patronizing, extreme "grown-up to little girl" singsong]

And what will you do when you get there? 

**Luthien** : 

Whatever I have to. For myself, I fear nothing. 

**Curufin** : [wry smile]

Did you know my cousin Aredhel? 

**Luthien** : [thrown by the change of subject]

No -- she's Turgon and Fingon's sister, right? Didn't they go off somewhere on their own, she and Turgon and the Kindred at Nevrast, and drop out of sight completely? That's what we'd heard. 

**Curufin** : 

_Almost_ completely. Some whiles back she came to visit us at Aglon, and stayed a few seasons, but unfortunately we were visiting our brother Caranthir in his province and missed her. We discovered when we came back and found her gone, that she had decided to go exploring and looking for unclaimed territory of her own -- somewhere still perhaps within the _whole of Beleriand_ that your father lays claim to, but beyond the area he actually administers -- and from which his Rangers had prohibited her party's crossing. Now she was an Elf-maid warrior- trained and used to long riding and hard travel, not to say a Noldor lady of high degree, so you would think her far better equipped to journey safely through the wild lands than a Gray-elven girl sheltered in the artificial confines of Doriath, -- would you not? 

**Luthien** : 

I would guess so -- I've heard a fair bit about the Crossing of the Ice from our cousins over the course of their stays with us, and it's nothing I can even _begin_ to imagine -- though I suppose when one has no other alternative, one can manage almost anything. Or else die trying, of course. 

**Curufin** : [briefly checked]

Quite so. --As a matter of fact, she made it through that part of the country north of you where Ungoliant once stayed -- I believe you are at least _generally_ familiar with its hazards? -- totally alone, since her warrior escort was lost in the web of illusions over the land and she could not find them, and in their honor refused to give up the mission they had died upon, before reaching our domain. So you need not _guess_ at it.  And she still disappeared without a trace, for years of the Sun, until one day we discovered that she'd been taken in marriage by Eol of Nan-Elmoth -- 

**Luthien** : 

_Eol_? My father's cousin the crazy hermit? 

**Curufin** : 

The same. And when I say "taken" I mean just that. My agents spotted her flying cross-country at top speed with a single squire, who we later learned to be her son, because her husband showed up not long after absolutely furious and demanding that we help him track her down. I sent him packing, needless to say -- but nobody knows what happened to them. --Unless _you've_ heard? 

[pot::kettle suspicion mode] 

Perhaps you know all of this already and you're just letting me talk -- perhaps you knew it all along, and even more of the story, and perhaps the ending? --My lady. 

**Luthien** : 

No. That's isn't _me_. 

[loudly unspoken -- That's _you_ \--] 

Eol never had anything to do with us if he could possibly avoid it, which was basically all the time. We finally got a rumour through the Wandering Folk that he'd up and left without a trace, and we never heard word to the contrary. I hadn't even heard that he had started a family. He never had anything to do with the Kindred except for a few hired hands to help him with his forge -- the only people I ever heard he _chose_ to associate with were the Dwarves, because of their shared hobbies. 

**Curufin** : [stung into momentary distraction]

Metals-technology is _not_ a hobby -- not like the _performing arts_. It's extremely useful, not to mention being a sign of _civilization_ and _culture_. 

**Luthien** : [shrugs]

As you please. 

[frowns] 

\--Why was she traveling, anyway? 

**Curufin** : [haughtily]

We of Aman are not obliged to answer to _anyone_ for our comings and goings. 

**Luthien** : 

I just wondered because it seems like the kind of thing one would need a good reason to do, if they'd gone to such trouble to disappear, and perhaps she had some important messages for the High King or something like that, but I'd think they would have said so to our Border Guard in that case, and my father isn't -- except this once -- completely unreasonable. 

[gesturing emphatically] 

In fact -- being Noldor aristocracy with all that you've impressed me that that entails -- how _could_ she have been kept a prisoner against her will for all those years? Wouldn't that be as unlikely as cousin _Galadriel_ being held hostage? Especially by Eol-the-hermit, who really _is_ a "Dark-elf," and awfully close to the Dark side as well, given that he cursed the lease payment for Nan Elmoth. At least that's what my mother thinks. 

[with a challenging look, dropping _all_ masks of courtesy] 

\--Actually, I'm surprised you didn't get along with him just fine. 

[Curufin gives her a sharp glance but does not rise to the bait.] 

He acted as though it was a mortal insult for us to request some payment in return for having complete and exclusive title to a very extensive section of Beleriand, and what he came up with was practically an insult in itself -- even before we looked at it closely. _One_ sword, for deed in perpetuity, I ask you, and then to say that we should be flattered because it was one-of-a-kind. Which it wasn't, it turned out, because he'd made another from the same bit of thunderbolt- iron for himself. So given the similiarity of your attitudes towards Doriath, I'd expect you to make common cause rather than fight. 

**Curufin** : [smiling]

Whatever your opinion, or your family's opinion, of us -- certain facts remain, Princess of Doriath. Your father's laws do not extend here, nor can he protect you past his domain. _Beren_ is not here to defend you -- from what you have said, he cannot even defend himself. In a short while -- short by _any_ measure that our people use -- he will, for all intents and purposes, no longer exist. You have gone wandering alone in the wilds like a stray lamb, and like a stray lamb you are prey for whatever wolfish beast should chance upon you. It would be the part of wisdom to reckon with _facts_ , your Highness, and to accept the realities of your present situation. 

[grimly serious] 

Remember the story of my cousin -- the true story, and consider _your_ chances, set against hers. You Dark-elves haven't our resistance to the dark, after all. 

**Luthien** : 

I never thought of us like that. I always felt that my mother brought Aman with her wherever she was. 

**Curufin** : 

What a _delightful_ notion. But do you really think you're the equal of any of us? Now that you're outside her protection? 

**Luthien** : [defiantly]

I am not without all resources myself, my lord! 

**Curufin** : [tilting his head back to look sarcastically at her]

 _Indeed_. Then might I ask why you haven't left already? --I think we both know very well that such scant power as you _had_ you have no longer, and cannot Work again. The reality is -- that you are one and we are many, and you have no recourse but to accept that fact. Or, perhaps, _not_ to accept it -- but learn the truth of it all the same. 

[silence] 

It could be worse: Nargothrond is a rich realm, and shall be richer yet under proper governance, and you will lack for nothing here -- and my brother is overwhelmed by your radiant beauty, and honors you as highly as any Noldor maid, and will let no harm come to you . . . and he is even among the Foremost acounted handsome, and his prowess in the field unmatched, and his temper most gracious so none do cross him. _You could do far worse_ , my lady. 

**Luthien** : [speaking very fast and nervously, her eyes fixed on Curufin]

There is a story of Marach out of the Forgotten Days, my lord, in which a mortal lady was born under a Doom to be the most beautiful of all her age, and so she was promised to a mighty sovereign from before the hour of her birth, and held in a lonely place where none might see her before she was of an age to be given to him, as was the custom in those days of the East, but a hunter whose Doom it was to find her came singing upon the house where she was held in secret and she heard his song and fled with him, and his brothers defended them, and there was great war as was foretold in the lady's Doom -- 

[weighting the next words particularly] 

\-- but at last they were betrayed to their deaths by a lesser lord whom they had trusted, and the lady was taken by the lesser lord to be his slave, and then to win favor with the great king the lesser lord made gift of her to his master, but when they rode to meet the mighty sovereign's emissaries, the lesser lord mocked her, and cast all her weakness in her face, and as he laughed she laughed at him in turn, and faded as mortals fade -- that is to say, she cast herself down from the high place of the mountain where they rode into the stones, and her body was broken, and she died, and so escaped her Doom to find her love again. 

[as though discussing textual variations in a symposium] 

We do not know if it be true, or if the mighty sovereign and the lesser lord be truly Morgoth Bauglir and Sauron his servant, and the lady a sacrifice to the Dark Ones as dim rumor has it, but it is a very old story, my lord, and one that is often told, though it is sad to tell. 

**Curufin** : [sounding mildly confused]

I beg your pardon, Your Highness, but why do you relate this lamentable chronicle of mortal woes? Were we not speaking of the state of Beleriand's polity and future prosperity? 

**Luthien** : 

I am not sure of _what_ you were speaking, my lord. 

**Curufin** : [smiling]

Of the folly of such a fair one as you venturing the wilds, and risking your life, your health, your happiness and peace amid rough places and rougher folk. 

[He steps closer, not touching her, but backing her up towards the wall, and blocking her with his hands set against the wall on either side when she tries to dodge past him. Angry but cold, she folds her arms and stares back at him, unimpressed.] 

_Barahirion_ might worship you as a goddess too high for anything save veneration and abject obedience -- but not all mortals are so . . .  _docile_ , so . . . easily enspelled. Easterling chieftains like the ones in your story will not consider either your race or your noble blood as grounds for fear in their dealings with you; nor will Orcs, wolves, -- _Balrogs_ , or soul-destroying Undead phantoms regard you as anything other than -- tasty. 

[He leans close to speak softly in her ear, weighting each word dramatically] 

You really . . . should . . . _consider_ . . .  your options . . . very, _very_ carefully. _Your Highness_. 

**Luthien** : [pale but calm]

If you're trying to intimidate me, my lord, rest assured -- I am intimidated. If you're not trying to intimidate me -- or rather, whether you are or are not -- you should stop right now. 

**Curufin** : [tipping her chin up to make her look at him in a less-haughty way]

Because you don't like it? 

**Luthien** : 

Because _Huan_ doesn't like it. 

[Behind Curufin's ear there is a loud growl.] 

You should really learn some manners, Lord Curufin. It's sad that four and a half centuries' experience here hasn't taught you the courtesy of a Mortal. One tends to think that what mere _living_ hasn't managed to convey, yet might be learned in a very _sharp_ lesson -- rather quickly, I dare say. 

[Curufin looks slowly over his shoulder, confirming the hostile situation] 

**Curufin** : [trying the masterful approach]

Down, boy! _Down_ \-- 

**Luthien** : 

Huan, would you be so kind as to show milord to the door? And _through_ it as well? 

[Huan shoves between them and edges over enough to stagger Curufin backwards; Luthien gives him a grateful pat on the withers before he moves in and starts herding Curufin with irresistable force out into the hallway] 

I'm sorry, my rustic Doriath accent must have confused him -- did I say "show" or "shove," milord? 

**Curufin** : [patronizing]

Your Highness, I hope that you will carefully consider, in cool rationality and mature calculation, what we have discussed -- rather than placing your faith in _dumb brutes_ of uncertain loyalty. 

**Luthien** : [defiantly]

Only my _relatives_ ' loyalty has ever been in doubt, Lord Curufin . . . _of_ _Nargothrond_. 

**Huan** : [blocking the opening, looks at Luthien and barks] 

Yes, Huan, please close the door as well. 

[She waits until Curufin can't see her before sagging back against the wall -- but only for an instant, before she pulls herself together and resumes frantically, if uselessly, pacing the rooms, checking the ventilators and chimneys again to prove to herself that she hasn't overlooked any avenue of escape. Huan follows her, hovering, with a worried expression.] 


	49. Act III: SCENE XXXII

**Gower** : 

\--Hence, and spurnéd hither, Lord Curufin soon hath proved   
that Elves, no less than Men, hold well the power to self-delude . . . 

[The royal apartments -- Celebrimbor is here, as well as Celegorm, who keeps giving his nephew wary, hostile looks. The younger Elf is calmly perusing a notebook, while his uncle paces; there is the air of a recently concluded argument and momentary truce about the room. Curufin enters, looking a bit as though he has a bad taste in his mouth.] 

**Celegorm** : [nervously]

So? 

**Curufin** : 

It's a start -- progress was made. I'm sure she'll see reason, once she's been left to think it over in peace and quiet for a bit. 

[pause] 

You didn't say anything about -- _Huan_. 

[silence -- he looks sharply at his brother] 

Did you know he's defected? 

[Celegorm makes a gloomy noise] 

He _menaced_ me, you know. 

[His brother does not answer] 

\--You too, eh? 

**Celebrimbor** : [turning a page of the book he's reading]

Perhaps the fact that two who _could_ be said to represent the Powers most closely on this shore are dead set against you _might_ just perchance to indicate something. 

**Curufin** : [rounding on him]

 _What_? 

**Celebrimbor** [wilfully misunderstanding]

Oh, I'm not completely certain, but something along the lines of -- this is a very bad, _bad_ idea -- 

**Curufin** : 

This is for _your_ benefit, boy, don't forget -- your fortunes are as much at stake as the rest of our House, and you stand to gain no less by consolidation of our resources and the realms of the Eldar in Middle-earth. 

**Celebrimbor** : [vague smile]

 _My_ benefit? I had all the benefits I required before your -- rebellion. 

**Celegorm** : [hotly]

\-- Look, you ungrateful whelp, you can just betake yourself to the kennels if you're too good for -- 

**Curufin** : [icy]

Oh, I know very well that you can be _bought_ like that damned Hound with gifts and flattery: that fool cousin of ours gave you unlimited workspace and raved over every least thing you made as though he'd made it himself, and you lapped it all up -- never thinking about how it looked to _his_ credit, having a Feanorian artist at his beck and call -- 

**Celebrimbor** : [disgusted]

You really do see everything through your own unique, _bent_ prism, don't you, Father? 

[he makes a marginal note in his book, shaking his head slightly] 

**Curufin** : 

You're part of this family, and you're just as bound by the Oath as your uncles and I are. Do _not_ forget it. 

**Celebrimbor** : [ironic smile]

Am I? I suppose I am, at that. 

[gets up to leave] 

**Curufin** : [suspicious look]

Where are you going? 

**Celebrimbor** : 

I've got a class to teach in half an hour -- I need to get ready for it. 

**Curufin** : [meaningfully]

I do trust that that is _all_ you are planning on doing? 

**Celebrimbor** : [bitter]

Don't worry -- I can no more stand to think of her Highness wandering barefoot and helpless in the wilds than _you_ can. 

[as he goes to leave the suite Celegorm gets in his way and blocks him, giving him a glower and making him go around, in a little dominance display, calling after him scornfully:] 

**Celegorm** : 

\-- _Whelp_! 

**Curufin** : {pouring drinks for them both]

Don't let him get to you. I don't know -- this younger generation. They don't have our nerve. I'd almost prefer it if he'd defy me, you know. At least that would be _something_. He's just too much like his mother, all pious disapproval and no willingness to _do_ anything. --Here. 

[hands his brother the glass; they share a look of mutual support and frustration] 

**Celegorm** : 

_Someday_ \-- they'll be lining up to apologize to us. _All_ of 'em. 

**Curufin** : 

Here's to then! 

[They toss back the liquor in toast.] 

**Celegorm** : 

So . . . what do we do now? 

**Curufin** : [smiling]

You -- do whatever you like. I've an idea of mine to follow up on. 


	50. Act III: SCENE XXXIII

**Gower** : 

Subtlety well-practised surer may, like water under stone,   
unset secure foundations than shall be easily o'erthrown   
by merest force, with but misdoubt—

[A conservatory, so to speak, with sculpture gardens in beds of indoor plants and lots of water. Finduilas and her fiance are there, having made up, sitting next to a pond feeding fish. Curufin enters on the farther side and begins walking along the paths, apparently oblivious or unconcerned by their presence. Gwindor notices him and begins to get angry.] 

**Gwindor** : [quietly]

Come on, Faelivrin, let's go. 

**Finduilas** : [normal voice]

We only just got here, Gwin, what are you talking about? 

[he glances significantly over at Curufin] 

**Gwindor** : 

It's getting _crowded_. 

**Finduilas** : [quiet too]

You can't change things by refusing to accept them. _Or_ by letting yourself be controlled through your reactions. 

**Gwindor** : 

I _can_ determine my own circumstances. 

**Finduilas** : 

Well, so can I. 

**Gwindor** : 

I'm going to the pels. --Won't you come along? and inspire me? 

[she shrugs, looking frustrated] 

**Finduilas** : 

I don't like the Armory. It's loud and it smells of oil and there's nothing for me to do there. 

[he raises an eyebrow] 

Well, except watch you. 

**Gwindor** : 

I _always_ come to all _your_ musical affairs. 

**Finduilas** : [tiredly]

But it _bores_ me, Gwin. 

[pause -- smaller voice:] 

And I don't _like_ seeing you get hit. 

[Gwindor's expression changes from annoyed to indulgent. He gives her a quick kiss and picks up his cloak, managing to combine slinging it over his shoulder with the bow of courtesy to the Son of Feanor, thus spoiling the effect of the gesture entirely. Curufin however only returns it without seeming to notice the slight. After the other lord has left the cavern he strolls over to where Finduilas is tossing crumbs to the goldfish rather more emphatically than necesary.] 

**Finduilas** : [sharply]

Don't say _anything_. 

**Curufin** : 

About what? 

[Finduilas gives him a Look, but his expression is as innocent as his voice. She still watches him suspiciously. Putting one foot on the bench he leans over, frowning at the surface of the pool for a moment, before speaking, guaranteeing her attention.] 

I wanted to talk to you about our cousin of Doriath. 

[her face becomes even more wary] 

\--Have you noticed signs of increasing instability in her behaviour? 

[quickly] 

I -- I know you're loyal, and I know you care about her, and I'm not asking you to betray any confidences. I'm only remarking on what I've noticed, and others . . . and wondering if your concern for her shall not outweigh your distaste for me. Because -- regardless -- we are both committed to the good of our families and our people, and both matters are united in the person and problem of her Highness, and your greater closeness to her may well give you the information, and the ability, that is needed to assist her. 

[Finduilas looks troubled] 

You do grant that she's in need of help, don't you? 

[shedoesn't exactly nod agreement, but her silence answers] 

Have you -- found a -- certain wildness, a lack of touch with reality, in her speech lately? I -- I have to ask, because I've just come from talking with the Princess myself, and . . . she doesn't seem to be speaking the same language as the rest of us at all. --And I'm not making asinine jokes about her accent. 

[Finduilas sighs heavily, shakes her head] 

**Finduilas** : [ironic emphasis]

 _Where_ to begin? 

[As the camera pulls back, Curufin takes a seat on the bench without any sign of offense from the Regent's daughter, who is declaiming with animated gestures.] 


	51. Act III: SCENE XXXIV

**Gower** :

Contending with her fair cousin's soft disdain,   
Tinuviel strives to prove, as doth complain,  
that Elf no less than Man in that domain  
may smile and smile, and yet a villain remain --

[Luthien's apartments. Finduilas is sitting in one of the chairs of the solar, looking sympathetic-yet-sceptical as Luthien strides up and down in front of her, gesticulating as she speaks]

 **Luthien** :

And then he says, not outright, but just as clearly as if he had, that they'll _never_ let me go--!

 **Finduilas** : [frowning]

Do you think you could sit down perhaps?

 **Luthien** : [stops &  stares]

? ? ?

 **Finduilas** :

Or at least stop walking back and forth? It's very distracting.

 **Luthien** :

Finduilas! Celegorm would not let me go, told me I'd not only _like_ it but _wanted_ it, and his brother instead of apologizing for him, told me to be _grateful_ for the attention. --Are you sure they're not _possessed_? Maybe _they_ got caught after the Battle and nobody's realized they've been brainwashed. But -- no -- I'm sure Finrod would have seen it right off. I guess they're just evil without any assistance from Morgoth.

 **Finduilas** :

Oh, I'm sure you must have misunderstood. They're highborn as well as High-Elven -- they wouldn't _do_ such things.

 **Luthien** : [incredulous]

You're not _listening_ to me again. You're just ignoring everything inconvenient and unpleasant -- as usual. Don't you hear what I'm saying? Or am _I_ not real to you, either? Because I'm not one of you exalted Noldor? Do you see us native Middle-earth people as somewhere above trees, and perhaps above animals, but not necessarily, depending on whether they're _your_ animals or not? Because that's what I'm getting from you.

 **Finduilas** :

How can you say such things! You really, _really_ have no--

[breaks off at a loss for the right word]

 **Luthien** :

\--Shame? Respect? Manners? No. I have _wisdom_. Which is not a comforting or easy or light burden at all. Now, let's get this straight: your cousins have menaced me with the threat of being forced to become Celegorm's _bride_ , willing or not -- with _that_ my sole choice. If that happens, _there will be bloodshed_ \-- and lots of it. You _cannot imagine_ how much will follow. If my father was upset enough to threaten any of us with _death_ who would help me escape from Doriath to join Beren, he will _not_ stop at disapproving words when he finds that the sons of Feanor are now his sons-in-law. You've never seen him go to war. _I_ _have_. He hasn't _needed_ to for a very long time but he hasn't forgotten _how_. Trust me.

[brief pause]

 **Finduilas** : [sharply]

Well, that would rather put an end to his superiority about _kinslaying_ , wouldn't it? He would hardly be able to look down on the Feanor clan after that.

 **Luthien** :

I rather suspect he would consider it poetic justice. Regardless -- the only thing _Beren_ ever did to my father was have the misfortune of attracting my attention and affections. _He_ never killed any of his family or friends, never annexed any of our property with the threat of further invasion and the hint that we should consider ourselves lucky to keep what we had, never disdained to address him directly -- and my father was _still_ angry enough to have him killed for his presumption in wishing to marry me, if I hadn't intervened.

[frowns thoughtfully]

\--Though no doubt a good deal of that was the fact that he wasn't willing to get angry at me and had to take it out on the next-best target. Now -- add to everything else the fact that Lords Curufin and Celegorm have taken over Nargothrond and dispossed your uncle, who's the only one of your lot who treats us with appropriate respect and despite everything has remained a close friend of my father's, which I fully admit is not always easy, and the rest of you don't seem to give a _damn_ that he's almost certainly a prisoner of the Enemy and may be _dead_ \-- and ask yourself, _why_ my father should balk at sending Captain Mablung in with everything he's got, to smash this place open like an anthill?

[pause]

 **Finduilas** : [defensive-hostile]

...He _couldn't_ , anyway.

 **Luthien** : [bluntly]

Do you really want to stake _everything_ on that? I've not seen anyone here to match our best. I'd not set any of your guards against Beleg Cuthalion -- nor would I pit them against Mablung, either, Noldor or not. I'm not very impressed at all, except for Huan -- Oh, but I forgot! all of _your_ best Elves did go with your King. _And_ Beren. I would be very afraid, if I were you.

 **Finduilas** :

You don't understand.

 **Luthien** :

I note you're not contradicting me -- not about _any_ of it.

 **Finduilas** : [rises]

I can't talk to you when you're being like this. Please try to understand -- we're only concerned for _you_ , for your well-being. We're not trying to make you miserable, we're trying to _help_ you.

 **Luthien** : [earnestly]

Finduilas, have you _ever_ had an original thought in your life?

[Finduilas sighs and shakes her head, going towards the door]

 **Luthien** :

Finduilas!

[the other Elf-princess stops and waits]

If it were _Gwin_ \-- would you sit here and pretend you didn't _know_?

[With a look of sisterly exasperation, Finduilas leaves. Luthien resumes pacing. After a few turns she stops, snaps her fingers, and goes to get the basket of embroidery supplies. With the small scissors she cuts out a hank of hair from one side and quickly begins knotting the short strands around the door handle, humming quietly as she does so:]

Had I the gold in yonder mountain    where gold and silver is there for countin' I could not count for thought of thee --    mine eyes so full, I could not see

I love my father, I love my mother, I love my sister I love my brother, I love my friends and relatives too --    I'll forsake them all, and go with you

\--Huan? Would you come here, please?

[She cuts some of the longer hairs from his coat and ties them into her Working.]

Come all ye fair and tender maidens    take a warning how you court young men:

    They're like a star on a summer's evening    first they'll appear and then they're gone

If I'd of known before I courted    that love it was such a killing thing I'd of locked my heart in a silver casket    and pinned it shut with a silver pin --

[At the last she sticks an embroidery needle into the knots, almost like the pin of a latch. She tries the door, and as she expects can open it but cannot pass through from her side.]

Crazy, is it? I'll give them _crazy_ \--

[loudly down the hallway:]

What ho guards! Make haste!

[They come warily up, remembering the last time she pulled something on them.]

 **Guard** :

Yes, your Highness?

 **Luthien** : [thinks for a moment]

I don't like the _firewood_ that's been given me. Take it away and bring me better. This is . . . much too noisy --

 **Guards** : [dubious looks at each other]

Er, yes, of course, my lady --

[One of them approaches to come in, the other remaining to obstruct the doorway. The first guard finds that he cannot come within two paces of the threshold, as though a high wind (or a force field) were driving him back.]

 **Luthien** :

Good.

[She closes the door, indicates that Huan should try it, and watches wistfully as he paws open the panel and goes through, and then comes back into the suite. Luthien nods in satisfaction at this test of her Work, and slams the door very loudly. Oblivious to -- or rather unconcerned with -- the growing disturbance in the hallways outside, she goes to the northern wall of her solar and springs up to stand on the bench in front of the stone "window" on that side, resting her right hand on the surface of the carved horizon:]

What hills, what hills are those, my love?   
   those hills so dark and low?   
\-- Those are the hills of hell, my love,    
  where you and I must go --


	52. Act III: SCENE XXXV

**Gower** :

Small, soft, and weak the feathered singer seems, yet let not one forget   
far-ranging flights 'cross the wide world, above the winds, nor yet   
the strength to stand the weather out, in storms, nor withal be overset--

[The outside of Luthien's apartments, leading into the solar, where the Sons of Feanor are just coming up the hallway with two of the door guards in tow.]

 **Curufin** :

\--What do you mean, it _won't open_?

 **First Guard** :

No, milord, it _will_ open -- it's just that no one can go through it.

 **Second Guard** :

\--Except for Huan.

[Celegorm glares at him]

Sorry, sir, but it's true.

[They demonstrate by opening the door to the solar.]

 **Celegorm** :

So what's the problem?

[Without waiting for an answer he strides forward -- and encounters the same resistance effect that they hit before.]

? ? ?

 **Curufin** : [frowning]

Hmph.

[Luthien enters and sits down for a moment in the chair, then gets up and lays more splitwood on the fire before going back to work, apparently laying out the colors of embroidery silk that have been provided her for comparison across the table.]

What nonsense is this, Your Highness?

[she does not answer, just keeps working]

 **Curufin** : [sharply]

My lady Luthien!

[again no response]

Luthien!

 **Second Guard** :

Er -- that doesn't work, milord.

[Curufin gives him a daunting glare]

 **Curufin** :

And what _does_?

[Embarrassed, the Guard beats loudly on the door panel, making a very undignified racket -- it gets worse, too, since she doesn't respond at once]

 **Guard** : [trying to act as though he's not yelling at royalty]

Hey! Hey, you!

[Obviously anyone going by in the halls outside will not be able to ignore this. Luthien gets up and walks to the door, slowly, as though there were nothing unusual about any of it.]

 **Luthien** : [glancing around]

Were you looking for someone, my lords?

 **Curufin** : [sarcastic]

Ah, yes -- for the Princess of Doriath, Thingol's daughter, one Luthien.

 **Luthien** : [serenely]

There is no one here who answers to that name, my lord.

 **Celegorm** :

You're standing right there, you crazy girl!

 **Luthien** : [calm]

That is true. _I_ am standing here.

 **Curufin** : [sighing]

Your Highness.

[Luthien looks around the solar]

Damn! What _game_ are you playing, my lady?

 **Luthien** :

Oh, I am _not_ playing. Not at all, my lords.

 **Curufin** : [suspicious]

Who are you, then?

 **Luthien** :

I am -- she that Beren loves.

 **Curuf** in:

You can't expect anyone to call you _that_!

 **Luthien** :

Then call me by my right name.

[pause -- the brothers look at each other]

 **Curufin** : [sourly]

Luthien -- _Tinuviel_.

 **Luthien** :

Yes?

[pause]

 **Celegorm** :

What -- what's this _nonsense_ with the doors?

 **Luthien** :

Surely _you_ can explain that as well as I can -- or if not, your brother certainly should be able to.

[Celegorm is overcome with confusion]

 **Curufin** :

Oh, now, let us be honest -- I have it on the noblest authority that you've no objection to being _caught_ and _held_ \--

 **Luthien** : [shaking her head, sighing]

 _Finduilas_. I suppose she didn't tell you -- or perhaps you're not any better at listening than your elder brother -- that unlike either of you, Beren _asked_ me, and never held me against my will or spoke me disrespectfully or made demand or gave command but was always patient and grateful of my presence--

[she breaks off; behind Curufin's back Celegorm winces and looks away]

 **Curufin** : [ironic]

Sounds more like a tame dog than any proper lord, eh, brother?

 **Luthien** : [recovering]

You're very brave to mock him when he's far from you.

 **Curufin** :

You can't do this _forever_ , you know.

 **Luthien** :

I certainly should not _need_ to.

 **Curufin** :

You'll give it up in a bit, you'll get bored and regret this, believe me.

 **Luthien** : [shrugs]

Well, we'll find out, won't we?

 **Celegorm** : [desperately]

 _Luthien_!

[She turns away and walks back to the table and sits down. As she goes back to what she was doing the camera reveals that she is copying the map from the round gallery, with different colors of thread for different geographical features, pinning them into the tabletop as she goes. Huan comes out of the private rooms, and seeing the Sons of Feanor, raises his hackles, growling in a low voice.]

 **Celegorm** : [shouting]

 _Huan_!!!

[Luthien uses one pin as a compass and plots out a radius, folds the thread and compares it to other distances, shaking her head with a bitter expression. Curufin grabs his brother by the arm and hauls him away.]


	53. Act III: SCENE XXXVI

**Gower** : 

The thing demanded, it may hap, may haply prove to be   
Not all that deemed it, of good fortune -- yet too late too see . . . 

[Orodreth's private chambers -- he is occupied with something that looks a bit like six abacuses fitted together three-dimensionally and several sets of writing tablets, and not looking at all happy about it: this is _not_ the kind of task that is sufficiently enjoyable in itself to be worth anything as a distraction from care. An attendant enters the room, very apologetically] 

**Orodreth** : [abruptly]

Did you find them? 

**Attendent** : 

Er -- no, sir, not yet, unfortunately. 

**Orodreth** : 

Doesn't _anyone_ know where the original records were kept? It has to have been written down somewhere -- it can't _all_ have been only in Edrahil's memory, can it? So _where are_ the scrips and tallies? 

[he is angry enough to break the unwritten rule against speaking of the Exiles, and not to notice his aide's discomfort, or to care.] 

**Attendant** : 

Highness, we're still looking -- but the Lords Celegorm and Curufin are here to see you. About -- about that business ... 

**Orodreth** : 

What do they expect _me_ to do about it? Grinding Ice, am I to be given no peace nor place of my own to do this work? How are we to keep them furnished with lights if I don't know how many we have, do they think? 

**Attendant** : 

I'm sorry -- but they do insist . . . they won't take "no" for an answer. 

**Orodreth** : 

Have they _ever_? Let them come. 

[He leans back in his chair, sighing, and flicks scornfully at one of the markers on the abacus, shaking his head. His assistant returns with the brothers and goes to the side of his master's chair, defensive] 

**Orodreth** : [bleakly bland]

I understand that the Princess Luthien has locked herself in her suite of apartments from the inside, as you've locked her into them from without, and that the Hound Huan is the only individual she will permit free entry to, and that he permits no one entry with him. Is there in fact a _state of siege_ obtaining in my sister's quarters, or am I misinformed? 

**Curufin** : [huffy and a bit defensive]

Well, it's not a _siege_ , exactly -- the suite has all the amenities, including water, and she still allows room service to bring her meals, and we're not starving her or anything, of course! 

**Celegorm** : [muttering to himself]

No, she just eats almost nothing and won't talk -- 

**Orodreth** : [grim smile]

Ah. So it's a _Leaguer_. 

[long, _long_ silence] 

I'm sure you'll continue to keep me as well appraised of the situation. Do feel free to go on wasting my time, though, since you always do. Or did you want something from me besides approval and moral support this time? 

**Celegorm** : 

_Orodreth_ \-- 

**Orodreth** : 

Cousin, stop right there. If you want my job, then as I've told you, show you know what it entails and start doing some work. I don't think you have a _jot_ of a clue as to what is involved in it, and how much needs to be done. The former Steward seems to have found it easier to keep track of everything the old-fashioned way, evidently due to the fact that the people he assigned the task kept deciding to reorganize everything by some new-devised system of their own, which they then abandoned through boredom halfway through. 

[flings his stylus down on the table] 

You wonder why I'm not the same cheerful soul I used to be? _Really_? Why I'm not _grateful_ for this honor, this sudden ascencion to power? Because _I_ am aware of what power entails. You want one small, negligible example of what I'm contending with? Apart from the personality clashes, and the fact that my daughter's future father-in-law is one of the people I'm going to have to rail at over this mess? There are only _half_ the year's lighting requirements in stock -- as far as we can tell. So I ought to go and set people quickly to making up the difference, which means taking them off other tasks and diverting a great deal of resources. But I can't believe that, because my predecessor was nothing if not thorough and I cannot accept that either Lord Edrahil _or_ my brother would have allowed things to get to such a state, and that means that they're somewhere, only due to the Sindarin-style record keeping no one here is certain where! 

[full rant mode] 

I know you think that I'm dull, the way you think that everyone who merely supports your lifestyle of leisure and doesn't participate in it is _dull_ \-- but you know, you _know_ what's going to be really dull around here is if we don't have enough lighting this winter -- and _that_ is just the beginning! I've got schedules missing for every storehouse in the City. Do you _see_ these tables? Do you see these figures? _This_ is what I'm having to reconstruct, while you play at being Orome or fiddle around making knick-knacks with my brother's tools -- or kidnap native royalty for your perverse amusment. 

[gripping the edge of the desk to keep from throwing something] 

I am trying to keep this City alive -- and I am so far out of my depth I can't see shore. I though it could be little different from managing a garrison -- evidently, however, I was much mistaken. What are you here _for_ , anyhow? You've told me to leave your House's personal affairs alone -- surely you're not coming to me now to ask me to _interfere_ , are you? 

[pause] 

Just _what_ , in any case, could you possibly expect me to do? 

**Curufin** : 

You could tell her you'll have the surrounding walls taken down-- 

**Orodreth** : [standing up]

Starless Night of the Gloomweaver! You are _not_ meddling with the structural supports of the City, and if I so much as hear a _whisper_ of covert demolitions and walls being touched -- there _will_ be a Kinslaying on this side of the family, I promise you. You really have _no notion at all_ , do you, of what you're dealing with? This isn't _Tirion_ , dammit, the rules of architecture you studied at home don't mean a thing when you're working with natural formations of integral stone, the stresses and counterweights and bracings--! You don't know which walls are supporting and which aren't, and you haven't spent Great Years studying them -- or studied with those who _have_ instead. Touch the walls, and you touch Nargothrond, and then -- our understanding is at an end. 

**Curufin** : [warningly]

And what exactly do you think would happen _then_? 

**Orodreth** : [smiling through his teeth]

Very expensive damages all round. 

**Curufin** : [back to light tone]

You're beginning to sound like your great-uncle, you know. 

**Orodreth** : 

I'm beginning to _understand_ my great-uncle much better these days. Now please leave me to my lofty role as Regent, unless you'd like to be working in the dark come Sun-return. Solve your own self-created problems for once. 

[Orodreth goes back to comparing tallies and tablets, scratching off duplicate entries, and ignoring the brothers. Disgruntled, the Sons of Feanor leave, saying as they pass through into the outer hallway, loudly:] 

**Celegorm** : 

_Pathetic_. 

**Curufin** : 

\--Pathetic to think we're _related_ to him. 

**Celegorm**. That too. 


	54. Act III: SCENE XXXVII

**Gower** : 

When will is set, on course far-fixed, howsoever rash it be,   
no Power that reigns may check, of Earth, of _under_ , or amid the Sea--   

[The brothers, not happy, enter, still discussing from outside in the halls] 

**Celegorm** : 

Do you think that things really are that bad as he says? 

**Curufin** : [headshake] 

No, he's just being melodramatic again. It can hardly be more work to run than a couple of provinces, after all. And _that_ certainly never took such full-time investment as he's claiming. 

[nastily] 

\--Unless, perhaps, it _does_ \-- _for_ _him_. 

**Celegorm** : 

So what are we going to do? This is -- ridiculous. And it's not the way I wanted it at all... This stupid business with her refusing to answer to her real name now -- we didn't even tell Orodreth about _that_. 

[grimaces] 

"Leaguer" --! 

**Curufin** : 

We could break through it if we wanted to, of course. 

[Celegorm slumps down in his favorite chair] 

**Celegorm** : [glum]

No. It's a lost cause. Even if she would listen to me, she's so locked herself into this melodramatic pose of hers that she _has_ to defend and believe what she says, her pride won't let her do otherwise. 

[jumps up abruptly and folds his arms, scowing at the fire] 

Damn! but you can tell she's Thingol's daughter, no question. 

**Curufin** : [thoughfully]

No, I don't think that's it. . . I think she's more reasonable than Elwe, when it comes down to it. All right -- say she has some mystical bond of telepathy, from her mother's side perhaps, and she really can sense Barahirion halfway across Middle-earth. Well, then -- she'll know when he's dead. All we have to do is -- _wait_. 

**Celegorm** : 

What good would _that_ do? She's being so bloody stubborn I'd not be surprised if she means to wait to the end of Arda -- 

**Curufin** : [grinning] 

Uh-uh. 

[Celegorm frowns at him] 

\-- _Mortal_. 

**Celegorm** : [delighted realization]

Oh! _Right_! I'd forgot all about that -- he won't be there, he _can't_ , and she'll just have to Face Facts then, won't she? Hah! --How long do you think it will take? I don't fancy, what, another fifty years of this namecalling and moping and making outrageous Scenes-- 

**Curufin** : 

\-- _Fifty_? You're joking. As a prisoner of the Enemy? You've seen what slavery does to the _Kindred_ \-- I'd be shocked if it was even a _year_. And then -- it'll be up to you to console her. 

**Celegorm** : [residual sanity intervening]

Do you think I've really a chance? Or will I just be blamed for it? 

C **urufin** : [shaking head]

No, once she's free of whatever bizarre mental influence such an unnatural betrothal has created, I'm sure she'll be grateful --- though she'll never admit it: she does have Elu's pride, I grant you. She won't want anyone to remember her embarassing foray into madness, most like. 

**Celegorm** : 

And . . . _Huan_? 

[gloomily angry] 

\--I still can't believe that he turned on me. He saved my life at the Sudden Flame, remember that? It's really strange that a _mortal_ would prove more loyal than a Hound of Valinor . . . 

**Curufin** : 

How _can_ he object, when _she_ has no objections? 

[pats his brother reassuringly on the shoulder] 

And needless to say, with _you_ to distract her she'll have no reason to think about it all. Tell you what -- I'm so confident I'll go ahead and start on the maquettes for the rings, hmm? Something to symbolize both Houses, the most elegant things you can imagine, and of course she'll be overwhelmed, never having seen the like here. 

**Celegorm** : 

\--Sublime, meaningful, exquisitely-crafted and staggeringly beautiful? 

**Curufin** : 

\--You got it. Now why don't you go off for a ride while the weather's still clear and clear the cobwebs from your soul, and by the time you get back I'll have the rough drafts ready for you to look at. Sounds good? 

**Celeborn** : [smiles]

Sounds like an excellent plan. --See you in a bit. 

[He leaves. Curufin goes to the reorganized shelves and starts getting down items for sculpting, humming a simple melody as he does -- then checks, as he realizes what tune it is -- "Ten Thousand Miles", stuck in his head. He snorts, and goes on working in silence.] 


	55. Act III: SCENE XXXVIII

Act III: SCENE XXXVIII (mute)

[The great solar, in the alcove near the fountain]

[Celebrimbor, surrounded by acolytes, suddenly gets up and walks away from the circle without explanation -- all stare after him, and share perplexed looks when he does not return to the session.]


	56. Act III: SCENE XXXIX

**Gower** :

Captive and disarmed, the Dancer of Doriath yet concedeth not defeat--  
lacking her Work, still she holdeth, wieldeth _will_ and power to entreat --

[Luthien's suite. She is sitting on the floor with her feet on one of the jambs of the open door, her back against the other, talking loudly though no one can be seen except Huan, whom she is not addressing, though he is lying next to her with his head on her lap as she brushes him.]

 **Luthien** :

\--So first they started trouble all up and down Aman, and then there was the business with nobody getting to see the Silmarils because Feanor was trying to punish you for not appreciating him, and then there was the Night of Darkness and the Kinslaying and then you got abandoned on the other side by him and his sons and then you had to cross the Helcaraxe on foot which is personally the most insane thing I ever heard of but I heard that you lot insisted, and you wouldn't have made it over without my cousins going with you and looking after you and so of course! when the Sons of Feanor move in and start doing the same old thing, bullying and shoving and insisting on getting all their own way, you think they're just wonderful, and you give them _everything_ that Finrod worked to give you and you pretend that it was that way all along. Oh yeah, that makes _lots_ of sense!

[yelling:]

\--You can hide around the corner, but I still know you're there!

[nomal voice:]

It's easier to say -- the girl from Doriath is crazy, than to say -- We're _faithless traitors_.

[There is a sound of muffled exclamation and movement from down the hall, as though someone started to respond and then stopped -- or maybe _was stopped_.]

\-- Perhaps I'm not being fair. Maybe you were with the House of Feanor all along and only came here as guests yourselves, and that's why they put you here to watch me and why you think you can't pay heed to my rights. But you're just _wrong_ , if that's the case. You can't claim that you get to ignore the obligatons that bind even the gods themselves, of justice and honesty and hospitality and not standing by in idleness as someone else does something wrong and pretending you don't know and aren't involved -- all in the name of _honour_. How is _that_ "honorable"? Why don't you _explain_ it to me, being just a poor simple Dark-elf out of the woods and all?

[shouts:]

I _know_ you can hear me!

[There is no answer. Shakes her head. Warningly:]

All _right_ , then.

[sings:]

There were three ra'ens sat on a tree   
  and they were black as they might be   
    Said one of them unto his mate --   
  Where shall we our breakfast take?

    --In yonder greening field,   
    there lies a Knight slain under his shield.   
\--His hawks they do so fiercely fly,   
    there's nary a fowl does come him nigh--

    His hounds they lie down at his feet --   
    His hounds they lie down at his feet --   
    His hounds they lie down at his feet   
  so well they do their master keep!

 **Huan** : [interrupting her]

[loud sharp barks]

 **Luthien** : [kissing the top of his head]

\--Yes, _you're_ a good dog too.

[singing:]

Then there came a fallow doe,   
  as great with young as she might go --   
    She took him up upon her back   
  and carried him beside the loch

    She buried him in morning-time   
  and she was dead ere evensong-time --

 **Huan** :

[more barking, louder]

 **Luthien** :

I know, I know -- I _know_ it's no good, but I have to try. I don't know if they really don't care, or if there _really_ is a spell like Celebrimbor said, or if this is some kind of madness or poison from living too long underground. --And it doesn't really matter, whatever it is. I mean, they did all leave their families back in Aman, so maybe they _can't_ understand what I feel for Beren --

[sings to herself:]

Oh the leaves they will wither  
\-- Roots will decay      
And the beauty of a young maid     
    will soon fade away --   
Oh, will soon fade away --

 **Huan** :

[small, nonstop whines]


	57. Act III: SCENE LX

**Gower** : 

In these days of order overset, of Misrule's rule,  
the City's lawful lord is reckoned only _fool_. 

[The Regent's Office. Gwindor is standing much less truculently (but if possible more worried) before Orodreth's desk. The Regent looks exhausted and grim -- or angry but in control of it, perhaps.] 

**Orodreth** : 

What have you discovered? 

**Gwindor** : 

Aside from the fact that Curufin's so paranoid that half the time he hardly seems to trust himself -- which, added to the usual overconfidence and assumption of cowed awe at the aura of the family name, manifests itself in some rather erratic behavior patterns? 

**Orodreth** : [sharply]

I was referring specifically to the question of this reported -- _marriage_ _alliance_ \-- purposed between the Lady Luthien and Lord Celebrimbor. 

**Gwindor** : [chastened]

Yes, sir. --According to fairly reliable sources, the Lords of Aglon-and-Himlad _did_ send messengers east, under the pretext of assigning liaison staff to the watchtowers. However, there is no way to ascertain that they were sending to Doriath, and not to their brothers, although there are suggestive indications from various overheard cryptic remarks and careless talk among their Household. 

**Orodreth** : 

And--? 

**Gwindor** : 

To put it bluntly, sir, I don't think that her Highness of Doriath is insane. 

**Orodreth** : 

No. 

[pause] 

**Gwindor** : 

Sir, what are we going to do? 

**Orodreth** : 

For the present -- nothing, but observe. 

**Gwindor** : [outraged]

 _Nothing_? 

**Orodreth** : [dry]

At the present instant, her Highness -- and Huan -- have the situation in hand. Unless you believe that you and your following can do a better job of defending her than the Hound of Valinor? 

[pause] 

For the present, you will maintain your staff's unobtrusive presence among her guards, monitoring the situation constantly and reporting to me, unless the situation changes, and not until then. 

**Gwindor** : 

And if that should happen? 

**Orodreth** : 

Then -- I will be compelled to take action. 

[long silence -- Gwindor looks hopeful] 

I would prefer to trust that it will not come to that, that sanity will reassert itself over the grandiose ambitions of our -- _guests_ , and that affairs will shortly return to such normality of state as formerly obtained. 

**Gwindor** : 

Do you really believe that your cousins will behave with either reason or good will? --Sir. 

[The Regent reaches over to flick a bead on the abacus-construct, with a lopsided smile] 

**Orodreth** : [ironic]

No, my lord. Hence your orders. 

[Gwindor bows and strides out; Orodreth remains staring into the distance for a moment before turning back to his paperwork with a sigh.] 


	58. Act III: SCENE XLI

**Gower** : 

Like a lasting storm, the world's travail   
about Tinuviel doth whirl, her peace assail   
and all that's hers of rightful honours owed   
whir away, as fallen leaves along the road. 

[Celegorm is standing outside the door of Luthien's solar, still dressed in his outdoor gear, fresh from the hunt. Huan is couchant inside, like a sheepdog just waiting to hear "Coom by," and Luthien is standing behind him, though one has to assume that it's her because she has her blue mantle wrapped all the way around her and pulled so far forward that her face cannot be seen, rather like one of the famous Mourners statues on John of Burgundy's tomb. The effect is extremely creepy. The elder son of Feanor doesn't seem to notice: when the scene opens he's talking away quite cheerfully.] 

**Celegorm** : 

. . . And then you'll be queen of greater Beleriand, forever and ever, and we'll have the grandest times together, go anywhere in the country without worrying about wolves or worse, and I'll have the Silmarils set for you to wear and no one in Arda will compare with you, you'll be like Varda herself and we'll make Middle-earth better than Aman ever was, I promise. I'll give you the whole world, and you'll never be unhappy or afraid or hungry again. What do you say to that, hey? 

[she does not answer] 

Come on, Luthien, don't pretend you're deaf, it just makes you look the proper fool! 

**Luthien** : [sings]

A North Country maid to the City had stray'd  
although with her nature it did not agree  
O she wept and she cried and most bitterly she sighed--  
I would I were home in the North Country-- 

[Celegorm tenses, but no mysterious compulsion kicks in and he smiles] 

\--Oh the oak and the ash and the bonnie ivy tree,  
They flourish at home in my own country-- 

**Celegorm** : 

It won't work, I'm not one of your weak-minded Grey Kindred. Listen, Luthien, you know you're being outrageous and stubborn and everyone thinks you're a silly girl and half-crazy on top of that. Now I understand it's hard to admit you're wrong -- _I_ wouldn't like to do it -- but please just -- be _reasonable_ , would you, and look at the facts. First, there's the prestige. Can't get away from that. 

[Throughout this exchange, Luthien continues answering his rhetoric with verses of "North Country Maid," while Celegorm carries on as if she hadn't replied.] 

**Luthien** : 

    But still I do see that a husband I might wed,  
if I to the City my mind I would tame-- 

**Celegorm** : 

And going with that, the cachet of House Feanor, there's the tangible benefits. What could _he_ offer you? An empty title, the ownership of a little snippet of mountainous lands held completely by the Enemy, and no likelihood of ever gettin' it back, what with no army, no people, and no luck. Now, granted, we've suffered some setbacks, but my family still holds large strategic areas of Endor and massive resources, completely apart from Narog. 

**Luthien** : 

    But I'll only have a lad that is North Country bred,  
or I will not marry but stay as I am-- 

**Celegorm** : 

And then, when we unite your people and ours, we'll form an alliance that will finally be able to coordinate properly and tackle the problem of the North in a rational manner, not all this nonsense of independent commands and whatnot. 

**Luthien** : 

\--Oh the oak and the ash and the bonnie ivy tree,  
They flourish at home in my own country-- 

**Celegorm** : 

So there's the common good aspect all covered, and then there's _you_ to think of, you can't really be happy traipsing about in rags and working yourself into a fret, going off your feed -- you really want looking-after, and I will make sure that everything you could possibly desire is yours. 

**Luthien** : 

    A maiden I am and a maid I'll remain,  
until the North Country once more I do see-- 

**Celegorm** : 

And finally, not to be arrogant about it or anything, but -- who else _is_ there who matches up, just on a personal basis? I mean, we complement each other perfectly, and not just in looks -- you've got courage, too, and the strength almost of the Noldor. There's no two ways about it. It's _meant_ to be. 

**Luthien** : 

    For here in this place I'll never see the face  
of him that is meant my love for to be-- 

**Celegorm** : [tolerantly]

Oh, you're not still sore at me for gettin' a bit forward the other day, are you, Princess? 

**Luthien** : 

\--Oh the oak and the ash and the bonnie ivy tree, 

**Celegorm** : [tolerantly]

You know I didn't mean anything by it, you know perfectly well I wouldn't ever do anything -- improper -- to you. 

**Luthien** : 

    They flourish-- 

[breaks off at once: when she speaks it is in a very stern and austere manner, without any hesitation or emotion, as one speaking in full royal authority -- or, possibly, even higher.] 

You yourself did not know what you would have done, Celegorm son of Feanor, so do not try to unsay the past with untruths. I am only speaking to you now that I may appeal to whatever is left of your true nature. Release me and give me what I demand, and you may avoid full-out war with my House, and mitigate the greater Curse that grows with every treason you commit. 

**Celegorm** : 

But I can't -- you don't understand, just -- please, give me a chance-- 

**Luthien** : 

You lied to me. You don't get a second chance. 

**Celegorm** : [hotly]

I didn't lie to you! 

**Luthien** : 

Worse, then -- you deliberately used the truth to deceive me. How can you even call yourself one of us, then, if you misuse the gift of speech so? 

**Celegorm** : [defensive]

But one isn't obliged to tell everything to everyone -- it's perfectly all right to keep secrets, from strangers, or to mislead the Enemy. 

**Luthien** : 

So I am an enemy. Thank you for stating that plainly. 

**Celegorm** : 

\--That wasn't what I meant, dammit-- 

**Luthien** : 

It's far too late for _stranger_ , and clearly you are not my friend. 

**Celegorm** : [winningly]

I could be, if you'd let me. 

**Luthien** : [sings]

The hart he loves the high wood,  
The hare he loves the hill,  
 The knight loves well his bright sword  
\-- The lady loves her will. 

**Celegorm** : [cajoling]

Come on, Luthien, don't sulk and carry on in this -- this _ridiculous_ fashion, hiding yourself like some kind of freak-- 

**Luthien** : 

You look at me and you do not see me, Celegorm Turcofin Feanorion, because you have _never_ seen me as I am -- only as a rough stone to be polished and made fit for your tastes. 

**Celegorm** : 

I see . . . a beautiful Elf who deserves far better than a backwoods reserve, who deserves the finest things that civilization can give her, who deserves to be protected from fell things, not exposed to every risk and danger in Middle-earth -- and at the same time to be celebrated throughout the land, not hidden away like a dusty mathom in a storeroom! 

**Luthien** : [passionate for the first time]

That's what I mean! You refuse to understand that I _am_ Sindar, that I _belong_ to this land, to these woods, that they are real and powerful and not some worthless wastelands fit only to serve as a place for you to go hunting in, and that we have built a civilization in them that may not be the same as yours but is no less its equal! You don't know me, you _cannot_ know me, you've never seen me in my own dominion, in my own home -- you never risked life and limb following the forest's call to find me-- 

**Celegorm** : [interrupting her]

\--Well, not much of a chance of that, what with your father's Ban on us! 

**Luthien** : [half angry, half exasperated pity]

 _Before_ that. You could have come directly to Doriath and paid your respects to my parents like the Finarfinions. You could have done us homage, and learned from us, and not alienated half the country with your arrogance. 

[reluctant but honest as always:] 

And -- you would have met _me_. And perhaps -- _perhaps_ things might have gone otherwise, between -- all of us. 

[pause] 

**Celegorm** : 

And what would have happened, when Sha -- when your father found out about the unpleasantness back in Aman? 

**Luthien** : [shrugs]

Who can say? It would have been different from what _did_ happen. Wisdom can say no more than that, ever. But you chose a different path, and a different self, and now -- it's too late. 

**Celegorm** : 

But it _isn't_ too late. That's what I'm trying to tell you. 

**Luthien** : 

It was too late before you set eyes on me. It was too late -- the instant you betrayed your Kindred a second time, and Beren with them. It was too late _long_ before I entered the Gates of Nargothrond. I would tear down this whole City, if I could, to escape from here. 

**Celegorm** : [indulgently]

Silly girl, that's what the Enemy would do. Whose side are you on, anyway? 

**Luthien** : 

_Beren's_. And anyone else who's _with_ us. 

**Celegorm** : [cold -- the true iron showing through for the first time]

Beren's a goner. Your future lies with me. With _us_ , not that rabble of half-Noldor and humans and illiterates who refused the Call that's let Beleriand go to wrack and ruin. 

**Luthien** : 

You will _never_ win me, body or soul. My heart is with Beren, not here, even as I hold his, and you can't divide us, Celegorm Turcofin! 

**Celegorm** : [grinning]

Don't you get it? For someone who prides herself on being so clever you're being awfully dense, Luthien. He's _mortal_. All we've got to do is _wait_. 

[silence] 

**Huan** : 

[Low deep growl] 

**Luthien** : [distant and oracular]

\-- _That_ is why I could not touch you. Your outward form is still fair, but there is nothing left of _Eldar_ within. Refuse the Call? You cannot even _hear_ it! 

**Celegorm** : [confident]

It'll just be a little while, and then you'll be free of this spell, this madness that's got hold of you, and everything will be fine. --You'll see. --And _you_ , dog, are going to have to _work_ to get back into my good graces. You missed a really excellent chase today, you know. 

[He turns and goes off, whistling. She remains there, standing perfectly still like a statue, while Huan looks up at her panting, until finally he gets off the floor and starts nudging her to try to get her to move.] 


	59. Act III: SCENE LXI.ii

[The Hall of Morning: the late afternoon sunlight barely makes its way down the prisms of the roof to the gallery, giving it a strange subdued and reddish light Despite the sunset hour there are several people gathered there -- our seldom-seen (but sometimes glimpsed) not-quite-conspirators, or most of them. The Sage is standing, with a nervous air, and the Scribe has just risen from the bench across from the one where the Ranger is still seated; the Guard is nowhere to be seen.] 

**Scribe** : 

Did you succeed? 

**Sage** : [shakes her head]

I -- the security was too tight. I couldn't get in. 

[pause. They look at each other, and the Sage looks away.] 

**Scribe** : 

You didn't make the attempt. After all the work I went to making the duplicate-- 

**Ranger** : 

\--You didn't even _try_? 

**Sage** : [ugly tone]

\--How many horses did you secure for us? 

[he shuts up] 

**Scribe** : 

What could they have done, if they'd caught you making the switch? Complain to the Regent? I _told_ you I should have handled it-- 

**Sage** : 

What you _said_ , may I remind you, was that you were too closely connected through your cousin's consort and you'd be immediately associated with any loss-- 

**Scribe** : [nonplussed]

Well. Anyway, that's neither here nor there. 

[rallying] 

What were you afraid of? The public humiliation? Surely you don't think they could actually _do_ anything to you? 

**Sage** : 

No, it isn't as though they've has ever killed or injured another of the Kindred -- what a ridiculous notion! 

**Scribe** : [hurt]

You needn't be so sarcastic. 

[They both look around for their missing fourth associate; the Ranger shakes his head.] 

**Ranger** : 

She was right . . . we're worse cowards than either of the sons of Feanor. 

[No one disagrees with him; the light continues to dim on the malcontents of Nargothrond] 


	60. Act III: SCENE LXII

**Gower** : 

Though memory a monument outlasting even hardest stone   
eternal may endure, recollection of what once was known   
is sharpest goad: a path of thorns ever freshly sown--

[Luthien is sitting on the side of her bed, still with the shawl wrapped around her like a long veil, looking at Huan, who is lying in front of her with his chin on her knees. All the doors of the suite are opened, facing towards the main door, which is closed.] 

**Luthien** : 

It's _hopeless_. I can't dig my way out of here with embroidery needles, I can't work _stone_ , I can't even command hearts now without access to my Power -- I've exhausted every scrap of possibility and I can't see any way out of here but _divine intervention_ at this point. But the best I've ever been able to get has been divine _non_ intervention -- and that made no difference whatsoever, to my thinking, except to spare my mother one miserable scene out of more than I can count. They're going to die, and I'll never see Beren again, and I can't live without him. I've done my best -- and that's _no_ consolation whatsoever. 

**Huan** : 

[short distressed whines] 

**Luthien** : [taking his face in her hands]

I'm not blaming you. It wasn't your fault, and I can't begin to tell how grateful I've been for your friendship. I just don't know what to do, and -- I can't bear the _waiting_ \-- 

[she breaks off, her teeth clenched, breathing hard as she tries not to cry] 

**Finduilas** : [calling through the door]

\--Luthien?  Luthien, you _can't_ lock yourself in there and not see anyone -- it's not _healthy_! We're trying to _help_ you. _Luthien_! 

**Luthien** : [grimly ferocious]

That's _not_ my name. 

**Finduilas** : [exasperated]

 _Luthien_! I'm _not_ going to call you "Nightingale". 

**Luthien** : 

What do you want -- _Sparkly_? 

**Finduilas:** [resigned]

 _Tinuviel_. You've _got_ to talk to someone. 

**Huan** : 

[single bark] 

**Finduilas** : 

And _Huan_ doesn't count! 

**Luthien** : 

Go _away_ , Finduilas, I don't want to talk to _anyone_ \-- I'm too upset to do _anything_ but cry, or sleep. 

[laughs quietly. To herself:] 

Only _this_ time -- it's true. 

[after a few moments she sings very softly:] 

My love said to me -- My mother won't mind  
and my father won't slight you for your lack of kind --  
   Then she stepped away from me and this she did say      
\-- It will not be long, love, till our wedding day -- 

[as the verse ends she shakes her head, smiling bitterly and crying at the same time. She lies back on the bed and curls up on her side, sheltering her head with her arms and does not move. The lights of the City dim in accordance with the hours of darkness outside. Huan gets up and pads out of the room and out of the apartments, surprisingly quiet for such a huge creature.] 


	61. Act III: SCENE XLIII

**Gower** :

\--gainst the rising tide of fate some strive   
to stem the flood with sticks, with sand: as well with straws --   
no more than such their efforts shall give pause.

[Orodreth's Household apartments -- in the Regent's private office, his two nearest and dearest are gathered around, Finduilas on a low hassock by the fireplace and Gwindor standing behind her, gently rubbing her shoulders. Orodreth looks at them with an expression tired and sad but fond; the young people keep looking, inevitably, up to the desk behind him where a second mega-abacus has joined the first, and there is a shape suspiciously like that of a third on the floor behind it in the shadows of the ornamentally-pierced lantern hanging overhead.]

 **Orodreth** :

Were you able to do anything for her? Convey our concern for her? Would she talk to you at all?

 **Finduilas** : [shaking her head]

She still won't answer to any name but the one _he_ gave her, either. You have to call her Tinuviel or she doesn't listen. She doesn't listen anyway, though . . . I don't understand why she can't compromise . . .

[the others stare at her, bemused. Defensive:]

\--What?

 **Orodreth** : [very dry]

What, exactly, would a compromise look like, under these circumstances?

[pause]

Between _going_ and _staying_ there isn't much of a third route, is there?

 **Finduilas** : [exasperated]

 _Father_. I meant, in _principle_ \--

 **Orodreth** : [sighs]

I'm sorry, my dear. It's been a long couple of bells --

 **Finduilas** :

You look so _tired_ . . . Can't you get someone to help you with all of this?

 **Orodreth** :

I'm afraid that's the problem, not the solution to it.

 **Finduilas** :

I meant . . . _us_ . . . ?

 **Orodreth** :

No, thank you anyway. But I couldn't explain what I've got going on here in any way that would easily make sense to you -- I barely grasp it all myself, and it would just confuse matters worse if I tried to pass it over right now. It's like your glasswork, when it's still soft enough to work with -- if you tried to show me what you were doing with it and let me take it on, it would be ruined before I'd grasped the situation. --But I do appreciate you offering.

[Finduilas nods, sadly]

 **Gwindor** : [profoundly apologetic]

Sir -- I -- I'm so very sorry. I -- my father -- he, well, he hasn't been the same -- since my brother . . .

 **Orodreth** :

It -- Gwindor, I'm the last to blame anyone for what his _relatives_ did -- or didn't -- do. There's more than enough blame to go around right now.

 **Finduilas** : [almost whispering]

She -- she compares him to the _Trees_ , Father. That can't be right, that can't be _allowable_ , can it? What would they say, what would the Powers say to that--?

[Orodreth does not answer -- he has covered his face with his hand, turning his head away]

 **Gwindor** :

Sir -- what _else_ could you have done?

 **Orodreth** :

That is what we said after Minas Tirith, is it not? Now -- I do not know.

 **Gwindor** : [thinking aloud]

But -- there must be _something_ \-- _someone_ \-- someone _else_ \-- thus official deniability -- could defy them, could _help_ \-- her...

 **Orodreth** :

Do _you_ dare? Will you go, then, down to her door and order aside the guards and take horse and ride with her to the Bridge of Sirion and challenge the Master of Wolves there, like a knight in one of her mortal songs? What do you think will happen to you, then? --But do it, if you dare: how can I forbid you, any more than give command?

[long pause. Gwindor frowning, as though to speak several times -- his expression becomes anguished and his posture shifts subtly -- he knows he cannot do it. Abruptly he turns, knocking a small table aside impatiently with his foot as he strides towards the doors]

 **Finduilas** : [panicky]

Gwin -- where are you going?

 **Gwindor** : [bitter sarcasm]

To train in the defense of the City -- is that not my _duty_?

[Breathing hard, he goes quickly from the apartments. Finduilas half-rising to follow him, sits down again.]

 **Orodreth** :

Should you -- do you need to go talk to him?

[she shakes her head, definitely]

 **Finduilas** :

It wouldn't do any good right now. It's better just to ignore it and let him work it through. You know how moody and impulsive he is sometimes.

[Orodreth nods]

Is it really that bad? Surely we'd have noticed, wouldn't we, if things were really so disorganized? _I_ never encountered any sign of anything like that . . .

[she sounds a bit incredulous, a defensive response.]

 **Orodreth** :

And what did you do if you couldn't find something, some needful bit of information or necessary item?

 **Finduilas** : [shrugs, not seeing where this is going]

I asked Gwin if he'd seen it.

 **Orodreth** :

And if he hadn't?

 **Finduilas** :

Then we asked around.

 **Orodreth** :

And if no one knew where it was?

 **Finduilas** :

We--

[her voice goes very quiet]

\--We asked Edrahil.

 **Orodreth** : [nods]

That is, evidently, what we all did. It's an excellent system, going directly to someone who knows precisely what it is you need and where to find it, instead of wasting time trying to sort through far more information than you need or know how relates or have time to study. Unfortunately -- it's predicated on being able to ask that person, and when that is not possible then the system simply does not exist. Which is why I am endeavoring to reconstruct it from such small and contradictory fragments of information as I have been able to lay hands on.

 **Finduilas** :

But -- wasn't anything written down?

 **Orodreth** : [shaking his head, gestures sweepingly around the room]

Oh, lots! That's the other half of the problem. Look at all of it, only the visible portion of the floe, and think about what could be buried inside. There's a surfeit of information there, and I can only assimilate so much of it, so quickly. And I keep discovering things that -- had I known earlier -- might have caused me to decide other than I have done. For example --

[he picks up a large notebook with a well-worn tooled leather cover and lots of small pieces of parchment attached to the pages inside]

I didn't realize, until I found _this_ , that Finrod kept condensed notes on every single conversation relating to the governing of the state, no matter how minor an issue it might seem. This is a great help -- or would be -- if it wasn't in chronological order. So my only option has been to begin at the most recent date and work through backwards, trying to make all the connections myself, since I don't know when anything that might prove helpful happened.

[points across to the half-unpacked chests and shelving]

\--There are many, many more volumes like this.

[shaking his head]

Some of them have _yet other_ manuscripts bound into them. Fortunately, some of the entries have a sort of indexing, a note referring back to previous relevant conversations and the dates, so I've not been working at totally blind random. But I might as well.

[he opens to a bookmarked folio]

You might remember that I put Lord Telemnar in charge of the Borders, thinking that as he was originally of the High King's following, and distant kin to Fingon's mother's family, that would avoid any of the problems involved in choosing someone from either our side or theirs.

 **Finduilas** : [nodding]

It made a good deal of sense . . .

 **Orodreth** : [wry]

Well. Only yesterday did I encounter this set of entries concerning the former Lieutenant, whose abilities did _not_ , apparently, reflect his age or seniority in terms of time-in-grade and signally failed to endear him with his superior. The pith of the discussion is summed up in the lines: "Recommended: Can we give him back? Suppose not. Oh well. Allow several more seasons to grow out of it; if he doesn't, shunt to Armory desk where arrogant nitpicking rulemindedness won't hurt anyone." The note appended to this is only two words: "Agree, sadly."

[flips back to a later folio]

Now, here, in another entry, I have the summary of a report concerning a lad from one of the local villages, saying "Recommended: Instead of fifth citation for above-and-beyond, why not promotion? Five past coincidence, indicates either extremely good or extremely lucky; in either case, valuable asset for commander. Interviewed: Everything said borne out, yet still uncertain of own authority and shy of contradicting superiors. Counter-recommendation: Allow a few more years getting used to idea of giving orders to elders, then give own command." If I had found that before I promoted Telemnar . . .

[pause]

. . . it still wouldn't have done any good.

 **Finduilas** : [whispering]

Because -- because he went _with_ them . . .

[Orodreth nods, tosses the notebook aside and leans back, sighing; she is still uncertain.]

But it doesn't seem possible that so few individuals could make such an enormous difference to a -- a whole Kingdom!

 **Orodreth** :

It doesn't seem so -- but like water, one takes such people for granted, until they're no longer present. The same few individuals who possessed the fortitude requisite to withstand the temptations of fear and sloth alike in adherence to their duty now prove -- not entirely surprisingly -- to have been the same who took upon themselves additional duties, and to set aside their own self-will and goals and recreations to see those duties through to completion. --And we who are left muddle along half-blindly, trying to recover from the ruinous darkness we have brought upon ourselves, but unwilling to dare the necessary fire--

 **Finduilas** :

That's almost what Luthien . . .

[trails off]

 **Orodreth** : [attentive]

What did she say?

 **Finduilas** :

She says there's a cloud over the City, but it's in Nargothrond instead of outside. She thinks it comes from living underground . . .

 **Orodreth** :

I'm not surprised she can feel it. But it doesn't come from the caves themselves. It began when we betrayed him.

 **Finduilas** :

Please -- _don't_ , father. It -- it wasn't like Alqualonde.

 **Orodreth** :

The fact that it was a bloodless coup doesn't make it any less of one, nor does the fact that we said nothing against it change the fact that -- we said _nothing_. Finding _no one_ at your back where you counted on reinforcements can be quite equally as bad as finding enemies. No, we chose not to fight, and with that we chose the consequences, Sight unseen.

 **Finduilas** :

But what would it have done? Except give the sons of Feanor control over us completely, and openly? That wouldn't have been _good_ , would it?

 **Orodreth** :

If I had stood beside him then -- _even I_ , who fled my post and left everything our brothers died to save for ruin -- if even such a coward as I could do that, -- who can tell who might have followed? -- what might have followed? I cannot.

 **Finduilas** : [strained]

You're not a _coward_ , father.

 **Orodreth** :

That day -- I was. And worse. --And so Lord Beren goes in my place, at my brother's side, and bears my duty and my fate, and I have fled to safety, once again, abandoning all. And I tell myself that it is better than the blood of Alqualonde on our floors and walls, and it may well be true, and is no comfort at all. And I tell myself that Finrod forgave me in that hour, seeing that I could do no else, and _know_ it is the truth, and that is worst--

 **Finduilas** :

But it was for the _greatest good_ \--

 **Orodreth** :

The greatest good? To send our foremost off undefended, the one of all of us who alone knows everything that there is to know about the Realm, about its defenses, its workings, of all the myriad connections between this kingdom and the other Noldor domains, the strengths and weaknesses of each of us, into danger, and as we now know, _captivity_?

 **Finduilas** :

I don't understand.

 **Orodreth** :

There is _nothing_ about Beleriand, about the War, even after the end of the Siege, that Finrod does not have critical information concerning the which, the Enemy could _never_ acquire elsewhere and singly. It is not just our safety alone that is at risk, however selfishly our first concerns may center there.

[silence]

 **Finduilas** :

But -- _why_ then haven't they thought of that? Why hasn't it occurred to Lord Curufin, at least?

[aside]

Or to _us_ . . .

 **Orodreth** : [shrugs]

I don't know if it's the madness of the Oath at work, or some residual sanity preventing them from so much self-deception.

 **Finduilas** :

\--Or Luthien's cloud?

[increasing agitation]

No one else seems to have realized it either. If -- he --

[she can't say it]

 **Orodreth** :

\--Breaks?

 **Finduilas** :

\--won't we be under attack -- _here_?

[her father shakes his head]

Why? Why not? What do you mean?

 **Orodreth** :

He _can't_. He doesn't know how. When he's losing -- he doesn't change the rules, he changes the _game_. Not like 'Tariel, going about it with brute force until whatever's in the way breaks or moves, willy-nilly --

[absolute certainty]

He won't betray us.

 **Finduilas** :

Do you think -- do you think he might escape . . . ?

 **Orodreth** :

I don't know. No one ever has. But if it were anyone--   [he breaks off]

 **Finduilas** : [frowning]

But . . .

 **Orodreth** : [guessing her train of thought. No, _of course_ I would not prevent them from returning, though I doubt that even the gods could say what would come as a result. But in any case -- I think -- he would almost certainly leave us to our own devices, to continue on the path we have chosen -- just as we were let before.

 **Finduilas** : [slowly]

This is what he said -- this is what he Saw -- to Aunt 'Tariel, isn't it?

 **Orodreth** :

I am afraid so. If Nargothrond is annexed by the House of Feanor, then what, indeed, remains of the realm he built?

 **Finduilas** : [shaking her head]

\--Is there any _way that_ things could have turned out differently?

[pause]

 **Orodreth** : [flat]

We should never have let the Feanorions into Nargothrond.

 **Finduilas** :

But -- we couldn't turn them away. He said that himself -- what else _could_ we have done?

 **Orodreth** :

It would have been better to give them Minas Tirith and let them hold that province.

 **Finduilas** :

But that was _yours_!

 **Orodreth** : [shrugging]

Perhaps they would have done better than I, perhaps not. --Certainly, no worse. But the idea of uniting their strength with ours was a foolish one -- the alloy not stronger at all but flawed and brittle, weakening all of us. Yet--

[opens his hands]

I would not make the suggestion, though it was but the rational decision, being too proud, too weak, to give up what I held, and Finrod could not suggest it where I would not, could not betray me nor belittle me before the world -- and thus -- thus left himself open to such betrayal in turn, relying on whom he must, trusting us to return that trust, and -- we have all _broken_ beneath that weight of responsibility, fallen, under that freedom, and now -- I think perhaps we are doomed to betray each other and ourselves, over and again, until not one of us has not forsaken the other--

 **Finduilas** : [distressed]

\-- _I_ shan't betray you, Father!

 **Orodreth** :

I'm sorry, child. I didn't mean that you would. I'm -- I'm just talking. Dark thoughts, night thoughts. It's always night here, truly; she's right about that. --As well.

[quietly]

Do you remember when you were young, and you'd say the stairs were too tall for you to climb going up to the house in Tirion?

[she nods, wary]

How you'd sit down and refuse to move, and Finrod would pick you up and put you on his shoulders and run you up them with you screeching like a peacock all the way, and then pretend he'd forgotten about you while you laughed the whole time that you were taller than we, to your mother and myself?

[Finduilas hides her face in her hands]

When I was as little as that, he'd carry me like that as well. And the rest of us too, before I was born, and my sister . . . We pestered him until any normal soul would have lost patience six times over, but he never got angry with us for invading his study or touching his things, and when we nagged him to show us how to make things he never grew tired of teaching, or impatient if any of us grew bored, and ran off. I'd . . . almost forgotten those days; what I didn't realize was . . . that he'd never _stopped_.

 **Finduilas** : [almost whispering]

If -- if we -- if the Ban is ever lifted, and we go back home -- what will you say to him?

 **Orodreth** : [not harsh, smiling a little]

You mean, " _If we die?_ "

[She does not answer, just looks at him. Calmly:]

The only thing possible -- the one thing I did _not_ say.

[Finduilas stares at him, not understanding]

\-- _Thank you_.

[Miserably his daughter flings herself at him, holding onto him for comfort as much as to give it; he holds her close but will not say anything to console her.]


	62. Act III: SCENE LXIV.i

Act III: SCENE LXIV.i (mute)

[Levels of Nargothrond between Luthien's rooms and the royal suite] 

[Huan slinks through the hallways, head and tail low but not dragging -- this is guilty-but-determined-dog mode. He keeps to the smaller corridors and byways, ducking through accidental passageways formed by the natural shapes of the rock when possible, skulking along out of sight of people occupied in conversation, music-making, dancing and various diverse arts.] 


	63. Act III: SCENE LXIV.ii

Act III: SCENE LXIV.ii (mute)

[The Armories of Nargothrond. Gwindor stalks through, grabbing a helm and shield from the racks as he goes by, people moving out of his way as they notice his expression. He does not take armor, only a hefty two-hand practice broadsword. He storms his way into the training areas, warriors vacating the area before him as if swept aside by the shock of a bow-wave. The training area itself is set up as a ravine near High Faroth, with deep rocky gorges rising on one side and the dense green of the forest all around and overhead.] 

[Celebrimbor is here, hacking at a far more realistic and active quintain than mortals have ever succeeded in making. As he dispatches the Orc-simulacrum, Gwindor taps him on the shoulder and dodges the automatic counterstroke. Panting, Celebrimbor gives him a questioning look. Gwindor raises his sword in salute, raising his eyebrows. Celebrimbor nods; they face each other and square off.] 

[The forest ravine blurs around them, to be replaced by a smouldering field under a red-clouded sky, its tumbled surface mercifully blackened into indistinguishable charcoal, in places lava-flows still slowly rolling and cracking open to reveal molten insides, mountains on two sides of them in the distance and a forest-fire on the slopes of one of them. On this brutal terrain the two Elven-lords go at each other mercilessly, taking and receiving punishment without effort to evade the blows.] 


	64. Act III: SCENE LXIV.iii

**Gower** : 

Pride goeth gaily, astride on charger tall,  
headlong rushing, recking of never a fall-- 

[In the royal apartments, the Sons of Feanor are bent over a workbench on which a dramatic lighting assembly constructed of angled and movable reflectors positionable so as to obviate cast-shadow problems has been placed. Curufin has been busy for some while, and is showing off the results of his work to his elder brother. 

**Celegorm** : [gesturing at the array of reflectors]

So you finally got that all figured out? 

**Curufin** : [nods]

I thought it was rather daftly overdone, but once you get the hang of it, it really makes a tremendous difference in terms of enhancing the levels of relief. 

**Celegorm** : 

Are the different colored waxes just to help distinguish the separate design elements, or are you going to work them in different colors of metal as well? 

**Curufin** : 

_Ye-es_. 

**Celegorm** : 

Ah. Gold for the flames, silver for the leaves. --Very apt. 

**Curufin** : [smiles]

Neat, eh? I thought so. 

**Celegorm** : 

I also approve the placement of the dual bands of flames around the inner single band of leaves. Very, ah, _symmetrical_. 

[Curufin grins sleekly -- they are in perfect understanding] 

Now, what do you think about . . . 

[as they discuss design possibilities, Huan creeps in behind them and pads silently across the chamber in the deep shadows cast by the glare of the reflector. The other hounds look up at him, and respectfully put their heads down or return to gnawing.] 

[Huan goes into the inner rooms and takes down the casket containing Luthien's cape in his jaws. He crushes it very slowly, but there is still some noise.] 

**Curufin** : 

What was that? 

[The hounds on the hearth wag their tails and one of them makes a loud toothscrape- grinding noise of the spine-chilling sort.] 

**Celegorm** : 

Just the dogs chewing. --Could you fit a sunburst in the middle of mine, do you think? Or would that be too much? 

[Huan lays down the shattered box from which CGI darkness is beginning to spill like ink in water, and paws it apart. As he stoops again to pick up the cloak, the light seems to dim slightly, as though twilight from outside were falling, though that is impossible. He pads out with it in his jaws, and as it trails past the other dogs lay their heads down and close their eyes, and the Sons of Feanor slide forward onto the worktable as though they'd been very tired for a very long time.] 


	65. Act III: SCENE LXIV.iv

Act III: SCENE LXIV.iv (mute)

[The hallways near the throne room and the great solar]

[Huan glides through again, a cloud of shadow and haze drifting around him from his muzzle. Darkness like twilight follows him, spreading out in a widening tide, and everyone it touches goes into a trance, caught in pleasant dreams and memories, oblivious of the Hound passing, whether they fall asleep actually or not. The twilight continues to pool slowly through the City and drift down its halls, carrying with it a faint sound of night breeze in leaves, running water, crickets, owls, & nightingales.]


	66. Act III: SCENE LXIV.v

Act III: SCENE LXIV.v (mute)

[Luthien's bedroom] 

[Huan enters, and the drifting cape fills the entire room with nightfall -- Luthien sits bolt upright, shocked awake by the change of atmosphere, looking around wild-eyed and dazed. For a moment she looks at the Hound and doesn't recognize him or understand. He drops the cloak on the floor next to her couch, and Luthien gasps. She springs to her feet and snatches it up, clenching it in her arms fiercely. Then she hugs Huan, tears running down her cheeks, and kneels before him, attentive.] 


	67. Act III: SCENE LXIV.vi

[The main corridors of Nargothrond] 

[The tide of Eveningspell flows down the stairs and ramps, spilling like water into lower levels of the city, even as it ascends like drifting smoke to the levels higher] 


	68. Act III: SCENE LXIV.vii

Act III: SCENE LXIV.vii (mute)

[Luthien's bedroom] 

[Luthien stands up very straight, her chest heaving, her eyes wild. With a sudden gesture she flings out the cloak in her arms, so that it carries wide all around her, and spins it back over her shoulders. Huan drops down couchant before her and she pounces onto his back rather like a kitten, and bares her teeth in a snarl-smile. He stands up and she pats his shoulder as though he were a horse needing reassurance. They go through the apartments at a careful walk -- when they reach the door Luthien leans over as though opening a gate from horseback and takes out the needle, tossing it behind her. Huan pushes the doors open and they walk through as though there were nothing to hold them back. The camera follows them past the ensorcelled hall-guards, who doze or gaze past them without noticing them at all.] 


	69. Act III: SCENE LXIV.viii

Act III: SCENE LXIV.viii (mute)

[In the Armories] 

[The Spell trickles down and pools over the flagstones past the ranks of weapons and barding and helms towards the training area.] 


	70. Act III: SCENE LXIV.ix

[The Gates of Nargothrond.] 

[Luthien and Huan pace softly through them onto the terrace, unseen by the entranced guards. Evening pours through the pillars of the threefold gate behind them to merge with the true nightfall outside. Huan halts for a moment, sniffing the wind, then looks back over his shoulder, anxious, and whines. Luthien bends over and whispers into ear, petting his neck and he turns back to the trail. He wags his tail once, as if in reassurance, and then springs forward at a run now that they are free of the power of the City. The darkness of the cape follows behind them, hiding his gray coat entirely from view in the moonlight.] 


	71. Act III: SCENE LXIV.x

Act III: SCENE LXIV.x (mute)

[The great solar, near the fountain] 

[The twilight-like shading of the ambient light evaporates, like diluted ink, as the Carillon unfolds and runs through its sequence unobserved.] 


	72. Act III: SCENE LXIV.xi

Act III: SCENE LXIV.xi (mute)

[The training area of the Armories] 

[Celebrimbor standing with blank eyes -- wakes up and looks at the sword in his hand, frowns.  Gwindor, also standing with his arm hanging by his side, starts and stares around, then looks up towards the ceiling, frowning at the direction. They exchange looks of dire alarm -- then turn and run through the armory as one hastening up the stairs to split off in different directions at the landing.] 


	73. Act III: SCENE LXIV.xii

Act III: SCENE LXIV.xii (mute)

[Sirion River Valley] 

[High angle -- full moon shining down a long stretch of the river northward. Silhouette of towers just to be seen on horizon between mountains and forest.] 


	74. Act III: SCENE LXIV.xiii

Act III: SCENE LXIV.xiii (mute)

[The royal apartments.] 

[Asleep on the worktable, Curufin stirs, lifts his head groggily and looks around blinking. Something is stuck to his face, and he fumbles it off -- the wax model for one of the wedding rings, crushed and melted by the heat of his skin. As he grimaces, a confusion in his expression that is on the verge of turning into worry, a pounding on the door causes the hounds on the hearth to waken, leap up and start barking. This makes Celegorm spring bolt upright, tipping his chair over sideways and causing him to, if not exactly trip, still collide with the table rather hard and involuntarily. Recovering, he rushes over and flings the doors  open -- revealing one of their Household, wearing a look of Doom, outside...] 


	75. Act III: SCENE LXV

**Gower** :

Shattered now, at the tolling of the hours,  
fadeth the sweet tranquility of Lorien   
cast upon the City's folk, the scent of flowers,  
the dreamlike peace and dreaming then--

[Luthien's apartments. The door stands open, the guards stand about in defensive clusters trying not to look at all responsible for anything. A few poke through the back rooms of the suite as though she might possibly be hiding somewhere, they just missed her somehow. Celebrimbor is sitting on the bench beneath the North-facing window that Luthien used to haunt. Disheveled and rather bloody in his combat togs, he looks at the hilt of his sword musingly, tracing out alternate designs for it with his fingers as he waits for the inevitable entrance of his family -- now happening.]

 **Curufin** : [white-hot rage]

\--What do you _mean_ , "The door was open and she was gone"? That just can't _be_ \--

[sees his son]

What are _you_ doing here? Is -- this your doing? If it is, so help me --

 **Celebrimbor** : [pleasantly]

\-- _Who_? I'd be interested in hearing who the patron of Kinslayers is, Father -- though I think I know already.

 **Celegorm** : [breaking in]

What happened? Where is she?

[His nephew laughs wildly and hilariously]

\--Dammit, _answer_ me, you little punk!

 **Celebrimbor** :

It seems -- that your nightingale has flown. The rooms were thus when I awoke downstairs at the pels.

 **Celegorm** :

She can't have gotten far -- get the horses saddled and we'll track her --

 **Celebrimbor** :

Do you really think you'll catch up now, Uncle? It's been more than a bell now.

 **Celegorm** :

What, is she going to _fly_? She's got no horse, you idiot.

 **Celebrimbor** :

\--Do you think she needs one?

[they look at him like he's insane]

Oh come now -- you don't see Huan about, either, do you?

 **Curufin** : [scornful]

He's a _Hound_ , not a horse, 'Brim.

 **Celebrimbor** :

\--Who happens to be as big as one, and faster than any courser we've owned. A horse would just slow them down, I expect.

[silence]

 **Celegorm** : [doubtful]

He wouldn't stoop to being _ridden_ . . . she wouldn't _dare_ , surely.

 **Celebrimbor** : [deadpan]

He's her friend and she loves him and trusts him with some justification. It's plainly inconceivable.

 **Curufin** :

\--Leave the room.

 **Celebrimbor** :

No, thanks, I think I'll stay here for the time being.

 **Curufin** :

Be careful of defying me, boy.

 **Celebrimbor** : [grimaces]

Unfortunately, I _am_ . . .

[enter Orodreth with entourage, foremost his daughter and her fiance, the latter standing protectively next to her, still carrying his sword as well.]

 **Orodreth** :

My lords. This is -- a _surprise_ , I gather?

[wary Looks all round the Feanorians]

So -- your Leaguer has been breached, I take it. --Once again, putting trust in the strength of pales without to hold within a determined and unmeasured force has proven to be -- ah, _inadvisable_. It seems The Beoring was right, after all, as to the repetitive nature of strategy and offense.

 **Celegorm** :

[inarticulate growling noise]

 **Orodreth** : [glancing around the room, as though sniffing the air]

 _Very_ impressive. Entirely constructive in its nature, too. What an amazing use of Healing principles to unblock barriers as well as to foil observation. And strangely self-maintaining, too, to linger so long afterwards -- What, didn't you know what her Working could do, my lords? You had it to _study_ long enough.

[pause]

What extraordinary _forbearance_ , as well. I really -- well, unfortunately I _can_ imagine only too well what my sister might inflict on those who had served her the same way. It would be . . . _memorable_. --Quite unforgettable, I should say.

[The Sons of Feanor stand shoulder to shoulder, scowling at the Regent's party, the rest of the people in the room standing between them in uncertain alignment except for Celebrimbor smiling mockingly at his folks from the sidelines, one hand on his updrawn knee, one on the hilt of his sword, where he leans back on the bench.]

 **Celegorm** :

Did you know she could do this?

 **Orodreth** :

No more than you.  

 **Curufin:** [turning on the rhetoric]

You're remarkably _blasé_ about all this, cousin. Has it not occurred to you that the Lady Luthien is presently hastening to destruction, alone and helpless, while we stand here deliberating technicalities of Art?

 **Orodreth** :

Hardly helpless, by the look of it, nor -- where _is_ Huan, by the by? -- I should guess _alone_. She can hardly do any worse than has been done so far.

 **Curufin** : [icy]

You may think this but touches our Household -- but I would remind you, _Lord_    _Steward of Nargothrond_ , that she -- they -- must go with certain knowledge of this City's location and the ways back to it, which now must all be trebly obscured and guarded, and still the jeopardy will not be entirely removed!

[The Prince Regent only stares at him, arms folded, with a slight, one-sided smile]

 **Orodreth** :

It is, as the mortal saying has it, _far late in the day_ to be thinking of that.

[pause]

What will come, will come. What has already happened, has happened. Nothing of your will, nor of mine, can change either in the slightest. All we can do is _wait_ , and be ready. --My lords.

[In the middle of another angry glare Celegorm's eyes suddenly widen -- he has remembered something else.]

 **Celegorm** : [aside to Curufin]

\--The letter!

 **Curufin** :

. . .

[Shocked realization followed by mutual dismay]

 **Curufin** : [recovering, sneering]

Well, my lord Steward, such passivity is only to be _expected_ of you. My brother and I, however, are not content with that, and we at least will set ourselves to   &bbsp  such countermeasures, defenses, and contingency plans as our combined wits and the resources of our House can concoct. I trust you'll not _object_ , seeing as our end is the good of the City?

[The Regent shakes his head, smiling faintly]

Are you coming with us, son?

[Celebrimbor shakes his head.]

\-- _Stay_ with these losers, then -- but don't expect me to take you back without a full apology. I promise you, you'll soon think better of your _stupidity_!

[turns to go, barely under control. Aside:]

\--I'm going to _kill_ her, I swear--

[Stalks out, followed by Celegorm. Some of the guards follow them, some start to,  then stop guiltily, others look at each other, the Regent and his assistants, the floor. As Finduilas takes hold of his hand, Orodreth looks anxious, afraid to hope, yet unable to help it.]

 **Gower** :

 --Now for the nonce, for little while   
Nargothrond yet remains in habits false-secure,   
choosing to refuse the fearful intimations that rile   
the surface of the current, Time's stream a lure   
illusory, that seemeth ever same and changeless,   
and yet is ever  _other_ , ever changes, ever bears   
burdens small and great within its mirrored dress;   
But the Doom,  _their_  Doom, is already loosed   
and sweepeth down within the sky-reflecting flood   
like to a baulk of timber to shatter the unwary used   
to calms, driven 'gainst water-gates on tide of blood,   
it comes, and all effort to stave off shall  _turn_    
but to a hastening--   
Of this unknowing, too, but too well aware   
of fate general and dark, for her heart doth spurn   
its confines like rush of wings, the Nightingale no more   
on Narog's selfish shores doth bide -- freed   
of her soft confines by love unmarred of greed,   
Northward she hurtles like a driving storm to fare,   
horseless and needless, fleet Huan her faithful steed,   
swift as swans' flight or the forces of the air   
launched from steam-catapult in the van of war.   
    For  _herself_  no thought of harm, no terror,   
no more than long-doomed Huan ever of the fate   
anciently set upon him, that "wolf more great   
than ever walked the world" shall be the bearer   
of his destruction, nor the King her kin,   
whose words self-spoken centuries past   
work to their full completing now at last--   
    Tinuviel upon the trail doth fly: behind the din,   
the hue-and-cry, mattering naught beside the path   
she follows to its dread sentinel of stone, more dark   
in cruelty and power than twisted shade of Delduath.   
\--Like unto fire-arrow loosed against its mark,   
\--like the fast falcon falling in fell dive,   
\--like to a star that shoots across the vale,   
her soul and self she sets complete to strive   
'gainst Morgoth's haughty servant, though mail   
nor bow nor sword nor helm hath she,   
nor aught of gear of war, or the grim travail   
in years of Leaguer to learn their ways -- only free   
the given heart to raise in challenge high,   
her sword her song, her shield of main-wrought dreams.   
    Pitiful to wield, and her only choice to go, it seems   
from prison to prison, and there as thrall to live, or die   
even as her love, far from the fair woodlands where they met.   
      --Forward her face like adamant is set   
and  _backwards_  looks she never--


	76. ACT III index: TINUVIEL AT BAY: A CACCIA OF BELERIAND

A _caccia_ is a hunting song, related to the modern words "catch" in both senses, the verb and the song, and so appropriate in multiple ways — first there is the story's theme of following, followed by the trapping and holding of the heroine, and second the medieval (perhaps older) use of "the hunt" as a metaphor for pursuit in love — and hence thirdly as a play on the Lays of Beleriand. "At bay" of course refers to a game animal held encircled by the hounds which summon the huntsmen to finish the job, and by extension refers to anyone forced to a confrontation largely one-sided.

 

 

(I almost feel like I'm cheating, in writing this act — essentially I'm just riffing straight off the Lay of Leithian fragments, whence come such insights as Luthien's altered time-sensibilities and lots of illuminating dialogue…)

As Act II had several purposes and points of focus, Beren's character, the Oath and the Silmarils, the unfolding of the War against Morgoth, and the relationship between the Noldor and the Edain, so too Act III. It is Luthien's turn, and part of that is the exploration of the Return of the Noldor as it affected those born in Middle-earth: instead of contrasting the situations of Elf and Man, I attempt to contrast the differences between the native and emigree Elven cultures.

In both acts, as throughout The Script, I also endeavor to make clear the connections with Third Age events and persons. Any such apparent references to _LOTR_ are, in fact, intentional, just as before.

 

 

There are two ways of considering the character of Lúthien — I'm tempted to be flippant and say: one is to read the texts, the other isn't — but that isn't terribly helpful, so I'll try to clarify. The first, and to my mind oddly) most common way I've encountered is to assume that she is no different from the "traditional" fairy tale princess (who is in fact not traditional at all) coming to us courtesy of Disney and Co., ignorant, naive, and just waiting for some chap to say "Let me show you the world", so to speak.

The other way, which may seem a bit simplistic (at first at least) is to assume that when Aragorn calls his many-times great-grandmother "wise" in his ballad, he's merely speaking plain truth. After all, he's met at least two people who knew her personally and had ample opportunity to converse with them — the Lady and Lord of the Golden Wood, as well as who knows how many remain of Doriath's refugees in their company.

You can assume that someone older than most of the Returnees, growing up in not only one of the great cultural centers of Middle-earth, but _the_ cultural center for most of that time, as much a crossroads and confluence of different ethnic groups as Rome, and under continual siege for, again, most of that time, is completely oblivious to the harsher realities of life (despite being both a trained healer and a trained mage in an embattled capital) and incapable of making rational decisions — but I'm not sure why anyone would.

So — what does one discover when one looks at the relevant texts? And further, into the archives and chronicles of Middle-earth? The answer is, surprisingly perhaps, someone rather scary. Not because of her intrinsic, inherited power — but because of her uncompromising principles and force of will (which long predate the self-discovery of her abilities as the most powerful telepath ever to walk Middle-earth — and that includes Melian), and the fact that she doesn't just do things randomly and without forethought. So that when she _does_ make a decision, you have a better chance of turning aside a tidal wave than stopping Tinúviel. The only thing more intimidating than a wild-eyed idealist is — a cool-headed, logical, dispassionate idealist, wouldn't you say? And when that icy rationalism is combined _with_ passion, the result is absolutely terrifying.

Everything in here derives either from a comprehensive reading of the _Silmarillion_ , and a consideration of the connections and implications, or from the Lay of Leithian fragments. Relevant quotes will of course be supplied along the way. (Occasionally I have also had recourse to the oldest form of the story, the "Tale of Tinuviel" from _The Book of Lost Tales_ , vol. I, for insights and images, when helpful.)

Again I have made the usage of dialogue reflect background, to some extent, and Luthien speaks with a less formal idiom to reflect the changing and much-influenced Sindarin culture of Doriath as opposed to the more static, and archaic society of the Returnees from Aman. [Ardalambion](http://www.uib.no/people/hnohf/) has an amusing essay on how language becomes simpler and faster when you're fighting Orcs and all…

Luthien's appearance comes straight from the Lay of Leithian fragment 1, as do the rest of the quotes in this act unless otherwise noted:

 _"Far from her home, forwandered, pale,_  
_she flitted ghostlike through the vale;_  
_ever her heart bade her up and on,_  
_but her limbs were worn, her eyes were wan…_

 _down she let slip her shadowy cloak,_  
_and there she stood in silver and white._  
_Her starry jewels twinkled bright_  
_in the risen sun like morning dew;_  
_the lilies gold on mantle blue_  
_gleamed and glistened…"_

This is clearly the same overgarment she wore the previous winter when Beren saw her dancing in the ice, compared in LL1 to the Northern Lights overhead:

 _"Her mantle blue with jewels white_  
_caught all the rays of frosted light._  
_She shone with cold and wintry flame…_ "

For her ragged and barefoot state further textual evidence is found in Canto X, where she is described as

"worn, unshod, roofless and restless."

[Ronia, the Robber's Daughter](http://www.google.com/) is an excellent, bittersweet YA novel by [Astrid Lindgren,](http://www.google.com/) more famous for her creation of another spunky heroine; [Trina Schart Hyman's](http://www.google.com/) cover [illustration](http://www.hyman.pagebooks.net/hyman_ronia,_the_robber%27s_daughter,.jpg) for it is perfect, as are all of her illustrations; she was a great influence on my visual imagination from my adolescence.

 

Scene I

 

 _"In Nargothrond the torches flared_  
_and feast and music were prepared._  
_Luthien feasted not but wept._  
_Her ways were trammelled; closely kept_  
_she might not fly. Her magic cloak_  
_was hidden, nor did answer find_  
_her eager questions. Out of mind,_  
_it seemed, were those afar that pined_  
_in anguish and in dungeons blind_  
_in prison and in misery._  
_Too late she knew their treachery._  
_It was not hid in Nargothrond_  
_that Feanor's sons held her in bond_  
_who Beren heeded not, and who_  
_had little cause to wrest from Thu_  
_the king they loved not and whose quest_  
_old vows of hatred in their breast_  
_had roused from sleep. Orodreth knew_  
_the purpose dark they would pursue:_  
_King Felagund to leave to die,_  
_and with King Thingol's blood ally_  
_the house of Feanor by force_  
_or treaty. But to stay their course_  
_he had no power, for all his folk_  
_the brothers had yet beneath their yoke,_  
_and all yet listened to their word._  
_Orodreth's counsel no man heard;_  
_their shame they crushed, and would not heed_  
_the tale of Felagund's dire need."_

Taking this as my theme and inspiration for the understanding of Lúthien's own sojourn in Nargothrond, I've built on the very gothic themes of this canto to make a dark mystery story of the unfolding revelations of the situation, past and present. I don't think I'm going out unwarrantedly, though, in this — it isn't specified how long it took for that which "was not hid" to become completely clear, and the indication that Nargothrond is in severe denial creates for me an atmosphere of extreme surreality in which the one sane person appears, inevitably, _mad_.

I've used, and will use throughout, ballads mostly from the Anglo-Appalachian tradition to represent the songs of Dorthonion — partly because they have so many apt quotations and applications, partly because I know them best, having grown up hearing them, and partly because they fit, for me, with the "hick" aspect of Dorthonion, Beren's remote back-country accent which so annoyed and horrified Elu Thingol, which I had deduced before I actually discovered that in HOME there's a reference to that fact. That Lúthien has not sung until it becomes necessary to her escape, combined with the ideological decision to learn the Bëorings' ancient language as a rejection of her own family's rejection of them, is my motivation for having her employ the folksongs of the Edain, common across Hithlum as well as Dorthonion, which would be in the then-Common Tongue of Sindarin as spoken in the North.

 

Scene II

 _Curufin spake: 'Good brother mine,_  
_I like it not. What dark design_  
_doth this portend? These evil things,_  
_we swift must end their wanderings!_  
_And more, 'twould please my heart full well_  
_to hunt a while and wolves to fell.'_  
_And then he leaned and whispered low_  
_that Orodreth was a dullard slow;_  
_long time it was since the king had gone,_  
_and rumour or tidings came there none._  
_'At least thy profit it would be_  
_to know whether dead he is or free;_  
_to gather thy men and thy array._  
_"I go to hunt" then thou wilt say,_  
_and men will think that Narog's good_  
_ever thou heedest. But in the wood_  
_things may be learned; and if by grace,_  
_by some blind fortune he retrace_  
_his footsteps mad, and if he bear_  
_a Silmaril -- I need declare_  
_no more in words; but one by right_  
_is thine (and ours), the jewel of light;_  
_another may be won -- a throne._  
_The eldest blood our house doth own.'_

It's clear that they do care for popular opinion, and that equally, they care nothing for the truth…or murder.

As far as Orodreth's characterization, that too derives from the _Lay_ fragments as much as from consideration of the entire history of House Finarfin as told in the _Silmarillion_ , but the source texts must wait upon the proper time for their presentation.

 

Scene III

 

Yes, the Sons of Fëanor did in Canonical fact pretend to be merely "Lords of Nargothrond" as well as acting like it was all news to them, that they'd never heard the name Beren before; qv. _LL1,_ Canto VIII. (In other words, Lúthien isn't a fool, she didn't _not_ _know_ that they were hereditary enemies of her House and prattle away to them cluelessly. She just didn't recognize them as the Sons of Fëanor — not like there are tabloids and publicity shots in Middle-earth, after all.) It's my assumption that they would have used the less-familiar mother names of Aman naming convention, and have constructed for them the Sindarin forms used here.

 _"O lady fair, wherefore in toil_  
_and lonely journey dost thou go?_  
_What tidings dread of war and woe_  
_In Doriath have betid? Come tell!_  
_For fortune thee hath guided well;_  
_friends thou hast found,' said Celegorm,_  
_and gazed upon her elvish form._  
  
_In his heart him thought her tale unsaid_  
_he knew in part, but nought she read_  
_of guile upon his smiling face._  
_'Who are ye then, the lordly chase_  
_that follow in this perilous wood?'_  
_she asked; and answer seeming-good_  
_they gave. 'Thy servants, lady sweet,_  
_lords of Nargothrond thee greet,…"_

 _"..........…Sign nor word_  
_the brothers gave that aught they heard_  
_that touched them near…"_

Scene IV

 

This scene, of the seduction of Finduilas to the aid of Curufin's plotting, has a dual purpose: to illustrate Curufin's skilll with words and half-truths, how the Sons of Feanor hold sway without need for violence, as per LL1,

 _"…for all his folk_  
_the brothers had yet beneath their yoke,_  
_and all yet listened to their word,"_

and to set the stage for the upcoming scenes between Luthien and Finduilas.

I have tried not to be too unfair to Finduilas throughout — though we know that she will abandon Gwindor for Turin, she is more than a stock "fickle woman" in the originals, and so I have, while using her as a foil for Luthien, tried to draw her as someone not particularly recollected, very conventional without understanding or caring for the philosophical principles behind the conventions, and much attached (as are many of the Returnees who suffered through the Helcaraxë, q.v. Gondolin, not only poor Salgant) to comforts and "the good life," though not as the Socratics understood it. She holds positions and views like wax — that is to say, in perfect detail until replaced by another, stronger impression, hard yet brittle until softened for a new stamp. —She is, sadly, a composite of many real characters I have known in my life.

 

Scene V.i

 

Of Huan's crisis of conscience in LL1:

_Ahead leaped Huan day and night,_   
_and ever looking back his though_   
_twas troubled. What his master sought,_   
_and why he rode not like the fire,_   
_why Curufin looked with hot desire_   
_on Luthien, he pondered deep,_   
_and felt some evil shadow creep_   
_of ancient curse o'er Elvenesse._   
_His heart was torn for the distress_   
_of Beren bold, and Luthien dear,_   
_and Felagund who knew no fear…_

 

Scene V.ii

 

It's interesting — to me at least — how Beren's gifts and abilities so closely mirror Celegorm's. Oromë, after all, is the Lord of the Hunt, the Vala most fiercely devoted, historically, to hunting Morgoth's fell creatures and minions, and the one who taught Celegorm the language of beasts as well as giving Huan to him. Beren, however, not only hasn't had it quite so easy — I would say that besides coming by his gifts the harder way, he's also been doing Oromë's work far more seriously for longer instead of the rather dilettantish way Celegorm's been going about the work of monster-slaying. —Even before any other ethical challenges presented themselves. (And yes, I do include House Feanor's performance in the Leaguer in that description.)

For this reason (as well as reasons of style, character distinction, and humour) I've given Celegorm the idiom of the "huntin', shootin', fishin' " aristocrat of British literary tradition, the sort of chap who in Jane Austen's delightful parodies of popular romance is willing to break off his engagement when he discovers that the day set for the wedding is also the first day of "the Season"—!

 

 

As I cannot come up with a single instance of a Teler or Sindar historical figure who uses the Noldor conventions of mother- and father-names, but only a single personal name and an _epesse_ , or aftername — and in some instances only aftername seems to be employed — it's my conjecture that the use of two personal names in childhood is a convention developed in Valinor. This may be a mistaken impression, but I haven't found any notes to contradict it. Luthien's comment on the rationale is, of course, sheerest speculation on my part.

 

Scene VI

 

This should have been easy, since I'm only reworking LL1, cantos III-V in the first person, essentially, combined with the putting of the worst possible construction on the events of those cantos, to reconstruct the sorts of messy, unpleasant and endless conversations we are told that Lúthien had with her family before they gave up on her and took the avoidant route. It actually turned out to be rather brutal to write, because it is so easy to put the worst possible construction on their romance, and so the challenge was to write something emotionally trying to the characters without being too unpleasant on the reader. Hopefully I've succeeded at it, and so far the responses have been positive, so I'm pretty satisfied with this part now.

 

 

Orc-raids targetted at Lúthien: this is true — q.v. Canto VII — though I'm assuming for the sake of the story that this has been de-emphasized for well-meant reasons, until such time as it might be useful in turning her to the path of prudence and away from the insanity, as her family sees it, of planning to go looking for Beren on her own. In fact, it's a critical plot point, and one of several ways in which the Lay of Leithian manages to weave archetypal myth and folklore elements in with the most unromanticized, unromantic of war/espionage tropes in a merge that still continues to amaze me. The fact of information lacks, lags, and gaps on both sides leading to confusion and catastrophe is something all too familiar to those familiar with the real military, and not Hollywood's rendering of it — that is after all why it's called "Normal" as well as having an acronym…

 

 

In the oldest rescension, the musician Daeron [also spelled Dairon] is her older brother. In HOME he has become the renowned polymath genius of Middle-earth, whose invention of the _cirth_ (runes) and association with Elu Thingol goes back to at least the time of Lúthien's birth. Hence I see it as rather a _Little Dorritt_ situation — except that unlike Little Dorritt, Lúthien wasn't drooping about hoping he'd finally, eventually, someday notice that she was All Grown Up and waiting there for him to realize it. She has a life, and the last thing she's waiting for is someone to come take care of her. Snow White she isn't, nor Dierdre of the Sorrows (though there are closer parallels to Dierdre than to Snow White in her story, by far.)

This does a very good job of explaining Daeron's bizarre behavior — because there is no way that Daeron can be considered anything but neurotic, as I have Luthien point out. If all this past millenium and almost-a-half he's seen her as "little" Lúthien — and this is not only plausible, but common, not simply to older friends, but to parents as well, the inability to recognize that children do grow up and don't stay three-year-olds — then to suddenly realize that she is indeed an adult, not merely intellectually but having it inescapably presented to him, is going to be jarring, to say the least. And in that jarring, he too gets his "first sight" of her — which doesn't happen until he sees her, as it were, through Beren's eyes.

Because the people who have grown up with her, all her life, don't _see_ her until circumstances are drastically changed. (This includes her parents, most definitely.) They are incapable of perceiving her true strength and potential power, because they take her for granted as their little girl. (There is also the complicated, and oft-missed, fact that in the Arda Mythos, "beauty" is among other things a metaphor for moral strength, the reasons for which are made rather clear in the essay "On Fairy-tales." This is not of course sufficient and complete: the ways in which this is used and abused within the histories provide ample warrant for the Canonical necessity of trusting one's _feelings_ as well…But this is a topic probably outside the scope of these Notes.)

So add to Daeron's cognitive dissonance not only the fact that now he realizes that Lúthien is an adult, is not a child, and is not only old enough to fall in love, and has done so, but that she is desirable as an adult, and desired — and that he didn't notice at all, and _does_ now, and at the same time has the image of her as child and practically younger relative, and you have the combination calculated to send even the most intellectual and rationally-governed of Elves (or Men) round the bend. Mix of shame/embarrassment over feeling that these feelings have to be inappropriate, self-reproach over lost opportunity, conviction that "Hey! I should have dibs! I've known her longer!" and back to the inappropriateness and forfeited opportunites, plus the automatic older-relative-protective mode, and realization that _that_ isn't appropriate for him, her being a competent adult, either—

—Way easier just to blame the interloper for it all. (Which I suppose is better than blaming Lúthien, but not much more rational.)

Further warrant for this interpretation is found in LL1 in the fact that the issue at court is that Beren is a stranger in Doriath (not supposed to happen) and worse yet, of a class entirely forbidden (this was always the case, even in the oldest version of the story, where instead of being Mortal he was a Noldor lord displaced in the War and the grievance against him was the hereditary association with the Kinslaying) and the fact of Daeron's subsequent shame:  there's no self-righteousness after he gets caught, he's morbidly guilty right from the start, even though he keeps hoping throughout the Throne Room Scene (guiltily) that Beren will be executed. Doesn't stop him from doing it again, out of (ahem) the best of motives — or from being ashamed yet again — the old saying about the path paved with good intentions seems to be illustrated here in hellish detail.

 

 

"a tender goddess" — homage to P.G. Wodehouse, of course. The favorite descriptive phrase of Bingo Little, known for sudden, frequent, complicated and embarrassing crushes that entangle all his acquaintances as well.

 

 

By Middle-earth standards, Lúthien is a fully-qualified paramedic, with ample opportunities for honing her skills. Things were pretty messy in Beleriand for quite some time before the Return, _(Silm.,_ "Of the Sindar") and in LL1 it's stated that being able to do this is just one of the ordinary domestic skills of an Elven-lady of Doriath — not unlike that of a medieval Lady, who also couldn't simply dial the ambulance service. Lúthien has advantages of inherited power as well as incentive, but this should give pause to those who would dismiss either her _or_ all Wood-elf maidens as dainty and decorative, but no more. Unless _you're_ up to (as I've remarked elsewhere in another venue) crawling out of the wreck of a kidnapping attempt to negotiate a truce with the hostage takers, and when the truce breaks down, shrugging off attempted murder to deal with one's partner's downing and performing field surgery to remove large-caliber ammunition in a wilderness situation. I've never had to do anything like it, _stitches_ make me personally a bit ill and though I'd certainly do my best if I had to, just the thought of trying to get a broad-head arrow out of someone makes me go green. (I'd be a bit better at using the Angcrist as a machete to make a shelter, and I sort of know how to start a fire with flint and steel and build it so it doesn't smother out. But I wouldn't want to depend on my survival skills if I didn't have to, either.)

 

 

 _blackbirds_ : in Britain, the equivalent of the American mockingbird — though the one that sang outside my window mornings in the brief time I sojourned in London had a song so clearly melodic in the Ionian mode that it was several days before I was sure it was a bird, not the postman whistling. Instantly, when I realized its source was the grackle-sized bird in the tree out front, I realized that all the poems that talk about blackbirds were not in the slightest exaggeration. If I were a composer I would set that melody into a composition — I can whistle it to this day; Dvorzak might have used it in another morning-song.

 

 

The LL1 story from Canto III about Melian's hair vs. the _Silm._ story… the two don't necessarily rule each other out — life, and the self-edited versions of it we tell ourselves, and our friends and relatives, are often rather complicated. How relevant is the story of Melian and Thingol to the story of Lúthien and Beren? Is this something I'm constructing that isn't meant to be read this way? Well, several cantos of the Lay begin with historical references to something else in the Arda Mythos. We have, in addition, the Oath of Fëanor, Maedhros on Thangorodrim, the Siege of Angband, the Dagor Bragollach (including Fingolfin's Ride and the Fen of Serech), the Valar Oromë, and would have had Morgoth's theft of the Silmarils had the Lay been completed. Every single other invocation has a direct bearing on the subsequent events which immediately follow as well as on the backstory and conditions surrounding the action as a whole. So, no, I'm not stringing together fancies here unintended by Tolkien.

 

 

" _Swarn_ " is a real Green-elven [Nandor] word, thanks again to Ardalambion [http://www.uib.no/people/hnohf/], and it does mean obdurate, intransigent, and just plain mule-stubborn, without any connotations of darkness or evil involved; probably pronounced with a hint of a "ch" in the initial consonant cluster as it descends from the primitive form _squarno_. It's my guess that the Laiquendi would have applied it to the Returnees. (With a word like that just given away, how could I pass it up? I've been waiting for a chance to use it for a long time.)

 

 

Thanks to loyal beta NovusSibyl for the line "he just wanted to be sure" which came up in a plot-mulling session, (and who is also responsible for the much-lauded casting of James Marsters as the Brothers Fëanorion.)

 

Scene VII

 

horn-mad: crazy as a mad bull, used in [The Comedy of Errors,](http://books.google.com/books?id=Ux0uD9EpS6AC&ots=mfPjn3uE7_&dq=THE%20COMEDY%20OF%20ERRORS&pg=PR3) where Adriana of the much-tried patience mistakes it for an accusation of retributory infidelity against her Antipholus by the unfortunate Dromio of Ephesus.

 

 

This is my hubristic effort at recreating in part a letter Canonically known to have been so awful that it not only incited the mobilization of Doriath, but actually made Lúthien's father think somewhat (note, only _somewhat_ ) better of Beren, as in — _All_ of the Sons of Feanor for sons in-law (however many of them are actually still alive at this point) is definitely _worse_. They really have no clue what they almost bring upon themselves. ( _There's_ an AU that boggles the mind.)

 

 

Curufin's empire-building ambitions, the Canonical motive of consolidating all Elven-realms under one House Feanor rule before going after the Silmarils, combined with his rising paranoia and the willingness to destroy anyone who thwarts him, bear to my mind suspicious resemblence to Someone Else's behavior in Arda…This is how I reconcile the earlier version, written before it was established that Curufin was Celebrimbor's father, with the latter, where it says that Curufin looked "with hot desire" on Lúthien as well, which although it could make for an interesting dramatic rivalry/rift between the brothers, doesn't work that way in either the older or the latter Canon, so alas I can't warrant doing it — thus Celegorm desires Lúthien for her beauty and attractiveness, Curufin as a political pawn and key to power. Neither one of them sees her as a person in her own right, and both of them have incredible self-esteem issues tied up in getting what they want. Achilles has nothing on the Sons of Fëanor.

 

 

 _go critical_ : this is not really an anachronism, despite appearances; in foundry-casting of elaborate sculptures with many deep undercuts and small extensions, it's necessary to force the metal to sort of explode out into the farthest reaches of the mold, so that you don't have to make patches and weld them on, which is less stable. The famous Renaissance artist Benvenuto Cellino in his _Autobiography_ describes getting up from having the 'flu to supervise the casting of the giant Perseus with the Gorgon's Head, and having to sacrifice all his silverware to push the molten alloy to the critical point where it would boil over and fill the entire mold, except for a small part on one of the feet, which he'd already expected he'd have to fix. (This is, by the way, the same statue that features so prominently in Lois McMaster Bujold's excellent Renaissance Italian fantasy _The Spirit Ring.)_

 

Scene VIII

 

Gower is, of course, referring to Banquo's appearance in [Macbeth](http://books.google.com/books?id=8z8OAAAAIAAJ&dq=macbeth&pg=PR1).

 

 

As with most things, I don't see Celebrimbor's subsequent rebellion against his House and deliberate alignment with Orodreth related in _Silm_. as coming out of the blue — events, like cars, don't just "come out of nowhere." Hence I have chosen to illustrate his conflicted struggling between moral duty and the easier way of doing nothing. (There are — of course — ulterior motives of story and reference as well, which shall become clearer in subsequent exchanges.)

 

 

The story of the heraldic device of Finarfin is my own devising, but the notion of apotropaic serpents (er, sorry, that is to say, protective & beneficial — too many archeology books at an impressionable age) is both Egyptian and Indo-European, and elegant metalwork snakes, both jewelry and freestanding sculptures, can be found in Graeco-Roman art, as well as the royal emblems of the pharaonic tradition. (Serpents are also associated with the oracular in both traditions.) And wreaths of flowers, worn by the lords and ladies of the ancient world, may be seen in murals of festivals from Amarna and elsewhere. The explicit connection of the implicit relationship between ancient High-Elven (and later, Numenorean) cultures and Egyptian/Near Eastern civilizations is found in _Letters,_ bearing out the subtler indications given in _ROTK_ and _Silmarillion_. I don't know that this is the association behind the emblem, of course, but since it's nowhere explained, and very mysterious, I thought I'd venture a history for the enigma.

As far as how, in Primary World history, real heraldic devices came to be chosen — many are much odder than this. Puns abound (William of [Islip,](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Islip,_Oxfordshire) whose escutcheon bore an eyeball and a shouting man falling out of a tree, "eye" + "slip" = "I slip!") along with instances of people taking insults and turning them to their own interpretation, as well as the more common adoptions of mythic or conventional symbology — but how in the days before myth and symbol had become tradition? One historical instance of a totemic animal being chosen after witnessing an incident which was taken as oracular exists in the story of the pioneering settlers of Tenochtitlan, presently known as Mexico City: the emblem of the hawk battling the snake which has endured for millenia.

 

 

 _subtlety_ : an elaborate dessert, often representing something else (like a gingerbread castle or marzipan fruit.)

 

Scene IX

 

"poison": a reference to _Hamlet._ More than one kind can be administered by ear — this was, after all, Morgoth's favorite ploy, to start rumours, make insinuations, raise doubts, and then let them grow and run wild on their own. After all, one can always find evidence for one's suspicions…

 

 

More illustration of the mess that has to have been made of Nargothrond's social structure — and a reminder that there were significant fault lines underlying long before Beren's arrival, owing to the presence of a huge contingent of Feanorian partisans arriving in the wake of the Dagor Bragollach…and the shock to morale and society of the battle itself, which would have been the largest single loss of life since the Return, quite apart from it ending in defeat and a barest stalemate/retrenchment scenario.

 

 

I don't _know_ what art form Finduilas would have favored — blown and worked glass is my own assignment — but it's important to remember that all Elves were artists, that centuries of life allow for even more exploration of talents than we can achieve (and some of us manage to cover a wide range, though few reach the level of a da Vinci) and so the popular idea of the idle, untalented and utterly boring lady of high degree is no more accurate for Middle-earth than it is for our earth's Middle Ages. And the symbolism seemed apt as well…

(As a side note, I highly recommend that everyone read the works of [Frances and Joseph Gies,](http://www.google.com/) historians who make medieval Europe come to life with authentic quotes from firsthand sources and often darkly-hilarous details. Life in a Medieval City, for example, brings us the image of an angry Abbess leading her retainers in a local war against papal demolition crews, while Life in a Medieval Village provides coroners' reports to demonstrate why Alcohol and Crossbows Don't Mix.)

 

Scene X

 

 _tafl_ , or "table", also known as "king's table" and "king-stone" ( _cyningstan_ ) after the key piece, is the Scandinavian board game similar to chess, but offering an interesting challenge. The form of it I have used here is the Finnish version called " _tablut_ ," which uses an 8 - 16 ratio instead of the more common 12-24, and thus allows for such a use as I have made of the common gameboard setup. The source for the rules and layout of the game I found here, with citations from early texts and archeological references [http://www.vikinganswerlady.org/games.htm]; the applicability is, I hope, obvious.

I am perhaps taking some artistic liberties here in assigning Primary World board games to Arda, as I cannot immediately recall or provide any citations regarding either chess or draughts (checkers) in Middle-earth (the apparent citation, of "amber chessmen" in the endnotes in LB is not in fact by JRRT, but a suggested, unused, stanza by C.S. Lewis, so I don't accept it). But as such games of strategy and skill are common in the epic tradition and throughout the world as well as across the ages, I feel warranted in using the device here, upon the assumption that someone in Beleriand would surely have devised some such game, especially with the artistic opportunities that the pieces provide, and that other peoples would have mucked about with the game and made their own versions. (Given their long-standing occupation with both warfare and artistry, it's entirely possible that such a game would have been invented by the Dwarves first — though that would probably pique certain factions of the Eldar no end!) One may simply assume that as with the Red Book of Westmarch, the Middle-earth game has been "translated" into an equivalent form here•

As for the rationale behind the rules of tablut, that is my own, but I think it plausible, though I will stand corrected if any Scadians have better information and/or combat experience, of course. The use of chess in both life and literature as an opportunity for political and romantic metaphors is well attested. (Plus there's just something apropos about using a Lapp form of the game, given that Tolkien was so inspired by the [Kalevala](http://www.google.com/) as to learn Finnish in order to be able to read it in the original!) Battles for incredibly high stakes — not only property, but spouses, and even one's self, abound in Indo-European folklore — unfortunate addicts to the ancient Irish version called "[fidchell](http://www.unicorngarden.com/fidchell/origins.htm)" occasionally made the mistake of [playing for keeps](http://books.google.com/books?id=sYcAAAAAYAAJ&lpg=PA219&ots=Xkp1D7WElO&dq=irish%20legends%20chess%20wagers&pg=PA219) against wizards and ended up trapped in animal form as well.

 

 

red and white: modern readers may not be aware — as I was not prior to reading a [Sayers novel involving an antique chess set](http://www.planetpeschel.com/index?/wimsey/notes/C16/) — that in ancient times the traditional colors were white (stone or bone or walrus ivory, as in the Lewis chessmen) and dark red, which is an easily obtainable color from iron oxide, permanent, non-fading, and unlike black allows finely carved details to be easily seen.

 

Scene XI

 

"our mothers": neither Feanor's wife Nerdanel nor Celebrimbor's wife approved of the Return, and chose to remain behind in Aman. We know that there was a long history of trouble between Curufin's parents, but the details of his own marriage as far as I know were never written down.

 

 

I intend here to pay homage to Primary World history in the developing storyline of The Geste here — how it evolved might be surprising to some, both what changed and what did not, and I don't pretend to either have all the elements, or to understand how they all fit together chronologically and artistically, though I do understand many of the reasons for inclusion and rejection, the various artistic tensions and narrative demands warring over the final plotline.

One significant element is the entire creation of Nargothrond, which exists, in great measure, and as it eventually is revealed, not only because of Turin's destiny. From a fall-back secondary base camp dating from the breaking of the Leaguer it becomes a great and ancient City — and Finrod becomes its King and founder — because Beren must go there. By the time of the writing of LL1 circa 1926, it is established that Orodreth was not the original ruler, but the third and youngest brother of the King (this is when Finarfin was named Finrod, and it had not been established yet that "Felagund" was an aftername, and before Galadriel was known to be their sister) and that the Sons of Fëanor are guests (in fact DPs and refugees) of their cousins.

However, in some of the earlier summary outlines, Celegorm was the original founder and rightful King of Nargothrond, who had become indebted to Beren's father, and so the conflict was both more and less complex: the Oath binding him from whole-hearted assistance, he nevertheless sends a warband with Beren; and following their capture, when he takes Lúthien prisoner it is less cynical, more pathetic: he explains that he has already sent his troops with Beren and cannot send more, and though he does hope that Lúthien will turn to him instead, he eventually lets her go when she appeals to his conscience.

So the sense that he still retained _some_ better nature that could be appealed to, which was not necessarily overridden by either passion or the Oath I have chosen to allow in the shading-in of Lúthien's captivity in Nargothrond.

 

Scene XII.i

 

[Hamlet](http://books.google.com/books?id=rORGgTWnAXEC&dq=hamlet&pg=PP5) also provides us with the line "A hit, a very palpable hit" — and an example of a friendship betrayed.

 

 

"invisibility cloak": there are many forms of invisibility — sleight of hand, the ability to go unnoticed in various circumstances, camouflage — and being able to put watchers and attackers into a dreaming trance would certainly also qualify. Are there disquieting parallels to the One Ring inherent here in the story of Lúthien's "tarnkappe" that I'm trying to emhasize here? You bet. (No more so, of course, than to that other famous fairy-tale trope, the story of Tattercloak and the variants, where being a ragged and unkempt eccentric conveys a certain amount of invisibility on the heroine at court — with the signal difference that Luthien doesn't have any animals killed to make her cape.)

 

 

 _Doriath_ : although the specifics of Green-elven and Grey-elven cultural borrowings and differences are my interpretation, this building of Doriath's atmosphere is straight extrapolation and often straight lifting, from the source texts. (Remember that Turin's name is cleared of Murder One in the Saeros incident when Mablung finds a witness? Who just happens to be a loner of a young lady who hangs out in trees?) The rich ethnic compostion, dense politics and layered history are all set out in Silmarillion. I've just tried, again, to shade in the sketches. As for any perceived similarities between the Wood-elves and tribal American life — I've always found it difficult to understand how so few others seem to notice this. Even before I found JRRT's own statement that, after Scandinavian stories of dragons and battles, his favorite books as a kid were stories of North American Indians, since they had almost everything he wanted in them — primeval forests, bows and arrows, and other, ancient, languages — it was obvious to me, at least, right in LOTR. (Just like the illuminating similarities — and differences — between the Rangers of Ithilian and the inhabitants of Sherwood Forest in TT.) And are the parallels with Third Age Lothlorien either unwarranted or accidental? —I at least don't think so, in either case…

 

 

 _Denethor_ : the first known to bear this name was the King of the Green-elves of Ossiriand, who came though severely outmatched to the rescue of Doriath before Melian closed it to invaders, and was killed by the Orcish army together with his heirs and household in the battle before Thingol could join up with him. Subsequently some of the Lindir chose to stay in Doriath, while others returned to Ossiriand, where they refused, for reasons unspecified, to choose another leader, and for obvious reasons never went to open war again. Most of the Third Age names of the Dúnedain are Elvish in origin, though not all.

 

 

"war-orphan": this is my conjecture regarding the fact that Beleg (and Mablung too, for that matter) only use afternames. (Remember, the _Silm.,_ being translated into English from Quenya, gives the Sindarin name and the Quenya meaning after in English, as with Legolas Greenleaf in LOTR.) In LHH Beleg is called "the hunter of the hidden people," and "the son of the wilderness who wist no sire." Now in mortal terms that could as well be an implication of bastardy — yet given the standard permanence and honesty of Elven affections, that really makes no sense. However, the highly unsettled state of affairs in Beleriand during the centuries before Melian and Thingol were able to consolidate and lay the Girdle about Doriath resulted in many displaced families and casualties. I don't think it's a stretch to consider Beleg as a foundling and survivor from some early catastrophe — and that would also be reason for a close personal identification with the fatherless Turin in later years.

Another possibility — there are always other possibilities — is that for prudential reasons the native Elves of Beleriand only used a common name in public, given the magical controls possible through names, just as the Dwarves did. But my remark on legitimacy still holds, either way.

 

 

 _Brethil_ : Just to help keep the chronology straight — two years after the Dagor Bragollach wound up, more or less, in early Spring (although it had a definite opening there was never a clear end to the offensive), is when Orodreth, who was in charge of the garrison at Minas Tirith, abandoned it before Sauron's invading forces, retreating back to Nargothrond. This had a cascade effect all across northern Beleriand, some of which has been outlined in Act II. This was another consequence, related in _Silm._ as well.

 

 

"summer-snow": literal translation of a Quenya word, "lairelossë," which is the name of a kind of tree. (Thanks to Ardalambion once again.)

 

 

"mutant boar": in the Lay of Leithian it's told how the Outlaws of Dorthonion were harrassed by Morgoth over the years, before Gorlim's betrayal,

"…and wolf and boar  
with spells of madness filled he sent  
to slay them as in the woods they went…"

I don't think it's an unwarranted assumption that similarly "enhanced" wildlife might have been sent out against other disputed borders as disposable drones. (This also put me in mind of [Mononoke Hime](http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0119698/) when I read it.…)

 

 

 _Losgar_ : the location where Fëanor burned the beached ships, leaving the rest of the Noldor to their own devices — which if not solely responsible for the catastrophe of the Grinding Ice, since certainly Finarfin and a significant element did choose to return and apologize for the rebellion, was at least a huge and necessary factor. This was forgiven, at least on the surface, by the followers of Fingolfin and Finrod, at the Feast of Reconciliation which transpired after Fingon's rescue of Maedhros from Angband — but Curufin was ringleader in backing up his father, and Celegorm, unlike Maedhros, didn't either object or try to dissuade him from burning the Teler flotilla.

 

Scene XIII.i

 

Gower here invokes T. S. Eliot's [Murder in the Cathedral,](http://www.google.com/) where many trenchant observations on the nature of power may be summed up in the following quote—

"King, emperor, bishop, baron, king :Uncertain mastery of melting armies,War, plague, and revolution,New conspiracies, broken pacts;To be master or servant within an hour,This is the course of temporal power."

—a rather eye-opening thing to encounter as a teenager trying to understand the facts, foundations, and myths of authority in the Primary World, requiring a lot of mental wrestling with concepts rather contrary to popular assumptions.

 

 

The company that rides to the Nirnaeth Arnoediad under Gwindor's command in the name of the House of Finarfin, does so against Orodreth's will. Everything starts somewhere…

 

Scene XIV

 

For the use of music for accompaniment of moods as well as their alteration in Shakespeare, see [Twelfth Night.](http://books.google.com/books?id=mNweaGcPNlQC&dq=twelfth%20night&pg=PP5)

 

 

I've known a few "mouthy" hand-holders. It's kind of sweet…and kind of messily inconvenient. One so hates to hurt their feelings.

 

 

"your City": ObRef to "when in Rome," of course. —One actually does have to do as the Romans when in Rome, to a certain extent, no matter how against the grain and one's upbringing it goes. (Then of course, stateside again, one has to unlearn such potentially dangerous Roman traits as crossing traffic with glorious abandon whilst disregarding the perpetually-red crossing lights, tossing one's trash onto the pavement because there are no visible barrels beneath the trash, shoving through to the counter instead of waiting for a queue to form, expecting to find nice homey inexpensive places to stay, expecting to be able to buy excellent coffee and decent fast food at any hour pretty much anywhere for reasonable prices, &c.)

[Scene XV](https://rustbucket.net/leithian/leithian_script_3.html)

"adage": Another _Macbeth_ ObRef — a play much concerned with loyalty and its reverses.

 

 

Celegorm seems like the sort of person to me who would deal with emotional stress by activity, not introspective thought.

 

 

The hounds _do_ answer to Huan. The chain-of-command is thus made somewhat complicated, and has serious metaphyical underpinnings, but becomes all too practical later on in the story.

 

Scene XVI

 

"gild the gold day lily" : Gower's epigram refers to the collapsed quote taken from _King John,_ Act IV.ii, which is known in the phrase "gilding the lily", but in the original goes "as well gild refined gold, paint the lily" — and refers to the addition of a second royal title upon a first by conquest and/or marriage. The play dealing with the matter of France and England, the symbolic lilies in which form such a theme throughout the play would in any case have been gold, the heraldic fleur-de-lys of the ancien regime. (Shakespeare's prediliction for queenly brunettes found most prominently, but not only, in the Sonnets, makes the contrasts and parallels still more apt.)

 

 

 _white roses_ : these have strong sentimental importance for the lovers, q.v. the Notes to Act II, Scene III. Probably should be envisioned as small, coin-sized, possibly single-petaled, much like the roses of heraldry — and much more fragrant than modern long-stemmed roses; driving through the wooded countryside not far from here I smelled an amazing breeze of rose-perfume, looked around for a large garden set back from the road — and found only a single large bush of quarter-sized (franc-sized) pale-pink dog roses growing wild in the trees.

 

 

Beren's objection in HOME centers on Doriathrin Sindarin being so much lovelier a language, he can't fathom why she wants to learn his.

 

Scene XVII

 

"ceremony": ObRef to _Henry V,_ of course. (Act IV, scene I — "thou idol ceremony" — a very appropriate passage in all ways.)

 

 

This scene is foreshadowing and reference to the information in HOME that Celebrimbor, in addition to helping to build the Gates of Khazad-dum and forging the Three Rings of Elven power, was tragically enamored of Galadriel in the Second Age. I see a spiritual kinship in art as well as troubled idealism laying the path — instead of falling for the lady's _picture_ , as is common in old romances, more likely for one of the Eldar to fall for her _painting_ instead.

 

Scene XVIII

 

"auguries": ObRef to Sonnet 107, which opens:

"Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul  
of the wide world dreaming on things to come,  
can yet the lease of my true love control,  
supposed as forfeit to a confinéd doom…"

 

 

I wanted this scene to convey a certain air of "Powhattan's daughter in London," the sense of a "barbarian princess" both fascinatingly exotic and at the same time unconsciously patronized. It seemed to me likely that a great part of her mystique would be her role as Melian's daughter, and that people would be extremely curious about her parents' relationship; while the outré nature of her escape would also have a certain fascination and gossipworthiness. The trick of course is making it plausibly outrageous without complete caricature; the most appalling rudeness (and the most entertaining from outside) is that which is committed completely obliviously.

As far as Lúthien's defensiveness in regards to her homeland, I've derived that from the ambiguity of her own words and feelings in the Lay:

  
_'My heart is glad when the fair trees_  
_far off uprising grey it sees_  
_of Doriath inviolate._  
_Yet Doriath my heart did hate,_  
_and Doriath my feet forsook,_  
_my home, my kin. I would not look_  
_on grass nor leaf there evermore_  
_without thee by me. ...'_

—as well as from the fact that it would be pretty hard not to have absorbed the same attitudes as her father across four hundred years and more of being snubbed and/or verbally threatened by two of the three Houses of the Returnees.

The superior attitude of the "Easterners" and to a lesser extent the original citizens of Nargothrond is inspired largely by Fëanor's words to Olwë: "Yet you were glad to receive our aid when you came at last to these shores, faint-hearted loiterers, and wellnigh empty-handed. In huts on the beaches would you be dwelling still, had not the Noldor carved out your haven and toiled upon your walls." _(Silm.,_ Of the Flight of the Noldor)

I also wanted to carry a bit of the historical contrasts with the "Home Front" inevitably seen in any war — life goes on, oddly, and people don't worry and mourn all the time, if they aren't actually under siege. I modeled the atmosphere partly on the decades of WWI reading I've done, fact & fiction, modern and contemporary, and partly on the Second World War, as depicted in the classic film [The Cruel Sea.](http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0045659/) Back again to the verse:

_"In Nargothrond the torches flared_  
_and feast and music were prepared......................_  
_....…Out of mind,_  
_it seemed, were those afar that pined_  
_in prison and in misery."_

 

 

"Especially after we saved you…" — The subsequent conversation refers to both Dagor-nuin-Giliath, ( _Silm_., Ch. 13, Of the Return of the Noldor) and on Lúthien's part, the First Battle of Beleriand ( _Silm._ , Ch. 10, Of the Sindar.) This was the one which took place centuries before the Return and resulted in the creation of Doriath and massive political reorganization sub-continent wide. It didn't get a memorable name like "Under Stars" or "The Glorious" or "Sudden Flame" or "Countless Tears," presumably because it _was_ the first, as with the Great War; possibly because of cultural differences between Sindar and Noldor. (Any similarities to occasionally-heard Primary World statements  which might indicate a dig at certain of my compatriots' attitudes are, of course, purely intentional.)

 

 

"language": The initial pack-your-bags-and-get-out-of-my-sight reaction from Thingol on learning of the fact that his relatives had not had the nerve or the consideration to tell him about the Kinslaying and the Exile feels very much like the genuine emotional reaction that would follow such revelations. For a comparable scenario, imagine discovering that the charming colleague from the overseas office was, in fact, a political terrorist personally responsible for several car bombings, and that a trusted friend hadn't told you this, on the grounds of mutual friendship and the fact that, well, that was all in the past, he'd put it all behind him and didn't engage in such activities any more. One might well be too angry  for civil conversation, for the moment.

The subsequent injunction against the use of Quenya in Beleriand, however, has more the feel of a deliberate and considered measure, opportunely taken. One cannot think that the defender of the Sindar would have been overjoyed at seeing their ways and cultures lost and overwhelmed in the tide of the invaders, any more than he liked the thought of them being dispossessed from their hereditary lands. (I do not, however, have any hard proof of this conjecture.)

Now King Thingol welcomed not with a full heart the coming of so many princes in might out of the West, eager for new realms…[He] hearkened to the words of Angrod; and ere he went he said to him: 'Thus shall you speak for me to those that sent you. In Hithlum the Noldor have leave to dwell, and in the highlands of Dorthonion, and in the lands east of Doriath that are empty and wild; but elsewhere there are many of my people, and I would not have them restrained of their freedom, still less ousted from their homes. Beware therefore how you princes of the West bear yourselves; for I am the Lord of Beleriand, and all who seek to dwell there shall hear my word…" — _Silmarillion_ , "Of the Return of the Noldor"

(It was in response to Angrod's delivery of this message that Caranthir Fëanorion publicly referred to Thingol as a "Dark-elf," which attitude I've chosen to see as coloring all the following of Fëanor, and not obliterated by a mere decade of contact with the Nargothronders.)

 

 

"enhancement": — _Did_ Lúthien know what she was doing in her unprecedented project? Going by the text, one has to say _yes_ , whatever the Noldor expert might have thought. Canto V of the _Lay of Leithian_ describes this process in great detail, which in part is excerpted here:

 _"Now Lúthien doth her counsel shape;_   
_and Melian's daughter of deep lore_   
_knew many things, yea, magics more_   
_than then or now know elven-maids_   
_……A magic song to Men unknown_   
_she sang, and singing then the wine_   
_with water mingled three times nine'_   
_and as in golden jar they lays_   
_he sang a song of growth and day;_   
_and as they lay in silver white_   
_another song she sang, of night_   
_and darkness without end, of height_   
_uplifted to the stars, and flight_   
_and freedom. And all names of things_   
_tallest and longest on earth she sings:_   
_the locks of the Longbeard dwarves;_   
_the taleof Draugluin the werewolf pale;_   
_the body of Glómund the great snake;_   
_the vast upsoaring peaks that quake_   
_above the fires in Angband's gloom;_   
_the chain Angainor that ere Doom_   
_for Morgoth shall by Gods be wrought_   
_of steel and torment. Names she sought_   
_and sang of Glend the sword of Nan;_   
_of Gilim the giant of Eruman;_   
_and last and longest named she then_   
_the endless hair of Uinen_   
_the Lady of the Sea, that lies_   
_through all the waters under skies._   
_Then did she lave her head and sing_   
_a theme of sleep and slumbering,_   
_profound and fathomless and dark…"_

Note that some pretty strong stuff is invoked there, and not all of it "nice". (Glómund is an earlier form of Glaurung, by the by.) The principle of _sympathetic magic_ is that similar things are metaphysically connected and may be substituted for, or invoked, to affect each other.

 

 

 _bindweed_ : wild form of morning-glory, with white flowers. For some reason it thrives along railroad tracks — you can see it growing along the lines into London.

 

 

"bowstrings": this is an homage to the Icelandic saga of _Burnt Njal,_ well worth reading, in which this practice is a crucial plot point.

 

 

 _prisoners-of-war_ : this countermeasure to Morgoth's practice of subverting captives' will with delayed commands, cited earlier in the Script (and dating back even to the earliest version in _The Tale of Tinuviel)_ is spoken of as preceding this time-period — which means that indeed, _Finrod_ would have been responsible for such decisions. If that gives the reader pause — it should. Both military commanders and heads of state have to make harsh decisions which they would prefer not to, and which will not be popular: it takes more than niceness to build and administer the largest single territory in the Known World.

"But ever the Noldor feared most the treachery of those of their own kin, who had been thralls in Angband, for Morgoth used some of these for his evil purposes, and feigning to give them liberty sent them abroad, but their wills were chained to his, and they strayed only to come back to him again. Therefore if any of his captives escaped in truth, and returned to their own people, they had little welcome, and wandered alone and desperate."   — _Silmarillion_ , "Of the Ruin of Beleriand"

 

Scene XIX

 

The Hall of Maps is based on a real place that I found in Rome. It's part of the Vatican Museums/Library complex and is incredibly cool — no other word for it, I'm afraid. They go all the way up to the ceiling, they're divided with ornate gold borders, so that when you walk in you're not sure if they're tapestries or not — except that tapestries don't have that intense cerulean blue and jade green to them. The semi-topographical nature with the realistic color makes it much more like a fly-over shot than a conventional map — which I find more useful than the artificially-colored and ruled maps that used to predominate atlases. And the place-names are lettered in gold… I don't remember how old it is, but it's at least two centuries, and possible quite a few more. (And I want one of my own — but I don't own this building, so I can't make one…)

There should be a distinct Helen of Troy atmosphere in this scene: despite the fact that it was at least as much Paris' fault, and subsequently his father the King, and their counsellors who chose to back the Prince and not the law, it was Helen who got all the blame from the people of Troy for their downfall. (This was a topic for discussion and debate through classical times as well as returning again through the present.)

 

 

 _Amon Ereb_ : A hill in southeast Beleriand, site of the concluding action of the First Battle of Beleriand mentioned in the preceding scene.

 

 

 _Amon Rûdh_ —the "bald hill", landmark to the north of Nargothrond; later the site of Turin's headquarters.. I'm assuming that Luthien would have followed along the general course of Esgalduin as the most direct as well as the simplest way of staying on track, which would have brought her out of the forest not far from this hill (though this is not necessarily the route she took at all — she could have taken a more southerly trail.)

 

 

"for Nienna's sake": as Nienna is the embodiment of pity, I don't think this is an entirely unwarranted invocation.

 

Scene XX.ii

 

"straw out-burneth": Gower makes a deliberate contrast to the seventh poem of the sequence "[The Passionate Pilgrim](http://books.google.com/books?id=tq-I5KrrJB0C&dq=the%20passionate%20pilgrim&pg=PA5)," in which complaint is made of the lady's fickle love, burning as bright and as quickly consumed as dry grass.

 

 

"up high": a reference to Luthien's preferred place for solitary meditation, LL1, Canto V:

 _"A tree she climbed, till the bright air_   
_above the woods her dark hair blew,_   
_and straining afar her eyes could view_   
_the outline grey and faint and low_   
_of dizzy towers where the clouds go,_   
_the southern faces mounting sheer_   
_in rocky pinnacle…"_

 

Scene XXI

 

 _Barad Nimras_ : this is the fortress that Finrod built on the south coast of Beleriand to guard against the possiblity of Enemy attack by sea; which did not however take place. I threw this in as a reminder first of Valinor and the West, and secondly of how much their power has been diminished and their dominion hemmed in since the Bragollach, and doubly so since the loss of Tol Sirion.

 

 

Lord Gwindor's projected involvement with the government of Nargothrond doesn't come out of nowhere. He is engaged to Orodreth's daughter, which under ordinary circumstances usually indicates some level of familiarity, particularly given the small-town atmosphere and long acquaintance of the Returnees; he is also of high rank, with a reputation for military valour well predating the Nirnaeth. He has enough authority to override Orodreth and lead his own command to the League of Maedhros against orders. All this indicates to me that he was no mere brainless cavalier or court butterfly, but someone with deep connections and functions in the realm, despite his impulsive and passionate nature. I see him as rather the Harry Hotspur of Narog, a fierce ideallist, — and one of those described in the Lay of Leithian thus:

" _And even such as were most true_  
_to Felagund his oath did rue,_  
_and thought with terror and despair_  
_of seeking Morgoth in his lair_  
_with force or guile…"_

Moreover, it seems plausible that in such desperate times, the Regent would rely most heavily on those closest to him, and put such responsibilities and authority as he still controlled into trusted hands — all of which would contribute to the ongoing meltdown of Nargothrond with subsequent developments.

The entire sequence of the sortie at Thangorodrim took on added impact for me when I put it together with the Geste: Gwindor has an extremely personal stake after his brother is made example of by the enemy, but for the rest of his company to take part with the same demented berserker rage in the assault on the Gates speaks to me not only of vengeance but of atonement as well: —This _time_ —

It also is strongly indicative to me of later events in the _Silmarillion_ , most particularly his dying words to Turin, but also the latter's ascendence in Orodreth's affections and counsels — and Finduilas'. Turin can be seen as Gwindor's doppelgänger. Consider: Gwindor returns from captivity in bad enough shape to seem as an elderly mortal, while the son of Morwen the Elven-bright, tall, black-haired, raised among Elves, and an implacable warrior against Morgoth, has to have seemed almost Gwindor himself come back from the past. Thus the royal house can't help but fall for him, and so the Noldor lord can't hate him, despite Turin co-opting his life and the destruction caused by his rashness: _"As you were, I once was, and as I am shall you become."_

 

Scene XXII

 

The discussion between Lúthien and Celebrimbor is not only intended to introduce and foreshadow the battle for the "spoken keys" of Tol Sirion, but as a quiet reminder that Fëanor's grandson was not only responsible for making the three Elven-rings and inadvertently aiding Sauron's rise through the creation of the One, but also assisted with the fashioning of the Gates of Khazad-dûm on the Hollin side.

 

Scene XXIII.i

 

"miss the mark": Hopefully it's obvious — but not too blatant for the irony value — that more is going on with Celegorm's testing of bows than merely the obnoxiousness of the brothers unscrupulously making free of Finrod's belongings.

 

 

"taken care of": And here we have at last the explicit manifestation of the lines

 _"Her ways were trammelled; closely kept_  
_she might not fly…"_

 

Scene XXIV

 

This sequence is another homage to the original premise that she would leave with Huan, but without her cape, requiring subterfuge and infiltration instead of direct action to lure out and overpower the foe. Also, though without access to it her powers were greatly diminished, still her knowledge and essential skills wouldn't have been forgotten. The preceding verse indicates to me at least that she did _try_ to escape, if she had to be thwarted and prevented — which is only logical, considering previous events.

 

Scene XXV.i

 

Gower's speech is a reference to Sonnet 65, which opens:

 _"Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea,_   
_but sad mortality o'ersways their power,_   
_how with this rage shall beauty hold a plea,_   
_whose action is no stronger than a flower?"_

 

"spin this tale… and warp it too": as noted earlier, people tend to use metaphors familiar to them from their own life experience. It also, together with the cut about time, serves as a reminder of how much Luthien's perspective has changed from her fellow Eldar: the three days it took her to make her gear seemed "long."

 

 

"How long": Is it really plausible that the most arrogant and acquisitive and contentions of the sons of Fëanor would be permanently content to live on as "poor relations" of their youngest cousins, no matter how lavishly treated — any more than it's likely they wouldn't have already been resentful of the fact that the largest Noldor kingdom in Middle-earth wasn't _theirs_? Frankly, I don't think so for an instant. It was only a matter of time: Beren just happened to be the catalyst.

 

Scene XXV.ii

 

Structurally, I needed a way to get the whole tale retold without spending unnecessary (for the audience) screen time on the retelling. Hence the cut; however this also serves the purpose of reinforcing the dual facts of the ambiguousness of the citizenry of Nargothrond, to be strongly in the forefront later, and of the complications and messiness surrounding the House of Finwë in Aman, though that should hardly be necessary…

 

Scene XXV.iii

 

…and equally, this scene recalls the long duration of the connection between the families of Orodreth and Luthien.

"the Necromancer's aura": The atmosphere of horror which facilitated Sauron's taking of the fortress is described in the _Silmarillion_ in terms nearly identical to the scenario of the Lord of the Nazgûl's assault on the second Minas Tirith at the end of the Third Age. Coincidence? I _highly_ doubt it. One might remember as well that two factors seem able to counter the Black Breath, as recounted in ROTK: the first is divine origin, the second already being so used to functioning under depression as to be essentially immunized to further assaults. Lúthien shares to a degree in both.

 

 

"listened to Melkor": I don't think that Morgoth _necessarily_ tempted him (explicitly!), because the poisoned atmosphere of rivalry leading up to the slaying of the Trees would have been more than enough to encourage envy, though it's certainly possible — but I think the fact that once again, their elders' sins are being played out, would have hit Orodreth hard, once it was pointed out to him.

 

Scene XXVI

 

 _sickening indoors_ : this belief is the reason for the elaborate and difficult scheme Thingol and his counselors concocted regarding the house in Hírilorn, as described in LL1, Canto V:

 _…In angry love and half in fear_  
_Thingol took counsel his most dear_  
_to guard and keep. He would not bind_  
_in caverns deep and intertwined_  
_sweet Lúthien, his lovely maid,_  
_who robbed of air must wane and fade,_  
_who ever must look upon the sky_  
_and see the sun and moon go by._

 

Readers have correctly noted herein (yet more) sinister foreshadowing of the future of Nargothrond.

 

 

"It can't happen": Yes, the Sons of Feanor were, according to _Silm._ ("Of the Ruin of Beleriand and the Fall of Fingolfin") the least interested of the Noldor leaders in taking the war to the Enemy. This is a point worthy of some consideration, in my opinion. After all, they did have the most potentially to gain, both in terms of stolen property and of revenge.

 

 

The verse is taken from one of the very, very many versions of the song, "Black is the Color of My True Love's Hair," where it follows the stanza:

Black, black, black is the color of my true love's hair,  
His face is something wondrous fair,  
The purest eyes and the bravest hands,  
—I love the ground whereon he stands

(Another version, speaking of a female beloved, has the refrain, "—She of the wondrous hair.")

Oh yeah, it featured prominently in an episode of [Twilight Zone](http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0734671/)…

Appalachian song of English derivation, learned from the version as sung by Joan Baez on the Vanguard recording [In Concert 1](http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/tg/detail/-/B000060OXK/ref=pd_sim_music_2/103-0856573-7483018?v=glance&s=music). (Amazon link, no audio clip avail.)A midi of a version similar to this may be found here at [The Contemplator.](http://www.contemplator.com/america/blackhair.html)

[Scene XXVII](https://rustbucket.net/leithian/leithian_script_3.html)

_Name magic_ : in Primary World lore, it's been used to control and bind, hence the use of secret names as well as masks for protection against hostile supernatural forces in shamanic traditions. Power can be held over someone by the fact of knowing an identity without any magical control as well, as in the case of espionage agents, or as described in "Narn i Hîn Húrin" _(Unfinished Tales)_ when Nienor defiantly and catastrophically reveals herself to the dragon. Hence the secrecy with which Aragorn conceals himself, until ready to challenge Sauron with his presence.

Another use of what might be termed "name magic," is in self-definition and revelation. In Arda this is manifested in the "names of insight" or prophetic mother-names given among the Noldor, and in the "afternames" which are chosen or conferred throughout one's life, such as the many names of Strider. In the Primary World we only fortuitously encounter names which afterwards seem to have been given prophetically, though we do choose names that are meaningful and inspiring for our children. However, the giving and/or taking of names of usage is a huge part of growing up, and the rejecting of nicknames, alteration of spellings, using of middle names, and return to old forms all can be ideological and deliberate processes of self-identification.

The theme of _identity_ , both as part of a family, and as a _self_ standing apart from one's family, is also one of the many constant themes found in Middle-earth. All of these factors being active in Lúthien's situation, it seems plausible that she might very well make an issue of being recognized as she chooses to be, by her enemies-and-relations, and

 

Scene XXVIII

 

Gower is referring to the vow Lúthien gave her father when Thingol tried to get her to promise not to run away:

 _He sent for Lúthien, and said:_   
_'O maiden fair, what hath thee led_   
_to ponder madness and despair_   
_to wander to ruin, and to fare_   
_from Doriath against my will,_   
_stealing like a wild thing men would kill_   
_into the emptiness outside?_   
_''The wisdom, father,' she replied;_   
_nor would she promise to forget_   
_nor would she vow for love or threat_   
_her folly to forsake and meek_   
_in Doriath her father's will to seek._   
_This only vowed she, if go she must,_   
_that none but herself would she now trust,_   
_no folk of her father's would persuade_   
_to break his will or lend her aid;_   
_if go she must, she would go alone_   
_and friendless dare the walls of stone._

 _In angry love and half in fear_   
_Thingol took counsel his most dear_   
_to guard and keep…_

 

 

The Trees They Do Grow High

English ballad said to be inspired by a true story which took place as I recall in the 1400s.

Link to Real Audio clip of [The Trees They Do Grow High](http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/clipserve/B00005MKGN001002/103-0856573-7483018), sung by Joan Baez on the Vanguard recording [Joan Baez 2.](http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/tg/detail/-/B00005MKGN/ref=m_art_li_3/103-0856573-7483018?v=glance&s=music)

Link to Cantaria page with [full version MP3 and sheet music.](https://www.chivalry.com/cantaria/lyrics/trees-grow-high.html)

 

Scene XXIX

 

ObRef to the famous sonnet by [Sir Thomas Wyatt](http://www.google.com/), which I think fits rather well:

Whoso list to hunt, I know where is an hind,  
But as for me, _hélas,_ I may no more.  
The vain travail hath wearied me so sore,  
I am of them that farthest cometh behind.  
Yet may I by no means my wearied mind  
Draw from the deer, but as she fleeth afore  
Fainting I follow. I leave off therefore,  
Sithens in a net I seek to hold the wind.  
Who list her hunt, I put him out of doubt,  
As well as I may spend his time in vain.  
And graven with diamonds in letters plain  
There is written, her fair neck round about:   
   _Noli me tangere,_ for Caesar's I am,  
    And wild for to hold, though I seem tame.

 

 

Luthien's twitchiness about beetles comes from the oldest rescension, _The Tale of Tinúviel._ There it's noted as a personal quirk of hers, in addition to disliking spiders (as evoking Ungoliant) like every normal Elf — while, however, unlike many humans, being a normal Elf she is perfectly fine with such other bugs as moths, which tend to be attracted to her. I've kept that because I thought it rather a charming weakness in one willing to confront Dark Lords, albeit not one I myself have (though it would seem to be shared by LOTR film actor Bernard Hill, as per his vivid description in interview of the Fell Beasts as resembling airborne stag beetles!)

On the other hand, it's impossible to imagine the same person who both felt sorry for Carcaroth and faced him down being either reduced to complete incompetent hysterics or demanding immediate squishing of the same…

 

Scene XXX

 

"jaw kicked in": in the wild, this happens to bad-mannered stallions who ignore both rejection signals and warnings. Fatalities resulting from a broken jaw have been documented among mustangs, making it a pretty recessive behavior.

 

 

**Celegorm —infatuation, implausible, or inescapable?**

There's something of a fashionable trend to dismiss Lúthien as nothing more than a pretty face, and Tolkien by extension for writing characters who fall in love with mere beauty. Let us leave aside the fact that this requires ignoring a personality that, as written, for sheer stubbornness easily rivals Fëanor, to which add the combination of ingenuity, technical smarts and sheer nerve to follow through. —There's simply no getting around the fact that when the sons of Fëanor came upon Lúthien in the woods, she was not looking at her best, not after first roughing it for weeks and then having just been chased furiously through the woods "like a butterfly" by a hungry bird _(LL1)._ It wasn't the beauty of a fashion-model impeccably painted and groomed for a photo-shoot, nor even of a Grace Kelley or Jackie Kennedy or Princess Diana at a state affair, that left the brothers dumbstruck. Like Yeat's description of a dangerously-beautiful lady as "Pallas Athena in a railway station," or the traditions surrounding Cleopatra, the most compelling beauty is that sort which is not merely symmetry and conventional prettiness — may indeed break all the conventions of the same — but which is informed by a dynamic personality and spiritual vibrance.

It is this — this _charisma_ , technically termed — which Lúthien possesses in spades; and this being Arda, where myth is history, there are further metaphysical dimensions. She has a supernatural aura which manifests itself not only visibly in her physical appearance, but in her talents as well. (Before dismissing her singing ability, one ought to consider well what _song_ means in the _Silmarillion_. Mock singing, —and one disses the universe itself.) From her divine parentage comes a link into the primal forces of Creation, and from her earthly parentage the Elven unity with nature that gives an entirely different kind of power and comprehension. It isn't that she's "only half-Maia," but rather that she combines both sets of qualities into something different — and more powerful — than either. (The question of whether or not Melian realized her own destiny was not simply to _protect_ , but to raise up a  peaceful weapon, so to speak, in the person of her daughter, and set her free to follow a like path — and willfully (if passively) turned away from this duty, is one which can never be answered conclusively, but is worthy of much consideration.)

So on the one hand Celegorm, meeting Lúthien, who manifests the Light of Valinor untainted by Rebellion and Downfall, can't help but be as drawn as Beren, or Huan, or, in turn, Morgoth. Mortal, Elf, Principality or Power — everyone wants Lúthien. The question is, whether they see her as a treasure to be kept, accquired, confiscated and locked up — or as a _person_ whose free companionship, under whatever circumstances and at whatever costs, is the real prize. (Any parallels which may be drawn or discerned with certain jewels of divine and Elvish origin can scarcely be coincidental.)

 

Scene XXXI

 

Aside from foreshadowing future events, the introduction of the Gondolin connection, and the Black Sword, serves not only to reinforce how the past carries through all actions, at all times, but also as reminder of the eternal historian's problem of _who knew what when, and whence_. Receiving history in prefabricated lumps neatly edited into narrative, we tend to forget that on the one hand, this is not how it happened, and on the other, it is not how it is learned. The inchoate mass of _happening_ is ongoing and not organized into compartments, however the outlines and chapters in schoolbooks might make it seem. It is important to bear in mind that the _Silmarillion,_ being a chronicle of imaginary history, is just that — compiled after the fact by several chroniclers from many varied sources after the fact, attempting to put events into perspective and track down origins and prior influences which would not have been apparent at the time to those living them scattered across the country.

Trying to figure out what information would have been available to which persons at which times and by what means is one of the challenges of the diligent student of the past — but it can be a most rewarding one, filled with unexpected delights as well as disappointing revelations. For an example — not entirely unrelated to this present project — there is _no single complete manuscript of the_ Iliad existing from ancient times: the oldest complete copy of it is medieval. Hence we do not have the same _Iliad_ that Alexander supposedly carried around at all times and read before going to sleep each night, either in the particular physical copy or in the substance of the text, let alone "the _Iliad_ of Homer." Yet before one dismisses the extant _Iliad_ as invalid it's crucial to consider the many fragments themselves, the known provenance and history of the epic — and the fact that it's quoted and referenced in scores of existing pop-culture works from antiquity, from political debates to fanfiction parodies of the myths and epics, and these all shed light on the validity of the Venetus manuscript. And that's where it gets fun, tracking down things like these. —At least, _I_ think so.

(Obviously, the "who knew what when whence" question is a driving concern (or should be) for the fanfiction author as well.)

 

 

The "very old story" of Neesha the Hunter & the Mournful Maiden half-remembered from beyond the Blue Mountains which Lúthien recounts is the story  — slightly modified — of [Dierdre and the Sons of Uisneach](http://www.google.com/) from the [Red Branch Cycle](http://www.google.com/) of Irish legend. Its inclusion is in part an homage to Yeats, whose immeasurable service in bringing fantasy and folklore and the Celtic mythos to popular culture must be eternally acknowledged with gratitude. (Those familiar with the Cycle will doubtless have percieved the relevance to future events recounted in Silm. as well: how kingdoms fell and alliances collapsed as a result of the treason against the lovers.)

 

 

Even with the change of which brother is obsessed with Lúthien, it still seems quite plausible that Huan might have had occasion to bare his teeth at Curufin as well:

Nought said Huan; but Curufin thereafter  
never near might win to Lúthien,  
nor touch that maid,  
but shrank from Huan's fangs afraid…

 

Scene XXXII

 

"Hence and spurnéd hither:" in other words, _kicked out_. Gower's elegant phrasing comes from _The Comedy of Errors,_ where a luckless lackey compares himself to a football as he's sent back and forth with unwelcome messages.

 

 

Celebrimbor, unlike the rest of his family and most of the following of House Fëanor, does in fact break free of the Oath to follow his own destiny. I've chosen to mirror the future loyalty-triangle of Denethor–Faramir–Mithrandir as part of the explanation of why Curufin's son broke with his father, the problem of parental possessiveness which refuses to give affirmation, yet resents a child seeking that affirmation elsewhere. —It may also be part of the explanation of later, fatal, vulnerabilities in Eriador.

 

Scene XXXIII

 

If there are echoes in this scene not only of Morgoth's original subversion of the Eldar in Aman but also Sauron's many subsequent manipulations of the folk of Middle-earth through the ages — there should be.

 

Scene XXXIV

 

"smile and smile": Gower invokes Hamlet's words (Act I.v) on learning that his uncle murdered his father, declaring that "one may smile and smile and yet be a villain."

 

 

"bloodshed": I'm assuming that Lúthien does, generally, have a pretty good idea of her parents and the way they think and will react, with the usual blind spots that we all have about situations we are too close to — and this is exactly what happens, almost.

 

 

A free [John Donne](http://www.luminarium.org/sevenlit/donne/) reference for good measure:

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee  
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;  
For those, whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow,  
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.  
From rest and sleep, which but thy picture be,  
Much pleasure, then from thee much more must flow,  
And soonest our best men with thee do go,  
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.  
Thou'rt slave to Fate, chance, kings,and desperate men,  
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,  
And poppy, or charms can make us sleep as well,  
And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then ?  
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,  
And Death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.

 

 

The Queen of Hearts (second & third verses for [obvious reasons](http://sniff.numachi.com/pages/tiQUNHEART;ttQUNHEART.html))

This song goes back reportedly to the late 1600s, though I have not been able to track down an exact reference.

As learned from the version sung by Joan Baez on the Vanguard recording [In concert 2.](http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/tg/detail/-/B000060OXL/ref=pd_bxgy_img_2/103-0856573-7483018?v=glance&s=music) (Amazon link, no audio clip available.)

 

 

 **Come All Ye Fair And Tender Maidens** (first  & second verses)

As learned from the version sung by Joan Baez on the Vanguard recording [Live at Newport.](http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/tg/detail/-/B000000EH8/ref=m_art_li_22/103-0856573-7483018?v=glance&s=music) (Amazon link, Real Audio clip.) 

 

 

"crazy": in Shakespeare's Hamlet, the Prince feigns madness to lull his enemy into confidence that he has no suspicions (in the [original Danish legends](http://www.pitt.edu/%7Edash/amleth.html), he does so in order that his uncle will not kill him as a potential threat.) Using adversarial overconfidence, feints, and apparently mad plans against their enemies is something that all the successful heroes in Middle-earth do, and not just Lúthien — q.v. The Council of Elrond, and the assault on the Black Gates, in LOTR, for just a few examples.

 

 

 **House Carpenter** (last verse)

This story of a demon lover luring a young woman away from home and family, while in the original version not workable for First Age Middle-earth without much modification (which I have not bothered to attempt for the present) due to its maritime theme, would nevertheless have resonated strongly in its essential plot with the inhabitants of Doriath, irony surely not missed by Lúthien.

[Child Ballad #243](http://www.informatik.uni-hamburg.de/%7Ezierke/lloyd/songs/thedemonlover.html) , learned from the version as sung by Joan Baez on the Vanguard recording [Live In Concert](http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/tg/detail/-/B000000ECP/ref=pd_sim_music_3/103-0856573-7483018?v=glance&s=music). (Amazon link, Real Audio clip.)

[Link to midi file of the melody,](https://rustbucket.net/leithian/notes/carpenter.mid) gracefully arranged by and hosted courtesy of Melanie Ebener. (Site alas 404'd.)

 

Scene XXXVI

 

"Sindarin-style record keeping": among the several things going on in this scene is the intention of emphasizing what gaps of knowledge may result from the loss of oral traditions, based directly on statements made in the _Silmarillion_ ("Of the Sindar"):

"Of the long years of peace that followed after the coming of Denethor there is little tale. In those days, it is said, Daeron the Minstrel, chief loremaster of the kingdom of Thingol, devised his Runes; and the Naugrim that came to Thingol learned them, and were well-pleased with the device, esteeming Daeron's skill higher than did the Sindar, his own people. By the Naugrim the Cirth were taken east over the mountains and passed into the knowledge of many peoples, but they were little used by the Sindar for the keeping of records, until the days of the War, and much that was held in memory perished in the ruins of Doriath."

 

Scene XXXVII

 

"Leaguer" is actually a very accurate analogy of the situation, given the way it turns out.

 

 

Huan was a battle-hound as well as a hunting dog, and in LL1, Canto VIII we are told:

_Alone of hounds of the Land of Light,  
when sons of Fëanor took to flight  
and came into the North, he stayed  
beside his master. Every raid  
and every foray wild he shared,  
and into mortal battle dared.  
Often he saved his Gnomish lord  
from Orc and wolf and leaping sword_

Ergo he must have been actively involved on that mid-winter night when the Pass of Aglon was forced and the brothers with their followers (and their guest and cousin Orodreth) were compelled to evacuate Himlad — presumably down the same unpleasant road along the northern edge of Doriath followed in past centuries by the Haladin and Aredhel (since if they'd been able to go around the southern marches, there's no obvious reason for them not to have joined up with Caranthir and the twins down at Ramdal by Amon Ereb across from Ossiriand.) Huan would no doubt have been a tremendous asset in keeping off giant spiders and other sorcerously-mutated creatures.

 

 

Ten Thousand Miles

Folk song popular in both Britain and North America with a large number of variations.

Link to Real Audio clip of [Ten Thousand Miles](http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/tg/detail/-/B00005MKGM/ref=m_art_li_3/103-0856573-7483018?v=glance&s=music), sung by Joan Baez on the [namesake Vanguard album.](http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/tg/detail/-/B00005MKGM/ref=m_art_li_4/103-0856573-7483018?v=glance&s=music) (Amazon link.)

 

Scene XXXIX

 

In one of the outlines where Lúthien and Huan go off without her cape, the Nargothronders return it to her via Huan after he returns with the liberated captives, out of shame and guilt. This says to me that a lot of people were aware on some level of the situation as it was playing out. Moreover it's said in LL1 that "Huan alone" was never enchanted by Lúthien's power, either deliberately or otherwise, which also indicates to me that she tried with the people of the City, (as is only to be expected.)

 

 

 **There Were Three Ra'ens** (slightly altered to fit Middle-earth circumstances)

English ballad arranged and published by [the famous Thomas Ravenscroft](http://www.pbm.com/%7Elindahl/ravenscroft/) in 1611 and possibly written by him as well.

Originally learned from the version as sung by Burl Ives on a very old recording of Folksongs for Children which I have not been able to track down online.

Here is a [very well arranged midi file](http://www.curtisclark.org/emusic/midi/3ravens.mid) from the [Internet Renaissance Band](http://www.curtisclark.org/emusic/)'s page.

 

 

 **Once I Knew A Pretty Girl** (last verse)

This version of the ["Rejected Lover" ballad](http://www.csufresno.edu/folklore/ballads/LP10.html) is used with intentional irony, since [the rest of the song](http://sniff.numachi.com/pages/tiPRETGIRL.html) is about a fickle girl who sends her sweetheart away, but later changes her mind again, to which the rejected lover says, "No thanks."

Learned from the tune as sung by Joan Baez on the Vanguard recording [Joan Baez 2](http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/tg/detail/-/B00005MKGN/ref=m_art_li_3/103-0856573-7483018?v=glance&s=music) (Amazon link, no audio clip avail.)

 

Scene XL

 

"Lord of Misrule": Gower refers to the custom of appointing a Master of Ceremonies responsible for arranging all the holiday entertainments and revels during Yuletide at the courts and larger organizations of late medieval England, whose authority over such matters as music selection, pageants, party themes, charades, drama productions and banquets was real, and who held court and was given homage as part of the game.

 

Scene XLI.i

 

"lasting storm": the imagery of this speech of Gower's is derived from the words of Marina, Princess of Tyre, whose plight in _Pericles_ has some points in common with Lúthien's situation.

 

 

Mourners on the tomb: these statues, called "pleurants" or weepers, were designed for the tombs of the Dukes of Burgundy, Philip the Bold and his son John, by the sculptor Claus Sluter; a [so-so image (large file) can be found here](http://henry.sandi.net/staff/mbaldwin/NorthRen/hooded%20pleurant.jpg) until I scan in a better one from an art book.

 

 

 **North Country Maid** (as sung; slightly altered for Middle-earth)

An old broadside ballad I learned originally by ear, and only the first verse; when I decided to adapt it and see if there [were other verses](http://sniff.numachi.com/pages/tiNCNTRYM2%3BttNCNTRYMD.html) I found it even more appropriate than I had at first thought.

[Midi file of the melody](http://back.numachi.com:8000/dtrad/midi/NCNTRYMD.midi) from the Digital Tradition collection.

 

 

The Hart Round

This tune comes from a very old songbook I used to have, which was published in the first decades of the last century. This was described as an old English round, but I know no more of its provenance than that.

[Midi file of the melody](https://rustbucket.net/leithian/notes/thehart.mid) generated by myself via abc (transcribed by ear.)

 

 

Some of this (and all of Lúthien's disputes with her Noldor kin) comes from the conflict between Amroth and Nimrodel (the tragic couple mentioned in LOTR) which is described in _Unfinished Tales,_ where it is stated that

"…she would not wed with him. She loved him indeed, for he was beautiful even for one of the Eldar, and valiant and wise; but she was of the Silvan Elves, and regretted the incoming of the Elves from the West, who (as she said) brought wars and destroyed the peace of old. She would speak only the Silvan tongue, even after it had fallen into disuse among the folk of Lórien, and she dwelt alone beside the falls of the river Nimrodel to which she gave her name."

I have ventured to presume that the outspoken and self-assured Grey-elven lady to some degree resembled her predecessor, and have thus dared to ascribe her opinions to Lúthien as well.

 

 

 _Could_ there have been something between Lúthien and Celegorm, if he'd bothered to show up and make himself agreeable four-hundred-odd years earlier? I doubt it not. He's brave and handsome and charming with the legendary family charisma. The tragedy of House Fëanor is that they all had so much potential for good, and threw it away with both hands, and having done so did at least as much damage to Middle-earth in the long run as Morgoth and his armies. What would have happened if the sons of Fëanor, post-Kinslaying, had nevertheless been at least civil to the rulers of Doriath, and what would have happened if Celegorm had married Lúthien, and _then_ the murders had been revealed? Well, there's an AU for the imagining.

—But he didn't, and continued to demean the Teleri and pursue the path of arrogance and greed, and so the last trace of divine favour leaves his House with the gift of his patron, and passes to his rival.

 

 

In the final encounter between Lúthien and the sons of Fëanor, she doesn't even acknowledge their existence — which is saying something considering that Celegorm's just tried to run Beren over and through and Curufin has flung her across his saddle-bow in their foiled kidnapping attempt. The way she cuts them dead is staggering; the equation with Orcs is found there too. Essentially, they don't exist for her now — they aren't even worthy of her anger. I wanted to indicate some kind of final closure which would make any further communication both irrelevant and impossible, as well as to suggest what could finally have pushed Huan over the edge into acting against the master for whose sake he had accepted the Doom of the Noldor, alone of all the other Hounds of Oromë's gift.

 

Scene XLII

 

"monuments": ObRef to several Sonnets, where the themes of love, mortality, Time and memory are woven together, most particularly numbers 55,

"Not marble, nor the gilded monuments of princes shall outlive this powerful rhyme, but you shall shine more bright in these contents than unswept stone, besmear'd with sluttish time, when wasteful war shall statues overturn…"

and 64,

"When I have seen by Time's fell hand defaced the rich proud cost of outworn buried age; when sometime lofty towers I see down-razed, and brass eternal slave to mortal rage; when I have seen the hungry ocean gain advantage on the kingdom of the shore…"

as well as 81,

…from hence your memory death cannot take, although in me each part will be forgotten. Your name from hence immortal life shall have, though I, once gone, to all the world must die:

the earth can yield me but a common grave, when you entombéd in men's eyes shall lie. Your monument shall be my gentle verse, which eyes not yet created shall o'er-read, and tongues to be your being shall rehearse, when all the breathers of this world are dead…

and the conclusion of 107,

"And thou in this shall find thy monument,  
when tyrants' tombs and crests of brass are spent."

 

 

"this time it's true": that was the excuse Lúthien gave to everyone when they got worried about her not communicating during the three days she was otherwise occupied:

And now was her labour but begun:long was she spinning, long she spun;and though with elvish skill she wroughtlong was her weaving. If men soughtto call her, crying from below,'Nothing I need,' she answered, 'go!I would keep my bed, and only sleepI now desire, who waking weep.'

These are, by-the-by, two of the most common and distinctive symptoms of depression.

 

 

 **She Moved Through The Fair** (first verse)

[A tragic love story](http://sniff.numachi.com/pages/tiMOVEFAIR%3BttMOVEFAIR.html) from Ireland of the "ghostly bride" class, first collected by Padraic Colum and Herbert Hughes  & published in 1909.

[Link to midi file](http://back.numachi.com:8000/dtrad/midi/MOVEFAIR.midi) of the melody from the Digital Tradition collection.

 

Scene XLIII

 

Not merely angst, I hope, but conveying the reality (Primary World as well as Arda) that the events which have significant impact on history are not all measurable in simple cause-and-effect equations, but follow more complex patterns of interaction whose terms may never be fully definable. Reducing the causes history to an either-or debate which is cast as exclusively _either_ strong individuals _or_ broad societal forces ignores the fact that society is made of nothing _but_ individuals, and the small decisions made each day for good or ill by said individuals is what builds up to movements, disasters, wars, reclamation projects, and the like. The top-down impact of authority figures on morale and a society's tenor is matched from beneath by countless examples of behavior and leadership on lesser scale, neither of which are separable from the other. The grand gestures and major events rest on a foundation of very minute actions and choices.

It is this reality which is behind the sense that fate can descend on a civilization for the deeds of its leaders, not unjustly, but because by action or inaction the group chooses to allow and approve those deeds, as played out in the ancient tragedies of _Oedipus_ and _Antigone._

 

 

 _Telemnar_ : I needed a masculine High-elven name and chose this one for the feckless Lieutenant based on the fact that many of the names of the Kings of Gondor are both Quenya and historical, and that Telemnar ("silver-flame") unlike some has no specific connotations of role or alliegiance or craft (i.e., Arciryas = "shiplord") and isn't similar enough to any other names to occasion confusion. No maligning of any actual First-Age Telemnar, if he existed, is intended by it.

 

Scene XLIV.i

 

The depiction of Lúthien's Working in action is, of course, entirely gapfilling: the Lay cuts from Huan's bringing her the cape to the engagement at Tol Sirion, and the actual escape is left to our imagination, as is his retrieval of the spell-cloak. But I have derived it from the earlier escape which is recounted in detail in Canto V:

 _.... Of cloudy hair_  
 _she wove a web like misty air_  
 _of moonless night, and thereof made_  
 _a robe as fluttering-dark as shade_  
 _beneath great trees, a magic dress_  
 _that all was drenched with drowsiness,_  
 _enchanted with a mightier spell_  
 _than Melian's raiment in that dell_  
 _wherein of yore did Thingol roam_  
 _beneath the dark and starry dome_  
 _that hung above the dawning world._  
 _And now this robe she round her furled,_  
 _and veiled her garments shimmering white;_  
 _her mantle blue with jewels bright_  
 _like crystal stars, the lilies gold,_  
 _were wrapped and hid; and down there rolled_  
 _dim dreams and faint oblivious sleep_  
 _falling about her, to softly creep_  
 _through all the air. Then swift she takes_  
 _the threads unused; of these she makes_  
 _a slender rope of twisted strands_  
 _yet long and stout, and with her hands_  
 _she makes it fast unto the shaft_  
 _of Hirilorn. Now, all her craft_  
 _and labour ended, looks she forth_  
 _from her little window facing North._  
  
_Already the sunlight in the trees_  
 _is drooping red, and dusk she sees_  
 _come softly along the ground below,_  
 _and now she murmurs soft and slow._  
 _Now chanting clearer down she cast_  
 _her long hair, till it reached at last_  
 _from her window to the darkling ground._  
 _Men far beneath her heard the sound;_  
 _but the slumbrous strand now swung and swayed_  
 _above her guards. Their talking stayed,_  
 _they listened to her voice and fell_  
 _suddenly beneath a binding spell._  


 

as well as from the fairy-tale that provides (like Rapunzel) a "negative inspiration" for this theme in the Geste — the image of the Castle being overwhelmed with enchanted sleep not to imprison the Princess, but in this case to ensure her escape. Stretching the parallel? Consider these earlier lines:

_Again she spake: 'Now go, I pray,_   
_to Melian the queen, and say:_   
_"thy daughter many a weary hour_   
_slow passing watches in her bower;_   
_a spinning wheel she begs thee send." '_

and after commissioning her loom from Daeron,

 _…This Dairon did and asked her then:_  
 _'O Lúthien, O Lúthien,_  
 _What wilt thou weave? What wilt thou spin?'_  
 _'A marvellous thread, and wind therein_  
 _a potent magic, and a spell_  
 _I will weave within my web that hell_  
 _nor all the powers of Dread shall break.'_  
 _Then Dairon wondered, but he spake_  
 _no word to Thingol, though his heart_  
 _feared the dark purpose of her art._  


(It almost seems as though she's giving him one last chance to redeem himself, by this vague answer — not enough information that anything could really be made of it, and no specific statement of plan — daring him not to betray her one more time,  in such a way that outraged innocence could retort with perfect honesty, "Yeah, I told him I was going to see if it was possible to weave a protection spell into cloth — is there something wrong with _that_? Is counting leaves the only thing I'm allowed to do now?")

The "take back the night" theme which is resumed at the conclusion of LOTR is particularly strong in _Leithian_ : the assertion that not even darkness is originally or rightfully under the control of evil, and is being reclaimed like a stolen territory by the just authority of the Powers through Melian and her daughter. Lúthien, in fact, _does_ "own the night" — making Morgoth's defeat all that more ironic.

 

Scene XLIV.ii

 

This setting is, I fervently hope, immediately recognizeable as Ard-galen at the Dagor Bragollach, which forms the subject of many lines throughout the _Lay of Leithian:_ introduction of such past history into the story is by no means my own invention. Here is the opening of LL1, Canto XI:

_Once wide and smooth a plain was spread,_   
_where King Fingolfin proudly led_   
_his silver armies on the green,_   
_his horses white, his lances keen;_   
_his helmets tall of steel were hewn,_   
_his shields were shining as the moon._   
_There trumpets sang both long and loud,_   
_and challenge rang unto the cloud_   
_that lay on Morgoth's northern tower,_   
_while Morgoth waited for his hour._

_Rivers of fire at dead of night_   
_in winter lying cold and white_   
_upon the plain burst forth, and high_   
_the red was mirrored in the sky._   
_From Hithlum's walls they saw the fire,_   
_the steam and smoke in spire on spire_   
_leap up, till in confusion vast_   
_the stars were choked._

One of the points of this cut-scene is to serve as a reminder that Celebrimbor too is a warrior no less than an artist, who will eventually be overcome and destroyed by the same adversary they are presently refusing to face. (See also _Unfinished Tales.)_

 

Scene XLIV.iii.

 

Huan's authority over the other hounds is revealed in Canto X, when after the final irreparable breach caused by the assassination attempt on Lúthien,

_"Thereafter never hound was whelped_   
_Would follow horn of Celegorm_   
_or Curufin......................."_

 

Scene XLV

 

More gapfilling — but there had to be considerable consternation, recrimination and embarrassment following the discovery. I've just tried to envision it plausibly and in character.

 

 

The presence of Celebrimbor in this scene is not only intended as foreshadowing of his break with the House of Fëanor, but also of much later events. As outlined in _UT,_ he and his own followers become involved with the dominion of Galadriel and Celeborn in Eriador during the Second Age, in which under the sway of the disguised Sauron they rebel against the authority of the Lord and Lady. I've tried to reinforce the fact that despite internal conflicts Curufin's son is proud and decisive, with strengths that can be turned against him, but not passive or without critical facilities — a very typical Noldo, all in all.

 

 

Gower's epilogue: No, the equation of Lúthien with Fingolfin in his duel with Morgoth isn't mine. I made the Éowyn – Eärnur – Fingolfin linkage on my own, but I rather had to be hit over the head with this one before I began to suspect it: after all, the story of the King's duel with Morgoth only occupies a prominent place in two Cantos! But this was verified in a remark I encountered in, I believe, _The Shaping of Middle Earth,_ where it is noted that Elven sages long debated which of the two was most valiant, going up against the Lord of Fetters. (After all, Lúthien not only went in unarmed, she acknowledged her name to the Enemy! But countered to this was the fact that she was, after all, half-Maia, and Fingolfin only a Noldor warrior, after all. So it was adjudged to be a draw.) Thus I think it's equally valid to make the comparison between one legendary hero riding up alone to the gates of the fortress, and the other.

(Yet another parallel is the arrival of the Eagles following the contest of wills: the fact that the Eagles got there in time to actually save them — thanks to Huan — is yet more validation of my frequent argument that the singlemost critical factor in taking on Dark Lords is reliable backup. (See also Solo, Cpt. Han)

I also wanted to point up the fact that Lúthien was never under any self-deceiving illusions that she was (at least by any outward measure) the ideal person for the job — simply the only one willing to take it on.

Lúthien wept not for very pain, and when he ceased she spoke again:

  
_Lúthien wept not for very pain,_   
_and when he ceased she spoke again:_   
_'My friend, I have a need for friends,_   
_as he who a long dark journey wends,_   
_and fears the road, yet dare not turn_   
_and look back where the candles burn_   
_in windows he has left. The night_   
_in front, he doubts to find the light_   
_that far beyond the hills he seeks'_   
_And thus of Melian's words she speaks,_   
_and of her doom and her desire_   
_to climb the mountains, and the fire_   
_and ruin of the Northern realm_   
_to dare, a maiden without helm_   
_or sword, or strength of hardy limb,_   
_where magic founders and grows dim…_

 

Part of the phrasing in this speech was inspired by Sonnet 60:

Like as the waves make to the pebbled shore,   
so do our minutes hasten to their end,   
each changing place with that which goes before,   
in sequent toil all forwards do contend… along with the aesthetic device used elsewhere by Shakespeare of building a rhythm of consecutive similar phrases, as in Sonnets 66 ("Tired with all these, for restful death I cry,—") and 91 ("Some glory in their birth, some in their skill") to rise to a crescendo of themes followed by counterpoint.

The Songs:

I know it's a cardinal rule of fanfiction not to create "songfics" for many good and sound reasons; I also couldn't write this Act any other way. Hopefully the "authentic" nature of the ballads employed and their application made up for breaking this rule not once, but eleven times, on the principle that if one is going to do so, let it be on a grand scale.

Editorial decisions were made after the fact — that is, I didn't sit down and think, "I need verses, which ones can I appropriately use?" but rather, while listening or singing throughout the day, would observe, "Wow, that fits _far_ too well — but 'London' in the second line just doesn't work." Hence the first verse of _Queen of Hearts_ was dropped partly because it wasn't as evocative in the story — but even were that not the case, would still have been ruled out due to the intrinsic reference to card games, which I at least cannot justify in First Age Middle-earth. ("To the Queen of Hearts is the Ace of Sorrows…").

Lesley Nelson's site, [The Contemplator,](http://www.contemplator.com/) has a great deal of information about the traditional ballads of the British Isles and North America. I find the midi files rather over-orchestrated and too heavy on the piano, obscuring the tunes, but at least it gives a gist of the melodies. (ETA: DON'T HOTLINK THE MIDIS! It's just as bad as for graphics.

This German site, [20,000 Volkslieder](http://ingeb.org/folksong.html), has a lot of traditional songs, though without the provenances and background information, but the midi files, when available, are less overworked.

The [Digital Tradition](https://rustbucket.net/leithian/notes/www.mudcat.org) collection has huge numbers of tunes, many with midi files and sheet music, but the provenances are iffy and there's little-to-no background information. The midi files, however, are usually clean and uncluttered. I prefer [this mirror site](http://sniff.numachi.com/%7Erickheit/dtrad/) as easier to load.

The [Internet Renaissance Band](http://www.csupomona.edu/%7Ejcclark/emusic/index.html) doesn't have as many ballads, of course, but the arrangements are excellent and any of the midi files here will give an excellent idea of the richness of pre-classical music and introduction to the world of Early Music at no cost. "Elslein, liebes Elslein" is a particularly fine one, and were I not limiting myself to English songs for practical reasons (I'm not confident of being able to make a singable translation of anything) I would have found a way to use this in the Script somehow: "So sein zwei tiefe Wasser wohl zwischen dir und mir—" There lie two deep Waters, parting thee and me—

[abc](http://www.gre.ac.uk/%7Ec.walshaw/abc/) is a music language which can be used in a variety of computer applications, some of which are freeware, others shareware — but I myself use it most as a shorthand for jotting down melodies without music paper. It uses only basic ASCII characters and is extremely flexible — and you can actually sight-read it! Learn all about it at [the page of Chris Walshaw, the inventor](http://www.gre.ac.uk/%7Ec.walshaw/abc/).

Finally, I cannot recommend the old recordings by Joan Baez highly enough. It isn't simply that they are historical artifacts of the beginnings of the reclamation of traditional music in recent decades — they are spectacular renderings of the old songs, cleanly and clearly performed. (The one danger is that they will likely make you impatient of sloppy vocallists with indistinct articulation and poor quality-control.) Growing up hearing these around the house helped to create mental linkages between "real life" and the mythopoeic that are not without a great deal of responsibility for what you are currently reading — her versions highlight the _story_ of the ballads and the drama that is created through the combination of simple dialogue and stock imagery.

FRONTSPIECE: "Black is the color..."

(Some of the detail here is far clearer in the [full-resolution version for printing,](https://rustbucket.net/leithian/hires/act_III_hires.pdf) which will open in a new window, and is about 900 KB.)

The setting, and the window-like murals I've devised, are intentionally evocative of the betrayal scene in LL1, where Luthien climbs one of the tallest trees in Doriath to look at the distant mountains of the north, while Daeron has gone directly to her father after assuring her that he will help her in her aim. Also note the Eagles in the distance — a deliberate reference to future events, and not just there to fill such blank space.

Lúthien's costume is taken straight from the description of her escape in LL1, Canto V, and modeled in part on the illustrations of Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema; Finduilas' gown has overtones of the Art-Nouveau Medieval styles inspired by William Morris' Arts and Crafts movement (and everyone knows such dresses are held up by magic.)

The fact that Lúthien's haircut hides her ears is not accidental, either, any more than the invocations of Lothlórien in the visual design of the set.


	77. ENTERACT

**Gower:**

Now let your searching fancy far   
across wooded hill and vale   
follow upon the track left after   
like to the storm wind's ragged trail   
of shattered trunk and fallen rafter   
where roil and ruin stir and swirl   
in the wake of three -- but  _three_ , alone   
whose deeds, like gods', should hurl   
down lord and land, Power from throne,   
setting at naught all long-made schemes   
of foe and friend alike, all dreams   
of conquest, of defense, all surety--   
Deeds of renown, fearful purity   
of intent beyond any sound constraint,   
whether of reason or of reasoned dread,   
requiring no conjecture to make faint   
the heart where memory in's stead   
sufficient proves; recalling these,   
the darting course across Beleriand   
that ever northward runs, let please   
thyself to turn imagining to stand   
witness to havoc wrought like rising gale--   
increas'd consternation in the minds   
that none might formerly assail,   
and hear the echoes of those winds   
that shake the solid roots of rule,   
the hallways mighty of the courts   
most high--

[Nargothrond: one of the hallways along the throne room leading to the side entrances -- Orodreth is striding along at high speed, Gwindor trailing along in his wake. He flings open the doors and storms through, his expression one of absolute intensity, talking as he goes:]

 **Orodreth** :

I want you to summon everyone in the City, _not_ stopping to discuss why, and at once. Assemble them here within the quarter-hour. Set the perimeter here first of all. Make sure my daughter's guards are on full alert. And don't talk to your father, either. _No_ discussions until I make my statement. Is that understood?

 **Gwindor** : [wide-eyed]

\-- Ah, Sir, when you say "everyone," you don't mean--

 **Orodreth** :

\-- _Everyone_. Awake, asleep, working, playing, loving -- get them up, get them out and get them _in here_ if you have to drag them by the hair, my lord. Every last person in Nargothrond.

 **Gwindor** : [breathlessly]

Y--yes, Si--

[he breaks off, it's settling in]

\-- _Sire_.

[They share a long, bleak look. Gwindor swallows.]

Yes, your Majesty.

[He hurries off. Orodreth lets out a long sigh and walks more slowly up to the dais, still more slowly up it and to the throne. On the topmost step he goes down on one knee and bows his head.]

 **Orodreth** : [softly]

I will do my best. --And it will never be enough.

[cut to the now wide-open main doors of the Throne Room from without, tracking the Sons of Feanor and their entourage as they enter the now-filled and utterly silent audience hall, with an armed escort, not of their own providing. They halt in front of the throne, before which Orodreth stands, holding the crown in his hands. Celegorm gives Orodreth a vicious Look;  Curufin looks around and smiles nonchalantly. You can't tell if they _know_ or not, from the way they're acting -- but Curufin does have his hand on the hilt of Angcrist.]

 **Curufin** :

Oh, come on now, was all this fuss _necessary_?

[he gestures around at the grim-faced guards]

You know we don't just come when you whistle, my lord Regent!

[Orodreth does not speak; Curufin shrugs]

Well, now you've got us here, why don't you say something, Sir Steward? What do you want, eh?

 **Orodreth** : [deliberately]

 _Not_ Steward.

[silence -- he raises the crown and places it on his head]

\-- _King_.

[The Sons of Feanor exchange glances, and then lock stares with Orodreth -- who stares them down.]

And I want _nothing_ from you. Your tally is up again, -- _Kinslayers_.

[The Feanorian supporters exchange looks of dismay and subtly, but distinctly, start drawing away from their lords. _Now_ Orodreth seats himself on the throne. When the brothers start to try to interrupt him he just keeps talking over them.]

You will not, however, make _me_ into one. My people want you butchered. If it is not unanimous, there are at least no audible dissenting voices. _But I am_ _not you_. Be grateful for that, if you have it in you to be grateful for anything. And _I_ rule here. --Be grateful for that as well. Luthien, called Tinuviel, has won -- there is no Tol Sirion any more. And my brother has triumphed as well, for Beren Barahirion still lives. Witnesses here have attested both. And Huan has returned. Your bags are being packed -- and checked for valuables -- as we speak.

[he gestures round at the silent, shocked crowd of Nargothronders]

Whoever wishes to go with you may do so. I don't care where you go, so long as you're out of the realm by sunset. --Don't _ever_ cross the border again, or you will be treated as enemies and shot on sight. At which point it will be on your own heads, being forewarned and far from helpless. There is neither shelter nor friendship for you or your brothers, anywhere in Narog, henceforth. Please try to remember that.

[pause -- the Sons of Feanor look around and see that their retainers are relegating them to the "unlucky and cursed" category too.]

 **Curufin** : [smiling through his teeth]

Oh, we will. We most definitely will.

[spots Celebrimbor in the crowd]

You going to remember your family duty at last, boy?

 **Celebrimbor** :

I don't have any immediate family in Middle-earth. So I'm doing the best I can with the nearest I have left. --Does that answer your question, milord?

[Curufin shakes his head in an expression of contempt. Celegorm, face flushed with growing rage, goes as if to step up on the dais and accost Orodreth, and is met with the barred spears of the Guard. Speechless, he too turns away after his brother. Out of the shadows Huan rises and goes after Celegorm, head and tail low.]

 **Celegorm** :

Ha, so _now_ you come skulking back to me, you traitor! A little late to be remembering your _duty_ \--

[Huan follows them sadly, the escort respectfully parting for him, not jostling him like the Sons of Feanor.]

 **Orodreth** : [raising his voice to the guards]

Enough! Remember my commands: do not shame my brother with discourteous action!

[chastened, the escort snaps to professional dispassion and escorts the Sons of Feanor out the doors without further rough handling. The King reaches up with a bitter smile to adjust the unfamiliar weight of the crown, and his daughter puts her hand on his shoulder, moving closer to the throne]

 **Finduilas** : [softly - she has clearly been crying recently]

\--What will become of her now? Of -- them?

 **Orodreth** :

Only they can choose that, child. --It isn't Luthien Tinuviel I worry for, but The Beoring.

[she looks at him uncertainly; he stares off at the vaulting.]

For now he, too, has left the Island behind him. --May the Powers send him better rest than mine has been these years.

[she takes his hand rather desperately in her own, as he whispers:]

The question is -- what will become of _us_ now . . . ?

 **Gower** :

\--most ancient--

[Southwestern Doriath: an armed camp, in the greenwood, Thingol in full armor coming from his command tent with Captain Mablung as Beleg enters the clearing, accompanied by a small crowd of warriors, in camo and looking absolutely grim.]

 **Beleg** :

\--You want the report in public, or privately first, Sir?

 **Thingol** : [sardonic]

Might as well give it right here and now -- we've done everything _else_ as a public show, why stop now?

[Beleg gives a short nod, goes on]

 **Beleg** :

The good news is, you don't have to worry about the Sons of Feanor showing up to dinner and drinks. Luthien suborned one of their agents and broke out on her own.

 **Mablung** : [not-quite aside, innocent look]

 _Again_ . . .

[Beleg catches his eye, shakes his head]

 **Beleg** :

There's more. And worse.

 **Thingol** :

Say on.

 **Beleg** :

She will not come home again. She's thrown her lot in with _him_ for good, and no one knows where they've gone. No sign or word of Master Daeron. And--

[he starts to speak and stops abruptly]

 **Thingol** :

Don't try to spare me, Strongbow. --Or soften the blow.

 **Beleg** :

\--Orodreth is King in Nargothrond.

[Thingol closes his eyes, turning his face away.]

I'm so very sorry--

 **Thingol** : [holding up his hand to stop him]

\--I guessed that was the burden of your message. It does not make it any easier. --Are there details?

 **Beleg** :

There are.

 **Thingol** : [not asking]

They're bad.

 **Beleg** :

They're very bad.

[pause]

 **Thingol** :

Captain Strongbow, could I ask you to keep them until we get home again? I'm not ready to deal with so much news right now, for such a long ride back. And that way you will only have to tell it once.

 **Beleg** :

No trouble, Sir.

 **Mablung** : [quietly]

Sire, what do we do _now_?

 **Thingol** : [eerie calm]

\--We go home. We go back to work. --What else can we do? She clearly does not need our help any more, nor, apparently, ever did. --And if she does, we have no hope of finding her, to _be_ of any use. No: we will return, and see if our Lady will consent to advise me again, now that I am willing to listen, or if that is lost to us too.

 **Mablung** : [diffidently]

At least he's not a Kinslayer, Sir. You said so yourself, remember . . .

 **Thingol** : [ice]

He might as well be. Don't speak of him again in my hearing. We will never see her again. --Or at least, not as long as he lives. Perhaps she'll come back to us after. Until then -- my daughter might as well be dead, thanks to him.

 **Mablung** :

You don't think -- he seemed a decent sort -- that he'll bring her back home, after she's calmed down and gotten over her temper?

 **Thingol** :

If he does, I'll kill him, and I'm sure he knows that perfectly well.

[grimaces]

\--Unless you think he's actually going to hold up his end of the bargain and come back with a Silmaril in hand--?

[he slams his fist against the trunk of the nearest tree and sighs bitterly. After a moment -- to Beleg:]

Thank you for undertaking this mission, Strongbow; I'm glad you're back safely. Mablung, can you make sure that everything is struck properly and that we're ready to start back as soon as possible?

[Mablung nods]

Thank you.

[Thingol ducks back into his tent and closes the flap behind him. Mablung exchanges looks and brief hand-signals with several of the troops standing round and they go off to get things underway. Beleg sinks down to sit against another tree, rubbing his hand over his eyes. Mablung kneels down beside him, looking concerned]

 **Mablung** :

You all right, old chap? You look pretty beat -- nobody winged you, did they? --Not to be insulting or anything.

 **Beleg** : [shaking his head]

I _am_ beat -- not physically, though.

[pause. looking up at Mablung, bleakly:]

\--Place is a ruddy _mess_.

 **Mablung** :

Us? Or _them_?

[Beleg nods]

I know. --I know.

[pats the other officer sympathetically on the shoulder]

Well--

[sighs deeply]

\--"back to work--"

[he rises and goes off to assist in the packing, while Beleg folds his arms and leans his head against the tree, closing his eyes.]

 

 **Gower** :

\--and the lowest low--  

[Angband - the great hall. Behind a column of appalling design and construction, two Orcs are carrying on a muttered conversation]

 **Commander** :

\--All right, _give_! Is it true the Eagles took Fangs away to eat him?

 **Tracker** :

Nobody knows! He's just _gone_ , like the spies. The downdraft blew away any tracks that might have been left around the entrance, and then farther out the stinking wolfpacks went charging all the way out over the Plain, so even casting around's been a waste of our time.

 **Commander** :

Hah! So much for "superior wolf senses"! Pack of slobbering idiots. They should _never_ have taken my crew off the Gate.

 **Tracker** :

So what exactly happened? Anyone figure it out?

 **Commander** :

As far as we can tell, old Sauron wasn't telling the truth -- not the whole of it, anyway -- in his reports to HQ. Big surprise there, of course. _Yes_ , there was a batch of spies disguised as us that he caught sneaking through his territory. _Yes_ , that Dog was involved. But the kicker is -- get this -- his whole cursed defense system was blown _through_ , _apart_ , and _away_ , _not_ by the stinking _Hound_ , _not_ by the _warriors_ , but by that _Elf-chick_ he's been trying to snag for the past eight-nine years, you know, the one whose supposed to be some kind of demi-demi-goddess or something. _She_ was the one who did it all, and our prize Sorcerer, I'm-so-scary, everyone-trembles-at-my-name -- he somehow _forgets_ to put this little fact in his little reports.

 **Tracker** : [growls]

You mean all those spot-checks of IDs that we've been having, and the random interrogations, the flay-one-in-every-hundred and all, that's all been _wasted_?

 **Commander** :

You _surprised_?

[snorts]

Come on, were you spawned yesterday? If you don't think there's just as much screw-up-and-cover-up at the top as down the lines, you need to start _thinking_. --And _she_ was the one who just traipsed in here, la la la, "Oh my, is this Angband? I had a fight with my parents and ran away from home and I'm looking for a job," playing all stupid and naive, and -- The Boss _buys_ it. Hook, chain, and thumbscrew. Never occurs to him to ask why this Princess just walks in -- how she got through the desert, where she got the wings, and why in the name of the Void she would come _here_ of all Middle-earth. Or -- who else might be with her. Huh. And they call us stupid!

 **Tracker** :

So then what happened? And weren't they in disguise too? I heard it was two of them, or maybe three. Wasn't the Hound disguised as a warg or something?

 **Commander** :

Nobody's sure. But yeah, she came in pretending to be one of Sauron's little delivery-girls from the old fort, and a bunch of people say there was a wolf with her, which is interesting, 'cause usually those freaks can't _stand_ each other, and a few of the lads say it was even Old Long-Tail. Which would be _really_ interesting, 'cause that _was_ in the reports that he was dead, and if it _was_ the Hound disguised as Fangs' sire, and Ugly didn't even know the difference, well, all I'm saying is it's a shame Fangs disappeared, so we can't interrogate _him_.

 **Tracker** : [regretfully]

Aw, _yeah_ \--

 **Commander** :

All we know is, somebody got hurt at the Gate, 'cause there was a fair puddle of blood there, but there weren't any bodies left. And nobody knows what all happened after the lights went out. Except maybe The Boss, and He ain't telling. When the Elf-chick started singing, everybody went nighty-night -- even The Boss, I guess. --Hey, didja know that Balrogs snore? Kinda sounds like bubbling mud.

[provides helpful imitation; both Orcs snicker]

When I woke up, me and some of the lads was first, and there we saw it -- the Iron Crown, right in the middle of the floor, with this broken knife next to it, and only two of the curséd jewels left -- and you know some idiot just has to go and cut his fingers off saying "This doesn't look sharp enough to cut through metal" and his yelling gets the wolves going and that was when we realized that The Boss Himself was -- _had been_ \-- asleep too, cause He jumps up going "--Whuh? Eh? Where is she?!" and kinda looking around squiggle-eyed like He was completely stinking drunk after a good looting spree, ya know?

[leans closer, conspiratorial whisper]

So then He gets a look at the stuff on the floor, and then -- get this -- He actually _feels on top of His head_ to make sure it ain't still there! And _then_ \-- He sees the blood on His hand from the broken-off bit where it hit Him, and starts screaming so loud _spit's_ comin' out of His mouth, completely loses it -- I tell ya, nobody's heard _anything_ like it since that sore loser stuck Him in the foot after we won. Remember that?

 **Tracker** :

Arr! Yeah -- somebody's _gotta_ do a cadence on this. Y'know, have the drum-beat for the crown falls off His head--

 **Commander** :

Huh huh huh -- "Thump!"

[sfx - the amusement is interrupted by a sudden fiery CRACK as a Balrog-whip snaps at them, knocking them out of sight beyond the column. The shadow over there deepens--]

 **Morgoth** : [slowly and ominously]

\-- _So_. You vermin think it's _funny_ , do you?  

 **Gower** :

            --Fuel   
        cast anew upon the coals of war; reports   
        gaining in stature as they lose in truth   
        --yet in truth still less, than simple fact   
        plainly told, of odds impossible, forsooth,   
        yet accomplishéd, hazards dared and met, act   
        and choice, folly indeed, yet shall one say   
        greater than that first folly, striving again   
        to break the Iron Lord's iron hold, --nor slay   
        Kindred in the doing?   
    
                            What followed then   
        all know, have heard the legends, tales   
        sung or half-recounted, how the stolen gem   
        retaken was, and then again by sharper tooth   
        than any e'er forged by hand or hammer, cut   
        with the hand that held it, neither ruth   
        nor reason to restrain, ere jaws shut   
        in capture vain, that availeth not taker   
        nor Master of the same, deadly prize   
        that giveth aye power, but withal pain,   
        scorching the vessel caught with lies   
        and promises of glory, wrought by strain   
        of Song unholy to guard rebellion's home,   
        mightiest of all that ever was, or shall   
        on this sad earth mad-ranting roam.

        Those who had seen the hopeless Quest assigned,   
        the mocking promise made, the vaunting boast   
        returned, as deemed, in vain, anon did find   
        that never word lightly-uttered did dearer cost,   
        when Carcaroth the Red-Jawed -- the dreadful Thirst   
        whose panting desire nothing in life alleving   
        that inburnt stone should ever inflame anew -- burst   
        the bonds unbroken of great Melian's long weaving   
        against all beings dark and fell, being both Light   
        and Darkness blent together, two workings of Powers   
        earthly and divine: living, Undead, ancient melded might   
        newly fashioned into unholy whole, from the towers   
        of Angband where long were held--

        In those sad hours of shadow's tyranny,   
        in weary shame and hangdog penury,   
        return the rescued two -- yet now are three,   
        with Huan beside, faithful unforsaking,   
        knowing not what to find, yet thinking never   
        to meet the strong amaze, the outcry making   
        hope as of prophetic sign, the crowds ever   
        growing in much-garrisoned Menegroth, where   
        all needs must gather from the unsure shelter   
        of Doriath, seeking defense against a fear   
        forgotten for so long a year.

                                    Of revelation,   
        vaunt of the Quest accomplished, yet undone,   
        of fatal mystery unfolded, of admiration won   
        yet half-unwilling, yet wholly given;   
        of the great Hunt upon the borders riven   
        of the enchanted wood, of the foe driven   
        by furious hatred and tormenting inward fire   
        --the tale was told, and told will be in Ages hence;   
        as too the last: how Beren took Doom still higher   
        upon himself, ceding his life in the King's defense,   
        handless to stand battle between his hand's thief   
        and his love's father, though hopeless contest   
        it should be, and the Deed in ending bring but grief   
        to Thingol, that Man despised should prove best   
        of friends -- too late, alas! the learning,   
        the victory sore tainted with bitter rue   
        that mortality win but Death in's earning.   
        Nor him alone, before or after, for then too   
        Huan at last went to his foretold fate, laid

       dying at slayer's side, and Luthien the Nightingale   
        died of heart's breaking like a mortal maid   
        in an old song half-forgotten, a foolish tale.   
        They judged the file ended, the archive closed.   
                                           --They erred.

 


	78. Enteract Index

There are two (perhaps three) reasons for dealing with the main actions of the Geste in this roundabout fashion. The first, most basic one is simply that there's no way (for me at least) to do it, that the contrast between the subject matter and the tone is too great.

Part of this, and possibly a separate reason in its own right, is the difficulty noted by The Professor in "On Fairy-stories" intrinsic in  converting fantasy to drama. Logically, it would seem that this difficulty would forbid the existence of the Script itself; but in fact there is very little that is _fantasy_ , strictly speaking, about it. Aside from Huan's presence, the special effects are minimal, and mostly peripheral — could be largely done away with with very little rewriting and recasting into narrative chorus. It is character-driven drama, and the parts of it that are fantastic and not mundane, derive (or should) from the dialogue itself, and the images that those words invoke in the imagination of the audience. Little more disbelief should require suspension, either by work of stagecraft or by (heaven forfend) the audience, than in presenting a production of _The Misanthrope_ or _The Cocktail Party,_ were the Script somehow to be put on. By far the greatest part of the budget would be devoted to the sets instead of the effects; and even those could be sketchily evoked by a skilled production team, as I have seen done with an excellent student production of the _Winter's Tale_.

But that would not be possible, attempting to dramatize the several battles at Tol-in-Gaurhoth, or the Anfauglith with its transformation scenes, or the wizards' duel between Morgoth and Lúthien, or the Eagles, or the Hunting of the Wolf — those episodes _are_ the imagery, and unless storyboarded,* simply cannot be presented in a scripted format. And so like Shakespeare in _Henry V,_ I leave it to the combined skill of the Narrator and the audience's imagination to make "this glassy square" the contested places of Beleriand, whether the struggles be magical or mundane.

Finally — the ultimate reason for the Script's existence is to bring out that which is hidden, and thus illustrating the ramifications of the Geste, and the widening repercussions of the waves created by it, seems to me the most appropriate way of treating these episodes.

* _No_. Don't even start. That includes you, NovusSibyl.

 

 

Nargothrond:

 _This_ is the center of my characterization of Orodreth — this scene as drawn in both of the Lay fragments, each version of which has its own dramatic delights. Again, I feel rather badly, since I can't compare with the originals, which I'm simply translating out here with minimal invention: all the work is essentially done for me, I'm just filling in the gaps.

Very simply, Orodreth has to be the same person who on the one hand didn't argue strongly on his brother's behalf and who lost an undamaged command to the Enemy…yet who for centuries held a castle which was not simply a remote garrison but the capital of a province which controlled the only north-south corridor in Western Beleriand, through which all friendly traffic for much of the First Age was compelled to travel (the alternative being going across Ard-galen, down through Aglon, south through the east side of the subcontinent, then west along Doriath's southern borders to the seacoast, or the reverse — not very practical at all), who enjoyed a friendly relationship with the traitors prior to the coup, — and who, when presented a second time with the alternative of passive non-resistance to the status quo and cathartic violence, held against both strong influences with these words:

"The kingdom now is mine alone. I will allow. no spilling of kindred blood by kin,"

when

_"Let us slay these faithless lords untrue!"_   
_the fickle folk now loudly cried_   
_with Felagund who would not ride._

In the second fragmentary version of the Lay, this scene is even more fully developed:

_To Nargothrond no more he came_   
_but thither swiftly ran the fame_   
_of their dead king and his great deed,_   
_how Lúthien the Isle had freed:_

_the Werewolf Lord was overthrown,_   
_and broken were his towers of stone._   
_For many now came home at last_   
_who long ago to shadow passed;_   
_and like a shadow had returned_   
_Huan the hound, though scant he earned_   
_of praise or thanks from Celegorm._   
_There now arose a growing storm,_   
_a clamour of many voices loud,_   
_and folk whom Curufin had cowed_   
_and their own king had help denied,_   
_in shame and anger now they cried:_

_'Come! Slay these faithless lords untrue!_  
 _Why lurk they here? What will they do,_  
 _but bring Finarfin's kin to naught,_  
 _treacherous cuckoo-guests unsought?_  
 _Away with them!' But wise and slow_  
 _Orodreth spoke: 'Beware, lest woe_  
 _and wickedness to worse ye bring!_  
 _Finrod is fallen. I am king._  
 _But even as he would speak,_   
I now command you. I will not allow in Nargothrond the ancient curse from evil unto evil worse to work. With tears for Finrod weep repentant! Swords for Morgoth keep! No kindred blood shall here be shed. Yet here shall neither rest nor bread the brethren find who set at naught Finarfin's house. Let them be sought, unharmed to stand before me! Go!  
The courtesy of Finrod show!'

_In scorn stood Celegorm, unbowed,_   
_with glance of fire in anger proud_   
_and menacing; but at his side_   
_smiling and silent, wary-eyed,_   
_was Curufin, with hand on haft_   
_of his long knife. And then he laughed,_   
_and 'Well?' said he. 'Why didst thou call_   
_for us, Sir Steward? In thy hall_   
_we are not wont to stand. Come, speak,_   
_if aught of us thou has to seek!'_

_Cold words Orodreth answered slow:_   
_'Before the king ye stand. But know,_   
_of you he seeks for naught. His will_   
_ye come to answer, and to fulfil._   
_Be gone forever, ere the day_   
_shall fall into the sea! Your way_   
_shall never lead you hither more,_   
_nor any son of Fëanor;_   
_of love no more shall there be bond_   
_between your house and Nargothrond!'_

_'We will remember it,' they said,_   
_and turned upon their heels, and sped,_   
_saddled their horses, trussed their gear,_   
_and went with hound and bow and spear,_   
_alone; for none of all the folk_   
_would follow them. No word they spoke_   
_but sounded horns, and rode away_   
_like wind at end of stormy day._

I hardly had to do anything. It's all there in the original, and a little consideration of the geopolitics and alternatives, (along with first- and second-hand experience of sibling and group dynamics) unfolds the whole messy interpersonal aspect of the setup of the situation, leading stage by stage inescapably yet not with absolute inevitability to the prophesied Doom.

 

 

Doriath:

This scene, like the next, I had to build, and not merely re-present in modern unrhymed form; but the scene itself is merely gapfilling. The outlines of the unwritten cantos in _LB_ describe the "meanwhiles" in Doriath, the sorrow at the flight of Lúthien, how "Thingol's heart was hardened against Beren despite words of Melian," and relate how during the unsuccessful search for Lúthien, Daeron splits off from the rest of the seekers and disappears, with only rumors left through history of him wandering far in the East, where his flute might yet be heard. Celegorm's embassy shows up, and the letter, and the ambassadors, are so obnoxious, stating that "Beren and Felagund are dead, that Celegorm will make himself king of Narog, and while telling him that Lúthien is safe in Nargothrond and treating for her hand, hints that she will not return," and also warning him against troubling the matter of the Silmarils, that "Thingol is wroth — and is moved to think better of Beren, while yet blaming for the woes that followed his coming to Doriath, and most for loss of Dairon." And so he prepares an army to invade Nargothrond.

Subsequently, however, things get even more complicated."Melian says she would forbid this evil war of Elf with Elf, but that never shall Thingol cross blade with Celegorm." The army sets out, but before they get too far they hit another invading Orc-host, sent out by Sauron in hopes of catching Lúthien, as the rumors of her wandering have reached the Enemy. Thingol's forces are victorious, and the King slays the Orc-chieftain himself, fighting with Mablung at his side.

(It is not clear whether it was the leader of the first Orc-raid, as in the completed portion, or the second raider captain, who was to be finally named Boldog, as in the outline; I'm going by the former, as that's the only instance where the enemy commander's name is relevant. I'm also going with the assumption that there were two raids, and that these were but the latest of many attempts on Doriath, not only on the basis of the LL fragments but also of the Lay of the Children of Hurin, where it is said of Sauron,

Thû who was thronéd as thane most mightyneath Morgoth Bauglir; whom that mighty one bade'Go ravage the realm of the robber Thingol,and mar the magic of Melian the Queen.'

I also find it logical that these would be chronic attempts over the First Age, but significantly stepped up in the past decade following the breaking of the Leaguer and most particularly the acquisition of the Gaurhoth as forward regional command.)

"Though victorious Thingol is filled with still more disquiet at Morgoth's hunt for Lúthien. Beleg goes forth from the camp on Doriath's borders and journeys, unseen by the archers, to Narog. He brings tidings of the flight of Lúthien, the rescue of Beren, and the exile of Celegorm and Curufin."

This sentence is what I've expanded into the second scenelet of the Enteract — though much of the matter of it has indeed been made present already in Act III through Lúthien's warnings regarding the likelihood of such actions. It shows a far greater level of maturity, both in terms of strategy and restraint, than was shown by the Noldor under Fingon at Alqualondë, despite outrageous provocation — exactly what one would expect of a successful leader with many embattled centuries of experience — as well as the quality and loyalty of his people. There's no sense that there is anything terribly exceptional (aside from the fact that it would likely be impossible for any one else in Beleriand) about Beleg ghosting into the heart of potentially-hostile territory and staying long enough to hear all relevant facts so that Thingol will be informed enough to act as prudently as possible: he's "the chief of his scouts," it's simply his job.

Even though the Lay does not set out the familial connections between the House of Finwë and the sovereign of Doriath (which may well not have been fully defined at the time of its inception) the outlines make it clear that it is both offenses, and not merely that against Lúthien, nor the personal insult of it, which put Elu quite literally up in arms. "He is roused to wrath by the hints of the letter that Celegorm will leave Felagund to die, and will usurp the throne of Nargothrond," and there is an intimation of _weregild_ in the demand for "recompense," in addition to material support in efforts to locate Lúthien, that was later sent to Maedhros et al as Thingol's considered response to the news. This is quite in keeping with the ancient views of kinship whereby siblings' children were (in ideal at least) considered to be no different from one's own; q.v. Théoden's adoption of his niece and nephew in LOTR. Plainly the friendly relations between the two Elf-kings, revealed in detail in _Silm.,_ (where after the revelation of the Kinslaying has blown over, as Thingol said it would, Finrod not only has his friendship, but the ability to persuade him against his inclinations and better judgement in the matter of the Haladin) are background, even as the Kinslaying, from the earliest development of Nargothrond as a City proper.

The increased demoralization of Doriath, which began with Daeron's revelation and the assigning of the Quest, and Lúthien's subsequent contagious despair, is inevitable, given the succession of losses and bad news; it also is in keeping with the interconnection of leadership and populace, and the complicit responsibility for bad decisions and consequent Fate in the ancient worldview.

Finally, Thingol's closing words are not incompatible with the statement in the outlines that "He renews his vow to imprison Beren for ever if he does not return with a Silmaril, though Melian warns him that he knows not what he says," in harking back to the earlier part of the Lay, when his first inclination is to execute Beren, and only the reluctant recollection of his promise prevents him. It is also in line with the ancient patterns of bad decisions progressively interfering with the ability to heed or perceive divine warnings, despite all best intentions, seen equally throughout the _Silmarillion_ as the works of Aeschylus.

So while the specifics of the dialogue are my own devising, the substance and the scenario are entirely canonical.

 

 

**Angband:**

This third is the most conjectured, but no less necessary or grounded in canon. It is noted in HOME (I think it's in _Shaping of Middle-earth)_ that Morgoth was mocked behind his back by the Orcs after his loss, and given the caustic and sullen attitude of the rank-and-file in LOTR towards Sauron, it isn't much of a stretch, I think, to guess how it would have sounded. It's also possible thus to reconcile the apparently contradictory statements in _Silm._ that no songs were made about Fingolfin's Fall on either side, with the Lay's that "Orcs would after laughing tell" of the Duel, the answer being, —only when there was no chance of him overhearing! Dark Lords tend not to be the sort of easy-going commanders willing to turn an indulgent eye to such things as "morale checks" [a one-fingered salute] or the ribald songs that even Julius Caesar tolerated from his armies.

As for the substance of the griping — there's no guesswork about that at all. It's horribly yet hilariously clear that Sauron didn't make anything like a full, free, and frank disclosure of the circumstances surrounding the loss of his command. What he left out, and what he _did_ say, can be reconstructed from the events that followed and the words of the Lay:

 __  
Then his heart with doubt and wrath was burned:  
new tidings of dismay he learned,  
how Thû was o'erthrown and his strong isle  
broken and plundered, how with guile  
his foes no guile beset; and spies  
he feared, till each Orc to his eyes  
was half suspect. Still ever down  
the aisléd forest came renown  
of Huan baying, hound of war  
that Gods unleashed in Valinor.

 _Then Morgoth of Huan's fate bethought_  
long rumoured, and in dark he wrought.  
Fierce hunger-haunted packs he had  
that in wolvish form and flesh were clad,  
but demon spirits dire did hold;  
and ever wild their voices rolled  
in cave and mountain where they housed  
and endless snarling echoes roused.  
From these a whelp he chose and fed  
with his own hand on bodies dead,  
on fairest flesh of Elves and Men,  
till huge he grew and in his den  
no more could creep, but by the chair  
of Morgoth's self would lie and glare,  
nor suffer Balrog, Orc, nor beast  
to touch him. Many a ghastly feast  
he held beneath that awful throne,  
rending flesh and gnawing bone.  
There deep enchantment on him fell,  
the anguish and the power of hell;  
more great and terrible he became  
with fire-red eyes and jaws aflame,  
with breath like vapours of the grave,  
than any beast of wood or cave,  
than any beast of earth or hell  
that ever in any time befell,  
surpassing all his race and kin,  
the ghastly tribe of Draugluin.

 _Him Carcharoth, the Red Maw,_  
name the songs of Elves.  
Not yet he came disastrous,  
ravening, from the gates of Angband.  
There he sleepless waits;  
where those great portals threatening loom  
his red eyes smoulder in the gloom,  
his teeth are bare, his jaws are wide;  
and none may walk, nor creep, nor glide,  
nor thrust with power his menace past  
to enter Morgoth's dungeon vast…

So, the reports — sent from a safe distance by airborne courier — clearly contained _no mention whatsoever_ of Lúthien, and quite possibly none of Beren, but plenty about disguised Noldor warrior-mages, and most of all about _Huan_. After all, which sounds better?

" _We apprehended a dozen hostiles attempting to infiltrate the DMZ disguised as our troops, and following routine processing discovered that the mission was comprised of not only one of the four top enemy commanders-in-chief but also that rebel human we thought had been napalmed a year ago. Subsequently the Valinorean Wolfkiller arrived on scene in company with Target Number Two and the two of them proceeded to sucker all my elite guard into an ambush and forced me to surrender at fangpoint, following which she used the self-destruct codes I had to give her to buy my life to demolish the base. We haven't yet determined if the two events were in any way connected, or what the adversaries' rationale for the attacks was. Please furnish more troops and a new HQ,_ "

or

 _"An elite enemy strike team led by the CIC of Nargothrond, disguised as one of our own units, and supported by the Valinorean Wolfkiller, made a stealth assault in an effort to retake the fortress. We took heavy casualties and although I swiftly detected their presence, successfully negated their mind-control attempts and survived personal combat on both physical and magical levels, I was unable to maintain control of the area and was forced to take steps that ensured the complete destruction of the base, thereby denying it to our adversaries. Unfortunately none of the Noldor unit survived for interrogation, but we are reviewing the after-action data and scrutinizing it to determine the rationale and timing of the attack. I am presently reorganizing my remaining forces in a secure location and will personally report to you as soon as I have avenged my honor and made the enemy pay for this_."

The second summary is a whole lot more plausible-sounding, in every sense, and in Primary World terms as well, as anyone with any close experience of actual (non-Hollywood) military matters will aver. It's amazing what can be finessed in reports in terms like "routine replacements" or "inadvertent contact" — though the consequences, if and when the facts get out, can be far more unpleasant than owning up in the first place.

And this coverup worked both for and against Morgoth, because nobody outside Angband had any idea that Carcaroth had been rapidly force-grown as a fail-safe defense against the Hound of Valinor, which made for an extremely nasty surprise when discovered — but Morgoth had no idea that the most dangerous part of the equation was in fact that scared, unarmed, 1300-something Elven singer he'd been trying so long to acquire for personal as well as political reasons. Another example of the danger in getting what you've wished for…


	79. ACT IV. BELOVED FOOL: BEYOND THE WESTERN SEA

  
  

##  [ **SCENE I.i** ](https://rustbucket.net/leithian/leithian_script_4.html)

**Gower** :

The hour nighs, of this our task  
its ending -- and of ye we ask  
but thy patience, lending, till 'tis done --  
\-- Then to say, if we have won  
or, overbold, must make redress  
that have so forwardly transgressed  
and in this glassy square presumed  
to bound, as 'twere the Ring of Doom,  
the very gods --  
...............With eagles' wing  
outmatching falcons royal, venturing  
our fancy's flight doth mount on high  
to pass the bord'ring sea, and sky,  
and withal Time -- for naught of wealth  
nor fame, nor glory, nor by stealth,  
nor war to grasp at deathlessness,  
seeking but mercy's sweet largesse  
we dare the holy shores of Westernesse –

[Note: There are two settings -- this Hall, and _elsewhere_. Most of the action takes place here.]

[A cozy family room in Aman, even if it is rather vast and all carved stone and tall ceilings, decorated in soothing shades of grey with discreet silver-white concealed lighting. There is a fountain at one side which is of the kind that is a sheet of water running down a shallow wide channel in the wall, almost invisible and inaudible, to silently fill a wide, shallow, rectangular basin the border of which is almost flush level with the floor.

[Most of another wall is taken up by an enormous structure that somewhat resembles a harness loom, and somewhat resembles a system of barrel vaulting, and mostly resembles something built out of raw cosmic energy, and betrays a long history of tinkering and loving use. At the moment its main central section is alive with an expanse of shimmering light. A majority of the Powers are seated around it watching in rapt attention.]

[Tulkas (who might be played by Massimo Serato from _El Cid_ , and sundry Italian swashbucklers and sword-&-sandal epics) leaps to his feet]

 **Tulkas** : [roaring]

 _NO_!!! IT CAN'T END THIS WAY!!! THAT'S JUST _WRONG_!!! THAT'S NOT HOW THE STORY'S SUPPOSED TO END!!!

[The rest of the Powers wince at the volume of his outrage. Across from him Orome is watching with a sardonically critical expression, his arms folded, leaning slouched way back in his chair with his ankles crossed. Lawrence Olivier from _Hamlet_ (or possibly equally Kirk Douglas from _Spartacus_ ) might stand in for the Lord of the Wild Hunt]

 **Orome** : [bitingly sarcastic patience]

That's because it's _reality_ , not a story, Tulkas. _Stories_ can end happily, because they're not _true_. In real life, there's no Power _capable_ of preventing people from making idiotic choices and suffering the consequences.

[from the chair next to him, his wife, the Lady of Spring -- who could be depicted by Claudette Colbert in _Cleopatra_  -- reaches up and pats his cheek.]

 **Vana** :

Don't be obnoxious, Tav' darling. -- Nia dear, _why_ do you make us watch these depressing stories? All of your favorites turn out this way.

[to the left of Tulkas, the Lord of Dreams, Visions and Inspirations, (aka Irmo, aka Lorien,) sighs deeply and rests his chin on his hands. Leslie Howard ( _The Scarlet Pimpernel_ , _Gone With The Wind_ ) could play the part]

 **Irmo** : [sadly]

I _tried_. I _did_ try. I shan't attempt to conceal the fact that I don't care for her father at all, but I did my best, for her mother's sake, -- and for hers, too -- she really is a sweet child, and not in any way to be blamed for that confounded miscreant's actions --

[On his left the Lord of the Earth shakes his head, grimacing. He is leaning back, but not as much in the sullen critic mode as in the thoughtful critic pose, his legs crossed and one elbow resting on the arm of his faldstool, ready to lecture. He is played, of course, by James Mason from _20,000 Leagues Under The Sea_ ]

 **Aule** :

You couldn't have done anything, he was Doomed from the start. Look at how he threw away every opportunity he had for survival. If someone tries that hard to destroy themselves, the most that anyone else can do is -- get out of the way and look for cover.

[on the floor, sitting in front of the chairs with her knees drawn up and her arms wrapped around them like a child, Nienna (who really should be played by Merle Oberon, also of _Scarlet Pimpernel_ renown) looks up at Yavanna, who is seated rigidly on the other side of her little sister Vana; the Earthqueen could be well-portrayed by Sophia Loren from _El Cid_.]

 **Nienna** :

Are you going to be all right?

 **Yavanna** : [biting off the syllable]

No.

[At equal distances from the Loom and the fountain is a nook with a sconce, two chairs, and a small breakfast table. This is occupied by Namo, Vaire, a pair of teacups and a dark, glossy sphere. The Lord and Lady of the Halls should be portrayed respectively by Gregory Peck ( _To Kill A Mockingbird_ , _Captain Horatio Hornblower_ ) and Virginia McKenna _The Cruel Sea_ , _Waterloo_ ).]

 **Vaire** : [sighing]

I don't mind your sister inviting everyone over to watch the Loom, but really, she _could_ have chosen better timing. But I don't like to _say_ anything because she does so much to help.

 **Namo** : [sets down his teacup and takes her hand in his]

No, it's fine. I just wish they wouldn't be so _loud_. I come here to get away from people shouting at me. -- Of course, they're not shouting at _me_ , to be fair about it.

[he lets go of her hand and picks up his cup again -- over it, in a very dry tone:]

\-- Not _yet_.

[she gives him a wry smile, which turns to a grimace at the next high-volume exchange:]

 **Orome** : [raising his voice and dropping the bored facade for a moment]

 _Yes_ , it _WAS_ _his_ _fault_. He didn't give her a chance to use her powers again, he just flung himself in the way without even the preliminaries of thought crossing his brain.

 **Tulkas** : [to Vana]

\-- You'd better hope you're never in danger when _he's_ around. Sounds like he'd let you fend for yourself if a rampaging demon comes along!

 **Aule** : [patiently]

My _valiant_ friend, I realize that your generous and sympathetic nature prompts you to defend all instances of courage and loyalty, but not every self-sacrifice is equally meritorious. When it is unnecessary, as in the situation under debate, it is simply at best a mistake and at worst histrionics. -- I'm still not entirely sure about the next occasion, myself: I'd need to review it before reaching a decision.

 **Irmo** : [frowning]

I really don't think she could have done anything further at that point. Binding all the denizens of Thangorodrim within the immediate vicinity, not to mention resisting and overcoming the Powerful One in combat, would be a severe drain upon even my own abilities --

 **Tulkas** : [all innocence]

\-- You mean to say you can take Morgoth out, and you haven't done it yet? What's wrong with you!?

 **Yavanna** : [standing up so suddenly that her chair goes over backwards with a crash]

Oh, you're all _horrible_. Horrible, HORRIBLE, _HORRIBLE_!!!

[Everyone looks up at her, and is very quiet]

 **Aule** : [after a moment]

Where are you going?

 **Yavanna** : [very tight control]

 _Out_. For a _walk_. Someplace where I can _break_ things without hurting anyone -- !

[she strides off into the distant shadows and there is a resounding crash as of someone flinging a very heavy door violently open so that it rebounds off the wall, with breakages. A moment of utter silence follows.]

 **Aule** : [grimacing]

Ah. I forgot.

 **Irmo** :

Oh, that's right -- he's one of _hers_.

 **Vana** : [rolling her eyes]

Well, of course! Whose else would he be?

[silence. Everyone looks at Orome]

 **Orome** :

Yes, but _I_ am more rational about these things.

 **Tulkas** : [to Aule]

Go after her and tell her you're sorry, you dolt!

 **Aule** : [shaking his head]

That would be a very bad idea right now.

[this builds up into a double argument, as the focus moves back to the tea table]

 **Namo** : [wincing]

I didn't recall there being a door over there.

 **Vaire** :

There wasn't.

[sighs]

At least --

[pause -- they look at each other, and say together:]

 **Namo** : **Vaire** :

\-- "it wasn't a supporting wall --"

[rueful smiles]

 **Namo** :

Did you ever get an explanation of all that?

 **Vaire** :

An explanation? Yes. -- One that made sense? I'm afraid the answer is _no_.

 **Namo** : [scowling]

You weren't being mocked, dear?

 **Vaire** :

No, not at all -- it was offered quite sincerely. I just don't believe it's _possible_ , but I'm not sure what the real alternative would look like.

[Her husband shakes his head, snorting]

I made the mistake of asking one of them to show me how it was done, and I forgot it was the one who doesn't want to be noticed, so I had to pretend that I didn't realize it, or how nervous he was. -- It really is disproportionate, isn't it? By comparison, I mean. You wouldn't think, considering who else is here, the amount of trouble so few could cause . . .

[sighs]

I'm afraid I lost my temper rather the last time someone started in about the usual, "Why are _they_ permitted to carry? Why is no one else allowed a retinue?" and was very cross about it -- I actually said, in far too short a tone, "Because we're capricious and we enjoy playing favorites, that's why." Now I'm rather afraid it won't be recognized as sarcasm. What I should have said --

[another rueful smile]

\-- was, "It's an experiment of my sister-in-law's; she's trying to see how many idiotic questions it will take to completely destroy all vestiges of my patience."

[After a moment Namo lifts his eyebrows and gives a short chuckle, before patting her hand.]

Who knows? It might even be true.

 **Namo** :

No, I . . . I think she'd mention it, if she were doing anything of the sort.

[from the other side of the room]

 **Tulkas** : [loud]

But look, you've got to take into account all the things going against him --

[the Lord and Lady of the Halls share another wince as the camera shifts back to the raging debate by the Loom]

On the one hand you've got the rebels giving up defending his homeland, so does he give up? No, he keeps on trying even though there's nothing in it for him any more -- and does a smashing job of it, too, I want to make known. And you know I'm hard to impress when it comes to fighting --

 **Orome** : [ironic]

\-- Easily impressed when it comes to pretty much everything else, though.

 **Tulkas** : [louder]

\-- On the other hand you've got him making a decent go of it with no help, and no resources whatsoever -- and sticking to his ideals, too, all the way up to when they were betrayed. None of this, "Oh, we're the great Lords of the West, here to save you, so give us dinner and why don't you bake us a cake while you're at it," Returning nonsense.

 **Orome** : [exasperated]

You're exaggerating grossly again -- 

 **Tulkas** : [ignoring him]

And on the other hand, he's just a Man. Not even an Elf! And look what he did!

 **Orome** : [snippy]

 _What_ other hand? Most people only start out with two.

 **Tulkas** : [ignoring him]

You'd think we could have managed to give him a _little_ more help, couldn't we? Couldn't we? Like something _useful_ , like messages -- and messengers -- that get there in time --

[to Irmo]

\-- not that I'm saying it wasn't kind of you to help his friend find him, but it's not like it actually made any difference, eh? Or how about something specific, like Don't Go On That Hunt, Dummy, -- instead of more nightmares about overfed rogue Ainur?

[as if remembering something unpleasant, Aule shakes his head and snaps his fingers]

 **Irmo** : [angry/upset]

I told you, _don't_ _blame_ _me_  -- it's hard enough without the Trees, but there's nothing I can do with people who simply refuse to sleep. If they won't rest long enough for me to reach them, or keep creating so many images of Doom on their own that they can't tell them apart -- I can't _give_ them any guidance.

 **Tulkas** :

So basically, what you're saying is, you can only help people who don't really need it.

 **Irmo** :

That isn't _fair_  --

[An elegant, confident individual, perhaps played by Sir Alec Guiness ("Young Ascoyne D'ascoyne") from [Kind Hearts and Coronets](https://rustbucket.net/leithian/leithian_script_4.html), appears discreetly beside Aule's chair and gives him a graceful bow]

**Aule's Assistant** :

Yes, my lord?

 **Aule** :

Would you go and make sure all the storm-doors and shutters are closed around the place? I don't want the firepits getting flooded out again this time.

 **Aule's Assistant** :

Of course, sir. -- Ah, are you anticipating a recurrence of last year's gales this season, or is it merely precautionary, milord?

 **Aule** :

Anticipating. Very definitely anticipating.

 **Assistant** :

Oh dear.

[pause]

If I may make so bold, my lord, the Lady's temper can be quite trying at times.

 **Aule** : [shaking his head with a gloomy look]

Eh. It's partly my fault again. -- I just hate it when she gets together and commiserates with Uinen. They encourage each other in this pointless emotionalism, and the electrical storms and the flooding make it so blasted difficult to get anything done. -- Do you _know_ what that project is they're working on together?

 **Assistant** :

Something about _salt_. That's all the information I have, sir -- she asked me for information about materials that would combine well with _salt_.

 **Aule** : [nods]

\-- Oh, that's right. They're studying "toxicity levels and self-sustaining filtration systems in marginal areas," as I recall. I should ask her how that's coming along. That would be a nice thing to do.

 **Assistant** :

A noble and conciliating gesture, sir.

 **Aule** :

\-- Have you seen my wife's secretary around anywhere?

[his aide gives a derisive laugh]

 **Assistant** :

He's probably off watching frogs turn into tadpoles or talking to potato-beetles or something like that.

 **Aule** : [frowns]

Isn't it the other way 'round?

[shaking his head]

I don't remember. Anyway -- tell him to tell her I'm sorry, all right?

 **Assistant** :

Very good, sir.

 **Aule** :

And don't forget the skylights!

 **Assistant** :

Of course not, my lord.

[he vanishes as quietly as he came]

 **Tulkas** : [loudly offended]

Yeah? Well, -- none of my champions have gone over to the other side!

 **Orome** : [ice -- not quiet, either]

 _Celegorm_ _Feanorion_ has NOT been my responsibility since the Rebellion.

 **Tulkas** :

Good try, but you can't wiggle out that easy. If you'd done your job right he wouldn't have rebelled now would he? Huh? Got a snappy comeback for that one?

 **Orome** : [shaking his head]

What my sister sees in you I will never know.

[pause]

 **Tulkas** :

That's pretty good, actually. -- I need a drink to clear my mind.

 **Orome** :

You _always_ need a drink, if that's the case.

 **Irmo** : [raising his voice]

\-- Can we please at least _endeavor_ to keep this discussion both civil and to the point?

 **Vana** :

I do hope you didn't mean that as a serious question, Irmo darling.

[Back at the tea table, the Weaver rests her forehead on her hand, laughing in spite of herself, and in dismay]

 **Vaire** :

Are you sure you don't want me to stay here and you go on the floor? Though it won't be any quieter, I'm afraid. I do wish it weren't against the Rules to manifest corporeally in several places at the same time. I wonder how one would go about doing so . . . ?

 **Namo** :

It -- seems like the sort of thing that would be very inadvisable. Which is very likely why there's a Rule about it.

[frowns still more]

\-- Which _you_ would your mind be in? Wouldn't the rest just be puppets then? Or would you divide your concentration among all of you? I'm not sure either.

 **Vaire** : [smiles]

And a divided concentration is just the problem. So do you want me to stay by the stone while you take my shift?

[Her husband shakes his head]

 **Namo** :

No, I really don't have the patience for any more complaints right now.

[deep sigh]

Did I tell you about my last conversation with that fellow, the one who's always going on and on -- inaccurately -- about being the First Casualty in Beleriand?

 **Vaire** : [interested]

No, I don't believe you did.

 **Namo** :

We talked -- and talked, and _talked_ , and he agreed with complete sincerity that _yes_ , murder was a terrible thing, and yes, there is a moral responsibility as well for actions which, though not directly causing the deaths of specific individuals, nevertheless are both freely chosen and known in advance to be likely to cause casualties -- such as, for example, shooting fire-arrows into adjacent buildings to distract the defenders from their efforts, regardless of the fact that people are almost certain to be in those buildings, and not necessarily able to get out of them in time. And we talked about how _Morgoth_ regards people as chattel in a similar way, and how persons are not _things_ to be used and/or discarded for one's own purposes, and about the _irony_ of performing such actions in a reaction against the behaviour of the Enemy.

[odd smile]

And after all that, he said to me, "But _they_ deserved it."

[the Weaver sighs, and raises her eyebrows with a wry expression]

 **Vaire** :

That does sound familiar, doesn't it?

 **Namo** : [pensively]

You know, it's one thing to know intellectually that this is going to go on -- and on -- and on, for the foreseeable future, and -- quite another to experience it day after day after endless day.

[his wife smiles sadly at him and gives his hand one last squeeze before getting up and leaving the table. The crystal ball on the table begins to glow.]

 **Namo** :

Oh good, someone's checking in. Perhaps they've got him.

[He sets down his tea and pulls the palantir over to him eagerly. Vaire walks across to the Loom, weaving on mostly unobserved by the debaters]

 **Vaire** :

Is anyone still watching this?

[nobody except her sister-in-law even notices her question]

 **Nienna** :

Please leave it open, would you?

 **Vaire** :

Not a problem, just fold it up when you're done.

[she leaves, stopping to patch up the irregular hole in the wall -- which looks rather like what happens when a tree grows through a slab, only fast enough that the edges are still sharp and not eroded away -- with a wave of her hand, on her way to the tall pointed arch that is the actual door.]

 **Vana** :

Well, _I_ thought he was rather cute, even if he was rather stupid --

[to her husband]

\-- rather like one of the puppies, hm?

 **Orome** :

My dear, _puppies_ usually don't manage to leave scores of casualties behind them as a consequence of their mistakes.

[she gives him a little swat and makes a face at him]

 **Tulkas** : [roaring]

CONSEQUENCES?!? If you're going to talk about consequences, what about the _consequences_ of us not catching Morgoth? Huh? Huh? Before you start throwing big words like "consequences" around, what about the _consequences_ of not providing adequate inspiration? In the Song, do I have to do it ALL myself to get anything done RIGHT?

[the Lord of the Hall winces and puts a hand to his temple]

 **Namo** :

I'm sorry, I didn't hear you. What was that again?

 **Irmo** : [raising his voice too]

I'm getting tired of hearing you talk about something you don't and can't _possibly_ understand --

 **Namo** :

A dog? What do you mean, _a_ _dog_? _Kelvar_ don't belong here, they don't need to come here, they can just start right over again -- you know that! Tell it to go home. -- I don't care what size it is, it still doesn't belong here. Unless it's that rogue in disguise. Of course I'm joking. No, we haven't got him yet. -- Yes, that's why I'm in a bad mood. -- Just take care of it, will you?

[he leans back, closing his eyes and shaking his head]

 **Aule** : [cool voice of reason -- and sarcasm]

Thank you for letting us know how you feel about it, Lord Astaldo. -- Getting back to my earlier point -- I don't believe you can legitimately give someone credit for what they can't help. If the deed's done under any kind of a compulsion, it's invalidated to some extent. Obviously there's a compulsion operating here to fling one's self between other individuals -- regardless of longevity or depth of personal attachment -- and danger. If one cannot prevent one's self from getting in harm's way, the correct response -- and again, I'm going on logic here -- isn't _admiration_ , but rather _pity_.

 **Tulkas** :

Oh, come _on_! He practically slaps Morgoth upside the head, and you can't even manage a "Good job, what!"

 **Vana** : [mischievous]

Well, he did hit Morgoth in the head, only it wasn't exactly on purpose . . .

 **Orome** : [innocently]

Hey, Aule -- what's that you always say about using the right tools for the job?

 **Tulkas** :

Yeah? Well let me tell you, your fancy tools wouldn't help either of you very much out in the Void! You should try it sometime, fighting like real gods with nothing but your bare power --

 **Orome** :

\-- Speaking of which, don't you get chilly running around in just a skirt?

 **Tulkas** :

It's not a skirt, it's a _kilt_ , you dimwit! How many times have I told you that?

[Vana giggles and hides it by snuggling against Orome's shoulder]

 **Irmo** : [sternly and loudly]

These insults are _utterly_ _pointless_! Can we have some intellectual discussion, please?!

 **Namo** : [shouting louder than any of them]

Irmo! Nienna! Everybody!

[when he has their attention -- normal tone:]

Would you all please either stop acting like Eldar or go someplace else and argue? If you can't keep your voices down I'm going to have to ask you to take it to the Mahanaxar. You're not even watching the Loom any more.

[there are guilty looks among his colleagues and kin -- considering glances are exchanged. Consensus -- No, they can't keep it down. They start getting up to leave]

 **Vana** : [rolling her eyes]

"Acting like Eldar," indeed! -- Honestly --

[they vanish, leaving the chairs behind]

 **Namo** : [muttering to self]

I suppose there's a certain logic to it, but I _hate_ it when catastrophes happen in cascades like this. They seem to bring on unrelated incidents, as though chaos has come back into fashion all of the sudden.

[he gets up and starts pacing up and down restlessly, obviously not happy at not being able to do anything -- then notices Nienna still curled up in front of the Loom]

Nia, I could _really_ use a little help right now. We have a crisis situation going on, the trauma department is overwhelmed with new arrivals, there's a discorporate rogue Ainu out there it looks like I'm going to have to track down personally, now I hear some kind of bizarre bureaucratic foul-up is giving my security people fits -- and _you're_ watching the news.

 **Nienna** : [patient annoying-sibling mode]

\-- Don't worry, I'm on it, I've got the situation in hand.

 **Namo** : [flings up his hands and walks back to his chair]

Fine. I give up. It's not as though anyone ever listens until it's too late.

[sinking down with a sigh]

What _next_  . . . ?


	80. Act 4: SCENE I.ii

[Elsewhere: outside the Halls of Mandos, in the perpetual twilight at the roots of the mountains. A series of low, shallow, wide stone steps leads up to the most imposing doors that have ever been built, or will be. No one is present, until Luthien enters (quite literally from the shadows) at the foot of the staircase. Like all the shades in the underworld, where everything is in shades of grey, she does not look "ghostly", i.e. translucent and out-of-place -- this place is made for them, after all; it's the living who would appear not to belong properly. She looks neatly but simply dressed, rather as she would have at the beginning of the play, but without any jewelry and her face is haggard.]

 **Luthien** :

Well. Here we are.

[she looks up at the Doors and gives a huge sigh]

The end of the journey. Nothing could be easy, could it?

[she gives an odd laugh, shaking her head]

The doors are closed -- I could still turn back now, perhaps even go home, or _not_ : this isn't horrible, or particularly frightening. I've given up everything, for him, or so they'd say -- and it doesn't feel that way at all. It seems as if I could reach out my hand and take hold of the very elements of the universe like a skein of yarn this way, or see through to the Fire at the heart of everything, if I only looked hard enough, as if I could become _anything_ I chose -- a tree, or an Eagle, or a Hound like Huan, or even one of the stars . . .

[she wraps her arms around herself and shivers, beginning to walk back and forth as she talks to herself, moving up and down the lower terraces of the stairs]

I don't _have_ to go through with this -- no one is going to take this decision away from me -- and that's why I have to.

[Her appearance shimmers and flickers while she paces, eventually mostly settling to the bobbed haircut and shadowcloak of her journeying, the former somewhat longer (and wilder) than when last we saw her.]

Everything seems so distant, small and delicate and quite irrelevant, like the city I saw from the air. Not compared with the whole cosmos lying open to explore. -- But that tiny little flower of a city is full of people, each with a life that's important to someone else, too, and things they've done and learned and new songs they've made, even if I couldn't see that. And I _know_ that Middle-earth is important, even if it seems such a small part of the Music I can _almost_ hear now.

[smiling wryly]

That's it, isn't it, the Song itself that's calling me to join in it, to be like a god myself, to make, and change the world, and once again do one better than my mother, even if no one ever knows it. Couldn't I do better than the rest of them, since I know how it is out there, since I've lived through it -- and died -- all of it, the good -- the gloriously good -- as well as the unspeakably horrible -- couldn't I move through it and speak through it and _change_ it like the Lord of the Sea? And wouldn't that be a better memorial to Beren than staying here as a ghost, giving up my endless life and the whole wide world outside, to be with him, if only they'll let me?

[shaking her head]

I know what _he'd_ say. And then we'd fight.

[gesturing with her hands]

If only I'd come straight to the Halls -- it can't be this hard for everyone, can it? -- and then I could have just answered when they asked me, and I wouldn't have to think about it. But this -- there's no getting away from this, that once I cross that threshold, there's no going back -- even if Lord Mandos would let me. I can't just keep going on momentum alone, not stopping to think about it.

[pause]

And I'm afraid. I don't know what will happen, I don't know what I'll say, I don't know what _they'll_ say. I might make things worse for him this way, though I can't think how. And if they refuse, what happens then? How can I stay there forever, knowing that I couldn't save him, and with no place left to go -- no action I can take, nothing to do but wait for the world to end to put an end to my pain? I thought nothing could be worse than the prospect of going home to my parents in failure --

[checks, looking dismayed]

\-- but what if they send me back? I can't stay there with what they did to us, dealing with that guilt and sentimentality and trying to make it up to me by being _kind_  -- I really would go mad within a year of that. If they'd shown Beren some pity at the outset -- or thought at all about me instead of themselves -- this wouldn't have happened. But I won't be the victim to their consciences.

[she snorts, starting to get angry]

I'll go live as a hermit in the Seven Rivers district before that, or maybe go to the Havens and see the Ocean for real finally, or try to cross the mountains and find Celeborn and Galadriel and their following. I can _do_ that now, or at least I have as good a chance as anyone does. I don't need anyone else in the world, if I can't have Beren, and if they "need" me that's just too bad!

[she wipes her eyes roughly, and gives an ironic smile.]

Silly, silly, _silly_  -- getting all upset over possibilities that haven't even happened yet, and that I've no way to judge the most likely. I'm so tired of it all . . . only I'm _not_ , or maybe I am. -- But I can't stop, and I'm afraid to go forward, and no one can help me now.

[she stands still for a moment, looking up the steps, and squares her shoulders.]

Well. I didn't get this far waiting for people to open doors for me.

[starts to approach the Doors, hesitates again.]

Oh, I _wish_ you were with me, Huan. But this isn't like last time: I'm afraid it won't end happily. -- Then again, I can't think of a single story that does. Not the true ones, at least.

[Sighs.]

No more disguises. No more tricks. All I can do is tell the truth now, and hope that that's enough.

[She casts her cloak down on the steps: it melts and vanishes into the shadows]

Beren -- I'm _here_.

[She strides towards the Doors, and they melt away in front of her as she enters the Halls of Mandos.]


	81. Act 4: SCENE I.iii

[The Hall.]

[Namo is sitting pensively by the palantir, fiddling with his teacup. Nienna is still on the floor in front of the Loom, watching with an odd, almost-pleased expression. An Elvish-looking individual (who could be played by Ewan MacGregor from the second Star Wars series) enters the hall and crosses quickly to where she is sitting. Ordinarily he seems like he'd be rather cheerful and self-possessed, but right now he's looking rather harassed and frayed, and it comes through when he addresses her:]

\-- Master, everything's in chaos, nobody knows what to do, everyone's asking me for advice, _some_ people are continuing to complain about certain _other_ people and refusing to countenance the possibility that their problems just might not be as serious as those who have just come in and demanding to see the Lady of the Halls _at_ _once_ , and they're _all_ unhappy with me because I'm not _you_!

**Nienna** :

Apprentice mine, have you considered how much worse matters could be?

**Nienna's Apprentice** :

Er -- no, I haven't, m'lady.

**Nienna** :

Why don't you do that?

**Apprentice** :

Was that a question question, or a suggestion question?

**Nienna** :

What do you think?

**Apprentice** :

Both.

**Nienna** :

Let me know when you have an answer; I'll be interested in hearing it.

**Apprentice** :

Certainly. But none of this helps with the fact that everything's in chaos and I really need Lady Vaire and she can't be everywhere at once!

[Nienna sighs]

**Apprentice** :

I know. I don't _really_ need the Lady of the Halls, I just need to keep reminding myself that I have been delegated the authority and I do have the intelligence to solve small problems on my own and the confidence to not be overwhelmed by the troublemakers along with it. -- But there are just so _bloody_ _many_ of them!

**Nienna** :

You want me to come rescue you.

**Apprentice** :

No. Well, _yes_. But not really. I want to be rescued, but I don't want the consequences of being rescued, to wit -- losing even more ground to the insufferable Feanorians and looking a total fool in front of everyone else and causing increased doubt and discord as a result. -- I'm going back to work. Thank you.

[he starts to walk away]

**Namo** : [sighing]

When you said you had everything under control, I should have known that meant you were delegating.

**Nienna** :

Of course. Micromanagement is poor Melkor's besetting weakness.

[her brother closes his eyes and rubs his temples. Halfway to the door the Apprentice halts in mid-stride, pivots on his heel and hurries back over]

**Apprentice** :

I almost forgot completely -- Sir, there's a young lady here who insists on seeing you personally and immediately. She says her mother used to work for your brother.

**Namo** : [looking blank]

So why does she want to see me instead of Irmo?

**Apprentice** : [delicately]

Er -- because she's _here_.

**Namo** :

Oh. You mean she's discorporate. Why can't you just say so?

[the Apprentice winces a little]

Can you tell her I'm in the middle of about six different things and I will see her as soon as I can?

**Apprentice** :

I've done that.

**Namo** :

Can you explain that things are not going well and that while everyone's problems _are_ important, _not_ _all_ of them are crises?

**Apprentice** :

That too.

[Namo sighs]

She really won't take no for an answer. I keep giving it to her, and she keeps refusing it.

**Namo** :

Can you tell her it isn't fair to the others ahead of her?

**Apprentice** :

She says it's a matter of justice, and she refuses to go until her case is heard.

**Namo** : [shaking his head]

Wait, wait, what do you mean -- " _go_ " -- ? People don't just come and go from my Halls without leave.

**Apprentice** :

Well, she apparently _came_ on her own. It seems her consort was one of the recently admitted.

**Namo** : [snorts]

Did you tell her her case was hardly unique?

**Apprentice** :

I did, Sir -- but I'm not entirely sure I was correct. She doesn't seem to have come in the normal way at all. There was some peculiar talk about Thorondor and "hitching a ride" -- a quaint turn of phrase which I believe, though I'd have to consult the Archives to be sure, derives from a _mortal_ practice concerning a crude form of wheeled vessel known as, erm, a "cart." I confess that ordinarily I would simply dismiss it as the normal, ah, post-discorporation trauma, or possibly prior mental derangement -- but there's something about her that causes me to be uncertain of that diagnosis.

[pause]

She really is very insistent, Sir.

[pause]

**Namo** :

You're intimidated by her.

[Nienna's student makes as though to deny it, with indignation -- and then sighs]

**Apprentice** :

Frankly, my Lord, yes. In all honesty -- she reminds me of Feanor.

[silence]

**Namo** : [shaking his head]

No. There _cannot_ be two Eldar in the universe that obliviously self-centered and full of destructive energy. I refuse to believe it. Ea would disintegrate.

**Apprentice** :

It's the obdurate refusal to be put off. -- And the way she sounds totally believable saying the most insane things.

**Namo** :

What are her names?

**Apprentice** :

She only gave one -- "Nightingale." -- She said it as though it should mean something, when I asked her who she was, and she told me her maternal parent was formerly in the employ of your sibling.

**Namo** : [musing]

Nightingales, _nightingales_  -- why do they sound familiar?

**Apprentice** : [hopefully]

I could go check the Archive, if you'd like.

**Namo** : [snorts]

So you can skive out of dealing with the discorporate? Fat chance. No -- I think there's some connection that I should remember -- why don't you go ask Irmo if "nightingale" means anything to him. _There's_ an errand you can run.

**Apprentice** :

Er, you could use the remote there -- why not just _ask_ him?

**Namo** :

Because you're _annoying_ me. Because I'm waiting to hear from security about that rogue, among other things.

**Apprentice** : [disappointed]

Oh.

[starts to leave, turns back again]

Sir, didn't _Melian_ have nightingales? And aren't all these new patients from the place where she settled down? Dorl -- Dorith -- one of those _Dor_  -- names?

[long pause. Namo frowns, then sets down his teacup with a bang]

**Namo** : [wearily]

All right. I'll talk to her.

[he turns his chair about to face into the room]

**Apprentice** : [raising an eyebrow]

\-- Actually, Sir, I think the word you want is -- "listen."


	82. Act 4: SCENE II

**Gower** :

\-- That Melian's daughter made her way  
to Mandos' Halls, and there did win  
her way as well, with imploring song,  
and of her thought and melody did spin  
a thread to bind the sternest and most strong  
to clemency -- this all do remember well.  
But of the rest, that followed ere the Choice  
little is said, and less considered: how still  
much ado was made, high counsels held, voice  
upraised to counter and to question,  
troubling the highest, making them to pause  
and ponder long with sad consideration  
this strange matter of their love, and cause  
that Luthien upholds, appeals, maintains  
with such unreservéd zeal that even yet,  
beyond the Bent World's verge, her strains  
are sung in deathless memory, past the set  
of Sun, of Moon, by gods and Elven-kind  
until the ending of all things shall find  
even the stars and that unstained land – 

[The Hall. There is a difference -- where the tea-table occupied an alcove under a lamp, there is now a vast double throne under an arch, with only the lamp, the occupant, and the stone sphere resting on the dividing arm of the throne the same. In the background, Nienna is still paying attention to the Loom. Before the throne, Luthien is looking up at Namo with a desperate expression.]

 **Namo** :

I -- I'm sorry, I was thinking about what you'd just said -- I . . . missed your last remark.

[he wipes at his eyes, shaking his head a little]

 **Luthien** :

Might I please speak to him now, my Lord?

[pause]

 **Namo** :

I . . . am not sure how to break this to you, but he -- he isn't here.

 **Luthien** : [frightened]

He has to be.

 **Namo** :

No, I'm afraid that isn't the case. Except for those who give themselves to the Enemy during their lifetimes, or have ties to their own place that are strong enough to override the call of their Fate, mortals do not _remain_ in Arda.

 **Luthien** :

But he wouldn't have lingered back there -- he's not evil, he has no one left besides me, and he knows I'll come here too.

 **Namo** :

But Men don't _stay_ here -- they go on from the Halls to their own destiny beyond Ea.

[pause]

I'm sorry.

 **Luthien** : [becoming increasingly frantic]

But I told him to wait for me! I -- I came as fast as I could -- how long has it been? You didn't -- you didn't send him on without me -- please tell me you didn't! Surely he would have explained --

[greater apprehension]

\-- but what if he couldn't --

[sudden notion]

\-- is Huan here?

 **Namo** : [bewildered]

Why would _he_ be here? He isn't an Elf -- he belongs to Orome.

 **Luthien** :

No. He belongs to Beren now. And me. I'm sure he would be waiting for us here somewhere. He might be looking after him --

 **Namo** : [frowning]

That's the second time dogs have come up in recent conversation. Very peculiar.

 **Nienna** : [from where she's sitting, not looking over]

If you'd been paying attention to the news, or even what's going on under your own roof, you'd understand. You need to remember the big picture, not just focus on the organizational details, Namo.

 **Namo** : [giving her an exasperated look]

Be a little more cryptic, would you? Ah --

[realization hits]

 _Aaha_. The kid with the dog.

 **Luthien** :

They're here? He's still here?

[he nods, picking up the sphere]

 **Namo** :

\-- Security, please. -- Just how _big_ is that dog, anyway? Uh-huh. I _see_. Can you put my wife on, please? -- Vaire, things have just gotten a little more complicated. -- If you can believe it. I know. Look, I need you to talk to that mortal again. He hasn't been rude to you, has he? No, apparently he has some kind of aphasia problem, but he's not deaf. Would you ask him if he's Beren Barahirion? -- and if he is, tell him that _Luthien_ is here and would like to speak with him, and ask him if he would be so good as to come over here. His dog can come too. -- Has the _dog_ been rude to you? Well, I'm going to have a little talk with Orome about him. -- Yes, that's right. Love you too.

[sets down palantir, sighs and shakes his head with a pained expression]

I find it difficult to believe that all this madness really is connected. It's almost enough to make one think that _order_ is an illusion.

 **Nienna** :

Why do you think I've been watching all along? It takes patience to see the patterns.

[her brother half-smiles]

 **Namo** : [to Luthien]

\-- Yes. He's here, beneath this roof, and will be _here_ directly.

 **Luthien** : [whispering]

Thank you. -- Thank you --

[Enter Nienna's Apprentice, and Huan, who sniffs the air and looks towards the Loom, keening softly. Beren is between them, holding onto Huan's collar for balance. He is more bowed and tattered than in Act II, wearing a motley layered assortment of frayed rags and well-made tailoring (all far too large), his head low, his right arm held stiffly by his side. He looks like a defeated veteran of a long campaign stumbling home from the wars.]

 **Luthien** :

 _Beren_.

[he lifts his head and looks over blankly towards her -- and then he seems to recognize her and lets go of Huan to hurl himself at her in a controlled collapse as she runs to catch him, locking her arms around his back as he leans against her shoulder, eyes closed, oblivious to the rest of his surroundings. Luthien stands there holding him close, crying, unable to speak right away. After a few moments they straighten and look at each other, though she does not let go of him any more than he tries to step away:]

Are you all right?

[he nods. Worried:]

Can you talk?

 **Beren** : [with visible effort]

 _Yes_.

[wry smile]

It's hard.

[suddenly]

\-- Where's Huan?

 **Luthien** : [more worried]

He's right here, on the other side of me.

[Huan comes closer; Beren does not react until the Hound whines]

Beren, can you _see_?

[pause]

 **Beren** :

I can see _you_. The rest -- is all grey and lights.

[she is very upset, far more than he is]

It's a little bit better now.

 **Apprentice** : [who has been standing awkwardly to the side]

There isn't much more _to_ see than "grey and lights", I'm afraid.

[at Namo's stern Look]

No criticism of your Lady's decorating scheme was -- well, I'm afraid it was, rather, but, erm -- it could be a lot worse.

 **Namo** :

Why don't you go find something to do while they make their goodbyes, hm?

 **Luthien** : [disbelieving]

Goodbyes?!? What do you mean?!

 **Namo** : [gently]

So that he can be on his way.

 **Luthien** : [horrified]

What!?

 **Namo** : [frowning]

Isn't that what you wanted? Since you didn't get the chance to speak together before his dissolution?

 **Luthien** : [shaking her head]

No! I mean, yes but not _just_ that, I want to stay with him -- him to stay with me, _always_.

[she is on the edge of tears, and holds onto Beren tighter than ever. Huan presses up against them both, looking anxious]

 **Namo** :

But that isn't possible.

 **Luthien** :

Why not?

 **Namo** :

Because the One has organized the universe otherwise. He isn't supposed to stay here. But you know this. So make your farewells, and let him go.

 **Luthien** : [mournfully]

I may have emphasized the part about how we didn't get a chance to even say goodbye properly a little too much. My Lord, please, can't you make an exception?

 **Namo** :

No. I didn't make the Law.

 **Luthien** :

But you're in charge here.

 **Namo** :

I administer the Law. But I do not have the power to change it.

 **Luthien** : [fraying]

I didn't come all this way just to have him taken away from me again. I _will_ _not_ let this happen.

 **Namo** :

Luthien, I'm afraid you don't understand.

 **Luthien** :

I understand very well, my Lord, and I don't care.

 **Beren** : [uneven smile]

Haven't we done this before?

 **Namo** : [sighing]

Please try to look at it rationally. I agree that it is a terrible tragedy, but you _knew_ that your husband was mortal and under a separate Doom before you married him. The tragic shortness of your marriage does not change that essential fact.

 **Luthien** : [desperate]

Then can we at least have an entire lifetime here before he has to go? We're owed at least _that_!

 **Namo** :

Very few people, in this world, get what they deserve. It shouldn't have happened this way, you're right.

 **Luthien** : [hopeful]

And?

 **Namo** :

And it's unfortunate. Most unfortunate. That's why I'm giving you a chance to have a _good_ memory, before he goes.

 **Luthien** : [strongly]

\-- No. Beren is _staying_ _with_ _me_.

 **Apprentice** : [nervously]

Your Highness, that's not --

 **Luthien** : [sarcastic]

What, will he blast me if I defy him?

 **Namo** : [dry]

No, that isn't my style. You need to reconcile yourself to facts, Luthien.

 **Luthien** :

If someone says that to me one more time, I'm going to scream until the roof falls in. I _know_ what the facts are. I want _solutions_! And acceptable ones! This -- saying goodbye to Beren so that he can be kicked out yet again like a trespassing vagabond -- is not an acceptable solution. You've got to do better.

[the Lord of the Halls gives a short laugh and closes his eyes]

 **Namo** :

You understand I really do not have the time to spare, even though I'm making it.

 **Luthien** : [snappish]

Well, we jolly well didn't have it either. Don't try to make me feel sorry for you, it won't work.

[the Apprentice covers his face with his hand]

Why can't you even make an exeption to the rules?

 **Namo** : [patiently]

Because it is not a Rule, it is the Law. And it would not be fair to him.

 **Luthien** :

I don't understand --

 **Namo** :

I know.

 **Luthien** :

\-- How could it not be fair to _him_? He's the one who's been cheated most by all this!

 **Namo** :

You wish to keep him here, in this fragmentary state, because of your affection for him. But he is not made for this place, nor this state, because he is not like you.

[gesturing]

 _Look_ at him. Do you want to hold him in _that_ , without any hope of being rehoused, without the natural properties that make such a mode endurable, alone and severed from his own kind, until you've decided that you've had him long enough? What does _he_ think of all this? Have you even asked him, or simply laid commands on him?

[Luthien looks defiant, but increasingly anxious]

 **Apprentice** : [thoughtfully]

Sir, could perhaps something be done -- to some small area, to make it less overwhelming to his senses?

 **Namo** :

I don't know. Nor do I know yet what his feelings on the matter are.

[to Beren:]

\-- Beren son of Barahir.

[Beren starts and tries to focus on the Lord of the Halls]

What do you want?

 **Beren** : [after several attempts]

I want Tinuviel to be happy.

 **Namo** :

Being happy and getting what one asks for are not always the same thing. -- What do you want for yourself?

[pause -- Luthien looks wretched and afraid]

 **Beren** : [faintly]

I want to stay with my wife.

[she hugs him in relief]

 **Namo** : [grim]

As you now are, young Man?

 **Beren** : [simply]

I've known worse. This doesn't _hurt_.

[silence]

 **Namo** : [to where Nienna has been up till now]

I'm surprised you haven't jumped in yet -- where's she gotten to?

[sighing -- to Beren:]

You're not making things any easier.

 **Beren** : [a very faint smile]

I usually don't.

 **Namo** : [snorts, sounding exasperated, but not angry]

I'm not sure _what_ to do. This is unprecedented, and nothing I can recall from the Song gives me any hints, let alone specific directions. I'm going to consult with my peers about this -- fortunately they're already somewhat aware of your circumstances, so it shouldn't take too long to bring them up to date. Meanwhile you two might as well --

 **Huan** : [interrupting]

[loud single bark]

 **Namo** :

\--  _three_ , might as well stay here as anywhere else. Then we won't waste any time trying to find you again.

[to the Apprentice]

You're sure you don't know where my sister might be?

 **Apprentice** :

Yes. Erm, _no_. That is, I'm sure I don't know where she _is_. I know many places where she _might_ be.

[the Lord of the Halls looks up at the ceiling]

 **Namo** :

Do you do this on purpose, or does it come naturally? -- Has she given you any tasks that you're supposed to be doing right now?

 **Apprentice** :

I don't know, my Lord. -- I mean, I'm not sure why I do it. My Master only told me to make myself useful about the Halls.

 **Namo** :

Good. -- About the latter, not the first part of your statement. Go find _my_ Lady, explain things to her -- quickly -- and ask her to meet me at the Mahanaxar. First, however, ask her what you should be doing and then go and do it. If nothing else, then I'll have you handle coordinating security -- that should help curb your taste for adventure, seeing how these stakeouts really go down.

 **Apprentice** :

Certainly, Sir.

[he gives a rather extravagant bow, and strides jauntily out, though not without a backwards concerned look at the three shades. The Lord of the Halls picks up his cup from the other arm of his throne (where it was not a moment before) finishes the last of his tea and rises from his throne. Setting down the cup he vanishes, without another word. Beren reacts, starting.]

 **Beren** :

What's gonna happen now?

 **Luthien** :

I don't know. I -- I --

[shaking her head]

I'm going on nothing but instinct right now. I don't know why they all need to discuss it. And I have no idea what they'll decide.

[Behind them Vaire appears for a moment, glances across at the trio with a sympathetic expression, and with a fond shake of her head dismisses the teacup sitting on her husband's chair. Another quick gesture dismisses the muddle of chairs and dims the light of the Loom to a faint glow. She disappears without them noticing her, with the possible exception of Huan. Beren sinks down onto his knees, closing his eyes. Luthien drops down in front of him]

 **Luthien** : [anxious]

What's wrong -- Beren, love, what's the matter?

 **Beren** : [looking up at her, vaguely]

I'm tired. -- And I got chilled and couldn't get warm again.

 **Luthien** :

Have they hurt you somehow?

 **Beren** : [slowly]

No. Some people -- I'm not sure what kind of people they were. They weren't Elves, I'm pretty sure. They came, and . . . talked at me kind of loudly. They -- they weren't real happy with me being there in the entryway. But nobody did anything except talk. I -- wasn't listening to most of it anyway.

[he reaches out his hand, and Huan bumps his head under it]

He came along and started licking my face . . . and made me move and kind of curled up around me . . . and after that . . . I wasn't cold. He growled at them when they came by to yell at me, too, and after a while they stopped.

[he smiles, rubbing Huan's ears]

He's a _good_ _dog_. Isn't that right, boy?

 **Huan** :

[whines]

[Luthien pulls Beren close against her side, and he leans his head on her shoulder. Huan moves to lie couchant behind them, right at their backs.]

 **Luthien** : [whispering]

Shh, it's all right, don't be afraid -- we're here now, I won't let anything else happen to you. Just rest, you're safe, we've got you, we've got you . . .

 **Beren** : [not opening his eyes]

Sounds good . . . to me . . .

[she is weeping silently, but not letting himknow it as she alternately smoothes his hair and rubs gently at his wrist. Across the room as she is trying to blink away the tears, the glow of the Loom attracts her attention, and she strains to make out what it is. At that moment the quiet of the hall is shattered beyond repair:]

 **Tulkas** : [shouting in the distance]

Well of course it's unprecedented, _everything's_ unprecedented, you know we're just making it up as we go along!

[Following this proclamation the speaker himself appears, striding in out of nowhere to where the three are, much to the astonishment of the lovers. Huan does not leave where he is lying pressed up against Beren and Luthien, but he gives a short happy bark and thumps his tail on the floor]

 **Tulkas** : [shaking his head in disgust]

They call me "simple" -- but not everything _is_ this complicated. Some things _are_ simple.

[looks around and snorts in disgust]

What is it with this obsessive need of Vaire's to tidy everything? How much work is it to leave a few chairs around?

[manifests a heavy, carved chair of the royal fald-stool with arms and back type, flings self down in it. (Note: there are no obvious sfx -- no flashes, no "magical" sounds -- it's just _there_.) Manifesting a drinking horn:]

You want anything? A drink? Say the word --

[Beren, a bit wild-eyed, shakes his head; Luthien is marginally more composed.]

 **Luthien** :

Oh -- no thank you, my lord. We are quite -- adequate -- as we are --

 **Tulkas** : [to Beren]

\-- Good work with those little spiders. Too many to clean out, of course, but you made a nice dent in the population.

 **Beren** : [startled into blurting out a response]

 _Little_?

 **Tulkas** :

Should've seen their mother.

[shakes his head sadly]

I'll regret not catching her to the end of the world.

[he takes another pull of his drink]

 **Beren** : [aside]

So will the _world_.

 **Tulkas** :

That's what I said.

[Beren looks confused.]

Now, mind you, I don't go in for all those fancy gadgets, myself -- I'm more the hands-on type -- but heh, even I can see why you wouldn't want to come to close quarters with those things. How come you never used a, a whatsit, poky-stick-thing -- you know, a "spear?" Seems a lot better than going after those things with a -- sword -- farther away, right? Why didn't you make yourself one?

 **Beren** :

Um -- 'cause I'm not a smith?

[Tulkas looks a bit confused at this]

I didn't have the tools, or the time, and I wouldn't have known what to do with them if I did. And a spear can be damned inconvenient for hauling around in rough terrain -- anything taller than you is gonna catch on stuff. Plus there's the problem of if you throw it you haven't got it, but if you hang on to it, it can become a liability. Spears are best for open country and pitched battle. Otherwise --

[it clicks, suddenly, and he looks horrified]

Ah. Sir. -- My lord. -- Oh _gods_  -- help me --

[Tulkas looks around]

 **Tulkas** :

No one else here, unless you're counting Huan. "Otherwise -- ?" You were saying -- ?

 **Beren** : [quietly, rushed]

Otherwise it can become just another thing to slow you down.

[bowing his head]

Sir.

 **Tulkas** :

Oh yeah. I'm with you there.

[getting louder]

I mean, it's _all_ just a way of hitting harder in one place than another. I don't know why _other_ _people_ go on about weapons as if they're so much better than brute force, especially the more moving parts they have. They're _not_ any easier. All this business about "it's so easy, you just pull it and the bow does the work for you," and nothing about how it wants to go in all different directions, including back into you and along your arm -- !

 **Beren** : [startled into forgetting]

Somebody said archery was _easy_? I would never agree with that.

 **Tulkas** :

But you were really good at it.

 **Beren** :

Yeah, but I started practicing when I was what, four? five? and I _kept_ practicing, and I twanged myself good more'n a few times there -- first time I tried fooling around with a full-size bow I gave myself a bloody nose, and my first recurved hunting job -- ouch. -- Of course I shouldn't have been too impatient to put on a vambrace before testing it. But yeah, anything that can punch through an elk, or a warg, or an armored Orc, before it can get close enough to damage you, is going to have a hell of a lot of power and need extreme control to make that power go where you need it to, and _only_ there.

[he stops, and starts to panic again -- Tulkas does not seem to notice, but Luthien hugs him]

 **Tulkas** : [smiling triumphantly]

I'm going to have you tell my brother-in-law this. Someone needs to take him down a notch. Besides, _you_ understand when brute force _is_ the right thing -- that bit with Feanor's brat, when he grabbed _her_? On the horse? -- No hesitation, no stopping-to-think-it-over -- exactly what I would have done. _Perfect_.

[gestures with his horn towards Beren and drinks a toast]

Of course, I helped a bit. You've always tended to be a little too thoughtful and cautious -- except towards the end there -- and sometimes you just need to _act_ without distractions. Not the time and place for it

 **Beren** :

Y -- you're Tulkas, right -- ?

 **Tulkas** : [shrugs]

Last time I checked. I think that's what they're still calling me.

 **Beren** :

Ah . . . okay. So -- when I pulled Curufin down, that was really you? Your power working through me? I should thank _you_ for saving Luthien then?

 **Tulkas** : [shaking his head]

Oh no, I just helped with the distractions. It was all _you_. Besides, you already did. I'm one of the Valar, right? Don't you remember thanking us?

 **Beren** :

. . .

 **Luthien** :

How do you know all this -- milord?

 **Tulkas** :

Oh, I was following the story off and on from a long ways back -- even before what's-his-name, the guy who didn't come back -- Thingol -- got my attention begging me to smite _him_ couple-three times a day. Nia said this was one I'd li --

 **Luthien** : [interrupting, outraged]

You _didn't_!

 **Tulkas** :

\-- Of _course_ not. That's not how it works, anyway, and your dad knows it.

[snorts]

Besides, I didn't _need_ to.

[glares at Beren]

What were you _thinking_ , you dimwit? You had every chance handed to you to go off and have a decent life with your girl and what do you do, you go and yourself killed, for a bargain which nobody in his right mind would have considered taking up -- can we say "rigged contest," hm? -- and you can't claim it was an _accident_ , how often did you try to get yourself killed before you succeeded? Every time she said "Let's just go and live in the woods," would it have, huh, killed you to say "yes"? Obviously not. Believe me, I _wanted_ to clobber you a couple times there.

[the disgruntled Power recovers from his rant with another drink]

 **Beren** : [quiet]

I'm sorry, if that helps any.

 **Tulkas** : [looks around expectantly, then shakes his head]

\-- Nope, nothing's changed. So I don't think it did.

[Beren looks even more baffled.]

 _Well_. What are you going to do now?

 **Beren** :

 _Do_?

 **Tulkas** :

Right, what are you going to do about this situation you got yourselves into?

 **Beren** :

. . .

 **Luthien** :

I got us into it too. But at this point it isn't up to _us_. What _can_ we do?

[pause]

That is to say, we're _dead_.

 **Tulkas** :

I know _that_. How much of a simpleton do you take me for? There's always _something_ you can do. It might not work, but at least --

[There is a sudden gust of wind through the place and a tall, athletic woman (who might well be played by Maureen O'Sullivan, the original "Jane") in swirling but rather abbreviated drapery appears behind Tulkas, and puts her hands over his eyes, exclaiming:]

Guess who!

 **Tulkas** :

Hmm . . . I think . . . but no, can't be sure --

 **Nessa** :

Silly!

[She leans over and gives him a quick upside-down kiss]

Sure now?

 **Tulkas** : [frowns, shakes his head]

Not quite.

[they share a rather-more-protracted moment]

I _think_  -- but . . .

[he ducks before she can thwack him on the head, grinning]

 **Nessa** : [moving around beside him]

Where did all the chairs go?

 **Tulkas** :

You know Vaire -- leave something alone for a moment, it gets cleaned up and put away. Here, sit on my lap, we only need one chair anyway.

[Nessa plunks herself down on his knees, grabs the mead-horn and takes a big gulp before passing it back and leaning against his shoulder.]

So what's going on? Anything interesting?

 **Nessa** : [scornful expression]

Pfft. Talk, talk, talk, "Rules" -- talk, talk, talk, "mortal" -- talk, talk, --

 **Tulkas** : [interrupting]

Who's saying what?

 **Nessa** :

\--  _You_ know how it goes. Somebody says one thing, someone else says another, and after it wrangles around for a while the first person's saying what the third said and the third and second are disagreeing with _themselves_ and everyone else is just shaking their heads.

 **Tulkas** :

You left out _shouting_.

 **Nessa** :

You didn't let me get there --

[pokes him in the ribs]

\-- talk, talk, talk, "War," -- talk, talk, talk, "Melian" --  _shouting_ : "That scoundrel who seduced my finest employee and convinced her to throw away her career and become a housewife --"

 **Tulkas** :

\-- That's got to be Irmo --

 **Nessa** : [nods]

\-- More shouting. Back again to "mortal -- Rules -- War." It's _soooo_ boring. -- This chair is _not_ big enough for the two of us.

 **Tulkas** :

That's because you insist on trying to sit sideways.

 **Nessa** :

Well, how else can you feed me grapes? If I face forward, you stick them in my eye.

 **Tulkas** :

We don't _have_ any grapes, silly.

 **Nessa** :

Well, get some!

[Beren gives Luthien a cautious Look; she only raises her eyebrows in answer. This is _not_ what she expected either.]

Never mind, I'll fetch them.

[Nessa holds out her hand and manifests a large cluster, pulls off one and pops it in her husband's mouth before giving him the rest of the bunch. Tulkas looks at both occupied hands, shakes his head and sets the drinking horn down on the floor, on feet which might not have been there a moment before. He starts feeding her grapes while she crosses her feet on one arm of the chair and leans back on the other. Tulkas starts teasing her, holding them just a little too high, and Nessa tickles him in return. This was not such a good idea, as in the resulting upheaval the chair really proves to be too small and she falls halfway onto the floor out of his lap. Huan has to get up and come over and "help" at this point with excited noises and nose-pokings]

 **Nessa** :

Huan, get away! This is _stupid_  --

[she glares at the arm of the chair and gives it a whack with her hand]

I'm going to fix this, just wait a moment --

[There are no obvious sfx at this point, either audio or visual enhancement, just as with the previous manifestations]

 **Beren** : [whispering to Luthien]

Were they talking about _your_ _parents_  -- ?

 **Luthien** : [almost incapable of speech]

I -- I'm -- I think so --

 **Beren** :

Did you get that -- that -- bit, about -- being angry at --

[breaks off, astounded -- loudly:]

\-- That's a _hill_. A real hill, from outside -- at least it _looks_ real --

 **Nessa** : [beaming]

Thank you!

[instead of a heavy fald-stool with arms, the divine couple are now sitting on a grassy hillock with some shrubs growing on it, allowing for much easier reclining. It is a fairly decent-sized prominence, not inconspicuous at all.]

Would you like one too? We have plenty around our hall -- I can get another, no problem.

 **Beren** : [rushed]

Uh -- thank you very much, my lady, but I really don't want to put anyone to any trouble on my behalf.

 **Nessa** : [between grapes]

Well, _I_ don't think you're obnoxious at all. That was very polite.

 **Luthien** : [temper starting to flare]

 _Who's_ saying Beren's obnoxious?

 **Nessa** : [shrugs]

Different people. My brother, like he's got room to talk. People with no senses of humor. Or romance.

[to Tulkas]

My turn.

[she sits up and takes the fruit and they switch places. To Luthien:]

I was so pleased with the way you used _my_ Art to put old Melkor in his place --

 **Tulkas** : [chuckles]

Heh. That's one way of putting it.

 **Nessa** :

What?!?

 **Tulkas** :

You were shaking me and screaming and whacking Tav on the arm and yelling "See? See? Don't you ever call Dance a frivolous waste of time again!" until everyone told you to sit down and be quiet.

 **Nessa** :

I didn't hear that.

 **Tulkas** :

That's 'cause you were shouting.

 **Nessa** :

Pfft.

[she silences him with another grape]

You want to talk about obnoxious? He -- Melkor -- used to swagger about like he was Eru's gift to Valier -- and no idea how to win friends, much less hearts. No understanding of what _conversation_ meant. He honestly thought that we wanted to hear him talk about _himself_.

 **Luthien** : [defensive]

Well, if someone's _interesting_ , that's all right.

 **Nessa** :

 _You_ met him. Did he have anything the least bit interesting to say? The "art of conversation" involves an exchange of ideas, right? He couldn't ever grasp that there's this basic difference between a conversation and a monologue. Do you know how annoying it is to have someone just ignore everything you say to them?

 **Luthien** :

Well, up until recently I'd have had to say --  _no_ , but --

 **Beren** : [muttering]

I'm sorry --

 **Luthien** :

I wasn't talking about _you_ , I was referring to Celegorm. And my father. You listened, you just disagreed with me.

 **Beren** : [gloomy]

I was right, though --

 **Luthien** : [sharply]

No, you were _not_. If you had listened to me from the very _beginning_ , milord, you would _not_ have lost your hand, and you wouldn't _be_ incapacitated in a fight, and you wouldn't have gotten yourself _killed_. Am I not right? _Beren_? _Am_ _I_ _not_ _right_ about that? Even the gods think so, weren't you listening --

 **Beren** : [louder]

But it _wouldn't_ have worked _then_ either --

 **Nessa** : [loudly as if shooing a cat, dropping the grapes and clapping her hands]

 _Wssht_!

[they jump -- the Patrons of Spouses look at them very seriously and severely]

 _What_ are you fighting about?

 **Tulkas** :

Sounds like you're fighting over something that's already over.

 **Luthien** :

Er . . .

 **Nessa** :

Why?

 **Beren** :

Uh -- I guess because -- I've been doing it so long --

 **Luthien** : [firmly]

 _We've_ been doing it --

 **Beren** :

\--  _we_  -- just don't know how to stop.

 **Nessa** :

That's not a good enough reason. Is it?

[they shake their heads meekly. Huan thumps his tail and gives a sympathy whine]

\-- Where were we?

 **Tulkas** : [helpfully]

Talking about my ex-rival. Whose head I am someday going to pound flush level with his neck.

 **Nessa** :

That's right.

[gives him another grape -- to Luthien:]

I'm betting all he said was, "Nobody appreciates me, I don't get the respect I deserve, everyone else is having such a great time, poor me, -- you watch, they'll all be sorry someday" -- am I not right?

 **Luthien** : [deadpan]

That was pretty much all, except that you left out the bit about, "Get down here or I'll shoot you down with a lightning bolt."

 **Tulkas** : [flat]

Oh, how nice. He's got a new hobby. Indoor target practice. Joy.

 **Nessa** :

No, he used to do that.

 **Tulkas** :

Not indoors.

 **Nessa** :

Well, how would we know what he was doing all that time in Utumno? -- This is a silly argument. Let's stop.

 **Tulkas** : [amiably]

All right.

 **Nessa** : [gesturing towards Beren with her arm]

Did you ever get a proper Acclamation? Did your family ever acknowledge him as your consort?

 **Luthien** : [a bit dry]

Haven't you been watching us all along?

 **Nessa** :

No, I had work to do right around then. Summer, you know.

 **Luthien** :

Well.

[she sighs]

They did give us a feast and all, but I'm not sure that I would call it a _proper_ celebration. It wasn't very celebratory, you see, what with Carcharoth on the loose and so many people having been killed by his rampages and everyone all packed into the Caves for safety and the whole place completely disorganized as a result. No one was very cheerful, to put it mildly. Poor Mablung looked like a ghost -- he shouldn't even have been up yet, but trying to make him or Beleg stop for their own good is like telling Beren to take care of himself --

[Beren looks away, embarrassed]

\-- and my mother didn't look much better, and Dad was trying so hard to be polite and not say anything distressing, but there really aren't a whole lot of conversation topics left that don't end up somewhere unpleasant, and how much can you say about the weather? And Beren was so nervous -- and so was I -- and we weren't used to sitting at table -- out in the woods by the campfire I'd cut things and hold them for him, but our timing was all off and we kept knocking everything over. And then everyone pretended they didn't notice, and that was even worse. Beren was almost in tears, and I was trying not to get angry, and it wasn't working very well . . .

 **Nessa** :

Oh, you poor kids!

 **Luthien** :

. . . and we were both so exhausted and frayed that trying to be social was, frankly, a waste of time, and then there was all this fuss with Mom over whether we should have my old rooms, or the best guest suite instead, and since every available chamber was full of refugees who would have to be shuffled around, I thought it was irrelevant, especially given our living conditions for the past year, and they didn't understand that it was a joke when I said "Just give me a sword and I'll make a lean-to of branches like I usually do," and so I got lectured about The Dangers of Carcharoth! as though I were an idiot, and then I said, "Well, is my house still up in Hirilorn?" and that killed conversation completely for a bit.

[shaking her head]

And then Mom wanted to give me _their_ room, and neither one of us wanted that, and Beren tried to help by suggesting that we could sleep on the floor in one of the storage caves, and they thought that was _Not_ _Funny_ either, and then they realized that it wasn't supposed to be a joke, and things got touchy again for a little while, and then we had another round of mutual apologizing.

 **Nessa** :

So what did you end up doing?

 **Luthien** : [completely unable to stop now that she's started talking about it]

Hirilorn, actually. No one else was staying there, no way up it for Carcharoth -- and the army stationed all around the gates of Menegroth below -- and ultimately everyone agreed it was the best solution. Not _perfect_ , mind you -- I had to guard Beren up the ladder like you do with small children to the house door, and then he got upset all over again about how high up it was -- he'd only seen the tree once at sunset and it was a lot more impressive actually being in it -- because of me climbing down from it, and then we fought about me sleeping on the floor with him because my bed was too small for us both and he was being all self-sacrificing again and I had to cry before he'd stop it, and then we fought about him going on the Hunt the next day, because he insisted that it ` really was his fault about Carcharoth and besides Mablung was going in spite of his injuries, and we were both feeling so Doomed that I couldn't tell if it was a real perception or not, and I tried to make a joke about this being familiar, up in the moonlight with sentries down on the lawn and he got upset _again_ about the fact that I had to rappel down, _and_ about the fact that they were in the Pit then . . .

[she stops, taking a ragged breath; Beren is profoundly mortified -- Tulkas gives him a sympathetic look]

 **Tulkas** : [pointing at the drinking horn on the floor]

Sure you don't want some mead? You look like you could use a drink.

 **Beren** :

No thanks -- but it sounds like a better idea all the time.

 **Luthien** : [forlornly]

. . . and I almost wished that they'd just drunk us a toast, broken a loaf, handed us some blankets and said "there's an empty corner behind those shelves over there," just bread -- wine -- bed, instead of even _trying_ to make a fuss . . . It wasn't just the awfulness at dinner, the rest of the celebration wasn't any good either -- there wasn't any of the traditional singing, because it wouldn't have been appropriate with all the mourning, and everyone was so awkward about congratulating us . . . and about actually looking me in the eye, and _not staring_ at Beren. As a wedding -- it was pretty awful, really. And then he got killed --

[she stops abruptly]

 **Nessa** : [outraged]

That's not right! You deserved better than that!

 **Luthien** : [shrugs]

Well, -- yes. But under the circumstances --

 **Nessa** : [interrupting]

 _That_ doesn't matter. That's just no good at all. -- You know Morgoth ruined _our_ honeymoon, too.

 **Luthien** : [blinking suspiciously hard -- politely:]

\-- Really?

 **Nessa** :

The _party_ was wonderful. Which just made everything after so much more awful as well. It's worse when _good_ memories get spoiled by some disaster.

 **Luthien** :

What happened? I remember Mom saying something about that was why you all moved out of Middle-earth -- something about volcanic eruptions or something -- she wasn't very clear, and I was a little kid being fished out from under the loom.

 **Nessa** :

He used our wedding as cover to sneak his army of fiends in from Without and start entrenching up north and by the time we realized he was causing the pollution and the mutations, that it wasn't something _we'd_ done wrong, he had already tunneled under the Lamps.

 **Tulkas** : [bitterly]

I shouldn't have gone off-duty.

 **Nessa** :

No darling, it was _my_ fault for distracting you. You couldn't have known about the double-agents -- not even Manwe did, then, so why shouldn't you have had the night off?

 **Tulkas** :

Honey, don't you _dare_ blame yourself. Just as much my fault for daring you to try to wear me out --

 **Nessa** : [mischievously]

No one can keep up with me. I bet I could do it again tonight . . .

 **Tulkas** : [interested]

What stakes?

 **Nessa** :

A beach holiday on Tol Eressea. Moonlight on the ocean, dolphins playing, and the water right there when we get sandy. -- What are you betting?

 **Tulkas** :

A mountain-climbing vacation.

[leadingly]

\-- Sunrise over the Pelori, bonfires under the stars at the edge of the world, and that bracing mountain air means we'll have to keep warm somehow. The deer will like it too, we won't have to ask anyone to watch them while we're away.

 **Nessa** : 

Ooh, you're cheating!

[she pokes him in the ribs. He sits up and tries to catch her hand, giving her kisses, while she keeps on trying to tickle him.]

 **Beren** : [to himself]

They looked a lot more _staid_ on Gran's tapestries . . .

[Luthien gives a speculative look at the Powers and then at him]

 **Luthien** :

If you hadn't gone and gotten yourself killed, _we_ could have had that in Middle-earth, too. They've been married for thousands of years and somehow _they_ manage not to fight most of the time.]

[Beren winces. Unnoticed except by Huan, who pricks up his ears, Aule's Assistant appears in the middle of the hall. He does a double-take at the sight of the hill and its occupants, before giving a disgusted snort at the sight of the amorous deities.]

 **Aule's Assistant:** [clearing his throat]

 _If_ you can manage to divert your attention from this unseemly spectacle, and grant this humble messenger a modicum of the same?

[they all turn and stare at him]

 **Tulkas** : [looking around the room]

Unseemliness? We can't have _that_. -- Where?

[the Assistant shakes his head. Nessa throws a grape at him; he ignores it with studied decorousness]

 **Assistant** : [to Luthien]

The Powers have requested -- in the absence or preoccupation of the regular staff -- that I provide you with escort to the chamber in these Halls where they will hold their deliberations so that you may address them, and account for your actions.

[silence. Beren and Luthien, looking nervous, start to get up]

 **Luthien** : [to Beren]

If you find yourself getting panicked again, leave the talking to me this time.

 **Assistant** : [quickly]

The presence of your -- consort -- is not required.

 **Luthien** :

What do you mean?

 **Assistant** :

I mean, plainly put, that the mortal is _not_ to attend this meeting.

 **Luthien** :

Well, then, -- I'm not going either. Why _can't_ he?

 **Assistant** :

To your first word, this is not "attendance optional," to your second -- in plainest speech -- because he does not belong here in the first place, nor with you, who are of a different kind, nor is your reasoning made clearer by his company.

 **Luthien** : [tearful frustration]

 _Why_ is everyone out to get us? We're not hurting anyone, we didn't ask for very much -- we just want to be together. -- What is the _problem_? Why does everyone in the world have to make such a fuss about us? What do the gods care about me, about Beren, when they have all of Arda to worry about? What _difference_ do we make?

[pause]

 **Tulkas** :

Well, you did come and insist rather loudly that Namo pay attention to you. -- Not trying to be mean, just pointing out a fact.

 **Luthien** :

But why can't you just _fix_ things?

 **Tulkas** :

How?

 **Luthien** : [acerbic]

You're the _gods_ , you're supposed to be all powerful.

 **Nessa** : [patiently]

Now, little sister, I'm _sure_ Melian taught you better than that.

 **Luthien** : [still stubborn]

You still haven't explained why such a fuss is being made.

 **Tulkas** :

You've thrown everyone off by doing something completely unprecedented. People don't just show up here without being called for, you know.

 **Nessa** : [thoughtful]

Well, there was that other time which is sort of the same thing --

 **Tulkas** : [scowling]

Yes, but that's not a _good_ precedent. And it isn't really the same at all. _They're_ not like them -- and a jolly good thing, too!

 **Nessa** :

True.

[to Luthien]

You should really do something with your hair, you look like a poor sheep they've forgotten to shear.

[Luthien, looking intensely piqued, starts to say something -- and Beren laughs]

It looks so nice when you braid flowers in it.

 **Luthien** : [to Beren, who has turned it into a cough]

 _What_ , _sir_?!

 **Beren** : [complete innocence]

Oh absolutely, I agree -- about the flowers.

[she gives him a narrow Look; he takes a lock of her hair in his fingers]

You just don't get a break, do you? -- It's okay, it's okay, _this_ is just a _little_ thing --

[he tugs her closer until their foreheads touch; whispering:]

You still don't look as much of a sheepdog as _me_  --

[they kiss]

 **Tulkas** : [approving]

 _Much_ better.

[embarrassed, they straighten back up]

 **Assistant** : [clearing his throat]

\-- Could we _please_ stop wasting time, young Lady?

 **Luthien** : [same tone back]

That is _Princess_ , to you, sir. And _we_ are not wasting anyone's time, but _quite_ the reverse.

 **Nessa** : [to her husband]

Oh, I've got a plan. A good plan! Listen --

[She grabs his head and whispers into his ear.]

Let's go find her, all right?

 **Tulkas** : [frowning]

You really think that will help?

 **Nessa** :

I'm sure. -- Oh, I want to stop by the house first and pick up the deer.

 **Tulkas** :

Are they part of the plan?

 **Nessa** :

No, silly, it's just more fun when they're around. Race you back to the hall!

[Vanishes. Tulkas vanishes a split-second later. The Hill is left behind]

 **Assistant** : [shaking his head]

\-- Well, don't expect to see _them_ any time soon.

[to Luthien, not really a question]

Your Highness, are you coming or not?

 **Luthien** : [folding her arms]

I told you, I'm not going _anywhere_ without Beren.

[deliberately]

You tell them -- If _he_ is not welcome, _I'm_ not welcome

 **Beren** : [unhappy]

\-- Tinuviel -- maybe --

 **Luthien** :

 _No_. If they're going to make this big deal about me being Mom's daughter and "isn't it _wonderful_ " to meet me and isn't it so awful what happened, they can treat _you_ with the respect due you as my consort. Otherwise it's just the same as Doriath.

[The Assistant gives her a disgruntled glare; she gives it right back to him]

 **Assistant** :

I will speak to my Patrons about this, Elf.

 **Luthien** :

Good. You do that.

[after a brief staring contest Aule's messenger vanishes, not before saying, in a last-word-power-play manner:]

 **Assistant** :

Don't touch anything while you're waiting. -- Especially the Loom.

[silence -- particularly deafening after the last visitors; the couple look at each other, recovering from the overwhelming personalities and onslaught of information they've just experienced.]

 **Luthien** :

 _Well_.

 **Beren** :

\--  _Yeah_.

[pause]

Not -- not quite what you expected either, huh?

 **Luthien** :

I think -- my parents -- left a lot out.

[pulling herself together]

Now I'm wondering what else they neglected to mention or somehow failed to convey quite vividly enough. -- So what were _you_ expecting?

 **Beren** :

I don't know. Not _this_.

[shaking his head]

I mean -- I don't know, I just -- my folks raised me to be godsfearing and pious, I learned my myths, and how you don't reap all the field, you leave some for the deer in winter because Yavanna is patron of wild animals, not just farmers, and you don't ever shoot swans because they're sacred to Ulmo, and if you wear down a knife or a needle where it can't be sharpened any more you don't throw it away in the trash, you bury it out of respect for Aule, and you thank Manwe when the weather holds good for harvest --

[short dismayed laugh]

\-- that was all just -- everyday stuff -- just _life_ , but not --  _there_ , like the War. The stories -- they were like _tapestries_ , bright colors, and detailed, and interesting, but _background_ , not --  _real_  -- the way stories about _our_ _history_ were real, people if you didn't know, at least you knew people who had known someone who _had_ known them.

[sighs]

And then everything fell apart, and -- what was normal and what wasn't -- by the end nothing _human_ was real to me, and I swear I could understand what the streams were saying, but since it wasn't in words I couldn't ever say what it was -- and then --  _you_  --

[she smiles sadly at him]

and afterwards . . .

[he shakes his head]

. . .  _he'd_ say things, or they would, and I literally couldn't make anything of it . . . I hear words like "and so I asked Varda," and -- my mind just _stops_ , like a pony balking -- I can't make any pictures to go along with the words. I just had no idea really _what_ to expect . . . being mortal, especially . . .

[with a touch of resentment]

\-- but I _did_ think it was going to be peaceful at least.

 **Luthien** : [slowly]

It's different for me, obviously -- more like your old family stories about Hithlum, friends of my parents and places that I've never met or seen but had always felt familiar towards, because of the way they talked about them. But it's still quite different from the way I'd imagined it, from their stories . . .

[glancing up at the glowing vaults with a thoughtful frown]

So that _is_ the Loom. That answers one question, at least. I _wonder_  . . .

[she gets up and tugs him over towards it, despite his reluctance]

 **Beren** : [worried]

Tinuviel, he just said --

 **Luthien** :

All he said was don't _touch_ it. I'm just _looking_ , Beren.

[it's clear that's not going to be the case for very long]

Oh, interesting. I can see now why they call it a "loom." I think -- look at that, there actually are several, um, _heddles_ , I suppose you have to call them -- see?

 **Beren** :

No.

 **Luthien** :

More than several, really. They just keep on going, all the way back in, I don't see how they all fit. And that's got to be the take-up -- again, I don't understand how all of them can be in there --

[she leans in and starts trying to measure spaces]

 **Beren** :

Er --

 **Luthien** :

\-- because there's got to be one for each "heddle", but it looks to me like you could unwind the, ah, _cloth_ , and thread it over these bits, if you --

[without her actually touching anything, some part of the construct moves and there is a dramatic, if brief, change in the intensity, texture, and color of the lights]

Oh! -- Did you see that? You _did_ see that, right? I don't know exactly what it was, but there was definitely _something_ there -- Now if I do _this_  -- or this instead --

 **Beren** : [trying to pull her away]

I don't think we're supposed to be doing this . . .

 **Luthien** :

And that has stopped you when?

 **Beren** :

. . .

[she keeps poking around, while he alternates between expressions of dread and resignation. Thus neither of them see when Huan re-enters, carefully leading Finrod Felagund by the sleeve, who is a little bemused but otherwise calm and unflustered.]

 **Finrod** :

Huan, I don't think we're supposed to be back here. I know it's a madhouse right now and no one seems to be around to give any answers, and I haven't been able to find anyone to send down to Orome about you, but don't you think we should look for someone to come explain what's going on . . . and . . .

[stops]

I -- think we've found them. Somehow -- I'm not surprised. Aside from being shocked beyond words. _Beren_? --  _and_ _Luthien_? -- how --

[He hastens over to the two of them, who have turned around with a start and are standing frozen in front of the Loom]

 _How_  . . . ?

[Beren, speechless, falls on his knees before him, Luthien kneeling with him. Finrod at once kneels too, taking their free hands in his own -- or attempting to.]

 **Finrod** : [in extreme distress]

Beren, what's _happened_?

 **Beren** : [roughly, not looking up]

I've failed you again, sir.

 **Huan** :

[barks sharply]

 **Finrod** :

Last I knew you were safe and living happily together. What happened to you --  _three_?

 **Beren** :

Carcharoth.

 **Finrod** :

What's Carcharoth?

 **Huan** :

[growls]

 **Luthien** :

Morgoth's anti-Huan defense system. But I knocked him out and we got in anyway, but then Morgoth saw through my ruse and recognized me.

 **Finrod** : [aghast]

Ah -- you were killed by Morgoth?

 **Luthien** :

No! We got it. But then Carcharoth got it. And Beren's hand. And then the Eagles came and got us. And Huan and I took care of Beren. And then we went home, but Carcharoth had already gotten there and into Doriath because of the Silmaril but I'm not sure if it might not have been because of Beren's hand, either, and they went to hunt him and he almost got my father but Beren got in the way -- and here we are.

 **Finrod** : [stunned]

You -- got -- a Silmaril. -- Yourselves.

 **Beren** : [hoarse]

And then I lost it.

 **Finrod** :

You two -- went into Angband and took one of the jewels away. _By_ _yourselves_.

 **Luthien** :

With Huan's help.

 **Finrod** : [horrified, touching Beren's wrist]

Is _that_ what happened to you?

 **Beren** :

No. That was Carcharoth.

 **Finrod** :

But you knocked -- Carcharoth -- out.

 **Beren** :

But then he woke up.

 **Luthien** :

\-- I explained that, remember?

 **Finrod** : [mildly]

I'm still trying to accept the fact that you're really here and not some sort of hallucination born of wishful thinking.

 **Luthien** : [remorseful]

I'm sorry --

 **Finrod** : [brushing her bangs aside]

What happened to your hair? You look like a wild pony.

 **Luthien** : [laughing and crying together]

Oh, no . . . not you too . . . !

 **Finrod** :

I -- no, I _believe_ it, I simply cannot comprehend this.

[he shakes his head, laughing a little]

Let me endeavor to do so. -- We'd heard of your exploit from several sources, but mostly from the newly-arrived -- there are several persons here who came not long after returning to Nargothrond, finding freedom sadly lacking as compared to expectations and recollection -- and I've had no end of trouble convincing the majority here that my older cousin from the Old Country isn't really twelve feet tall with a perpetual battle-aura brighter than the High- King's, let me assure you.

[Luthien gives a short incredulous laugh]

And they all said that you looked like the happiest couple in Middle-earth, and they were so pleased, and we were too, and it seemed as though things were going uphill, what with Sauron routed and no enemy base in that geographical corridor any more, and that was the last we knew, until the staff were all called away suddenly and with a great deal of worry expressed, talking about a sudden influx of casualties from Beleriand all intensely traumatized and no one's given us any meaningful answers since then.

 **Beren** : [hollowly to himself]

\-- Carcharoth . . .

 **Luthien** : [getting warmer as she goes]

Beren wouldn't go along with it -- too much happiness and he had to wallow in guilt some more and then try to immolate himself, and we tried to stop him, Huan and I, we really did -- but even though we could escape Nargothrond's security and defeat a Dark Lord, we were no match for Beren when it comes to out-and-out granite-hard stubbornness, not about going to Angband, not about refusing to take the peace we could get, not about going off to fight Carcharoth -- again!

[Beren cringes and ducks his head; Finrod grips his arm comfortingly]

I'm sorry. It's been a horrible year.

 **Finrod** : [hesitantly]

Did you like Nargothrond? -- I mean -- that is, of course, aside from being a prisoner . . . ?

 **Luthien** : [incredulous]

Finrod -- ! Really, do you think --

[she checks, and then looks sadly at him]

\-- It was _beautiful_. It was just as lovely as you said it would be. I wish --

[she breaks off, shaking her head, and reaches out to stroke the side of his face. He gives her a rueful smile]

I wish I'd gotten there in time.

 **Finrod** : [gently]

So you could have watched me fade after? -- You _did_.

[he looks at Beren]

You keep saying "Carcharoth" and I don't quite know what you're talking about. Is that a weapon? Or or a person? Or both, like Glaurung?

[Beren answers before Luthien can start to speak]

 **Beren** : [meeting Finrod's eyes for the first time]

 _Mine_.

[pause -- Finrod stares at him, starting to make sense of it]

\-- And Huan's.

[Finrod understands -- his expression changes to utter dismay and he cannot say anything. He reaches over and pulls them both against his shoulders, rocking them for a moment like children, resting his forehead against theirs. When they straighten he commands:]

 **Finrod** :

Tell me everything.

 **Luthien** : [tired and frustrated]

Finrod, it's _such_ a long story, and I've been telling it over and over and _over_ again and --

 **Finrod** : [quietly]

I promise I'll listen.

[she stops and almost smiles -- he gives her a kiss on the forehead and stands, helping them both get up.]

Let's find someplace more comfortable than the floor, though, if you don't mind.

[glances around -- musing:]

I wonder if _benches_ would qualify as a technical violation . . .

[the others look at each other, wondering what on earth he's talking about. A woman's voice echoes through the door from down the hallway:]

\-- I shall not speak with him, dost thou not hear me plain? I'll have none of this --

 **Finrod** :

Grinding Ice -- !

[Casts around frantically, ducks behind Huan. A tall and radiantly blonde woman sweeps in accompanied by Nienna's Apprentice. She could be played excellently by Uma Thurman, on loan from _Gattaca._ The faint (given the lighting) but definite living color of her and the slight shadow she casts make for a somewhat disquieting effect, as they do for her escort. Her gown is sleeveless, off the shoulder and flowing white, with a wide begemmed sash -- Art-Nouveau Egyptian-classical, like a Mucha-esque Cleopatra.]

 **Apprentice** :

My Master asks but that you hear him out -- whether you say anything or not, milady.

 **Amarie** :

I mean absolutely no disrespect to thy Master whatsoever, but thou mayest tell the Lady that if she doth hope to force some manner of reconciliation on us in such wise, it is _foredoomed_ to be in vain. I will not to talk to him, do you hear?

 **Apprentice** :

Alas, yes.

[they see Beren, Luthien, and Huan -- and no one else -- present in the chamber, and cross to them in the absence of any other possible advisors]

 **Apprentice** :

Erm . . . excuse me, Your Highness, but you haven't happened to see my teacher -- that would be the Lady Nienna -- about anywhere lately?

 **Luthien** : [rather sharp]

I am afraid I haven't, sir. I have seen precious little of _pity_ as yet from the Powers here -- though _much_ in the way of sentimentality.

 **Beren** : [trying to be fair]

Uh --

 **Amarie** : [interested now as well as annoyed]

\-- "Highness"? Shall be a foreigner from the other Shore, belike? For I know all the royals in this land, and she is none of them.

 **Apprentice** : [graciously indicating with his arm]

This is the daughter of the Lady Melian and her consort, King Elu, once called Elwe, brother of the lord of Alqualonde (who is well known to yourself,) -- the Princess Luthien of Doriath in Beleriand.

[silence]

 **Amarie** : [staring intensely at Luthien]

 _So_.

[pause]

This, then, shall be the infamous maid herself?

 **Luthien** :

\-- Infamous? I wouldn't know. Who are _you_?

 **Apprentice** : [quickly]

I'm just the messenger. As in "Don't shoot."

 **Amarie** : [looks her up and down and sniffs]

Thou dost not appear _much_ that hath such havoc late inspired.

[turning her gaze on Beren]

And this is thy human consort. -- I should have expected better there as well.

[the detached contempt slips into cold rage]

An I thought it should touch him, that mortal killer, I'd strike him across his villainous countenance, as I'd thee as well --

[back to the cool detachment]

\-- but such doth merit not even my disregard.

 **Luthien** :

Don't you dare threaten him!

 **Amarie** : [sneering]

What matter? He hath not substance nor reality in any case.

[Beren raises his brows but says nothing. Behind Huan Finrod grimaces, and reluctantly gets up from his knees to step around the Hound.]

 **Finrod** :

\-- Amarie. -- Is _that_ how you see them? Or only all of us that are dead?

[silence. They stare at each other with extreme intensity -- her shock at the surprise takes a moment to fade]

 **Amarie** : [flatly]

\-- What dost thou here?

 **Finrod** :

A friend summoned me. I don't ignore such things. -- Especially when it's Huan.

 **Beren** : [astonished]

\-- That's _Amarie_?

 **Luthien** :

Oh, this is your old girlfriend?

 **Amarie** : [furious]

Wretch, what hast thou said of me?

 **Beren** :

\--  _This_ is Amarie?

 **Amarie** : [through her teeth]

\-- And am I thus made sport for a Secondborn barbarian, and a mockery for usurpers as well as renegades?

 **Finrod** : [iron]

 _Do_ _not_ speak ill of my friend.

[she snorts in disdain]

 **Amarie** :

He is _dead_ , withal.

 **Finrod** :

So am I.

 **Amarie** : [scoffing]

Thou? _Thou_ art merely affected and that right willfully, thou miscreant.

 **Beren** : [confused]

\--  _Affected_? -- Does that mean something different here?

 **Luthien** :

Not that I've heard.

[to Amarie]

Now you hear me, you can't insult my cousin that way -- or any other way, I won't have it.

 **Amarie** : [without heat, very matter-of-factly]

Silence, thou shameless recusant. Thou'rt naught but a savage, for all thy shadowed folk name thee _princess_ , and the more so to roam the wildwood in garment of suspect sorcery and thine own hair -- !

[Luthien is momentarily speechless. Beren winces, glances at Finrod]

 **Finrod** :

Are you thinking what I'm thinking?

 **Beren** :

Oh yeah. -- No cover at all.

 **Finrod** :

What an inopportune time for Huan to run off. He'd be adequate cover for us both.

 **Beren** :

Hey -- it could be worse.

[pause]

 **Finrod** :

It _was_.

[Both studiously avoid each other's eyes for a moment. Futile -- each steals a look, and simultaneously bursts into uncontrollable laughter.]

 **Amarie** : [affronted, turning her wrath on them]

 _What_ , pray tell, dost so amuse?

[Beren and Finrod try to look serious. Attempt fails utterly.]

 **Finrod** : [leaning on Beren's shoulder, doubled over]

"Dumb Stunts of the Noldor," number I-couldn't-begin-to-guess-which, out of very-likely-infinity --

 **Beren** : [being the Voice of Reason]

It was a _good_ plan, it just needed some tweaking. Huan even said so. It worked _fine_ the second time --

 **Finrod** :

Right.

[wiping eyes]

\-- Would you care to explain what definition of " _fine_ " you're using?

 **Beren** :

Hey, just because I blew it afterwards doesn't change the fact that the _plan_ worked perfectly.

 **Finrod** :

What were we _thinking_?

 **Beren** :

Hey -- you want _stupid_? You wouldn't think anyone could forget _this_ , would you?

[gesturing with his right wrist]

Carcharoth charges and instead of bracing the end of it against the side of my foot and using my elbow to help stabilize it, I go to level it at him like I still had two hands and he brushes it aside like I was poking him with a cattail instead. How dumb is that?

 **Finrod** : [scoffs]

What about "leave the talking to me, I can handle him," -- never mind the fact that we're talking about a being who helped build the world itself, older by comparison to me than I am to you -- no, I'll just take care of him!

 **Beren** :

No, no, _nothing_ on me. You gotta hear the whole story -- you're not going to believe most of it.

 **Finrod** :

I don't believe most of it anyway. Not even the parts I was present for.

[they lose it again -- Luthien sighs and shakes her head; Amarie is staring in horrified fascination]

 **Amarie** :

 _What_ doth so amuse?

 **Luthien** : [dryly]

 _Wolves_.

 **Amarie** :

 _Wolves_?!?

[Luthien nods]

And thou dost think naught on't?

 **Luthien** : [shrugging]

I can't laugh about it -- but I won't deny them the right. It's their battle. -- Beren doesn't find anything remotely amusing in the parts of my adventures I find funny after the fact.

 **Amarie** :

\-- Madness!

 **Beren** : [recovering enough to argue]

Yeah, but what about me blowing our cover?

 **Finrod** :

That wasn't you, that was me. Besides, we were insane then.

 **Beren** :

Well, _I_ certainly was. I distinctly remember calling you "Ma" on more than one occasion.

 **Finrod** : [reasonably]

Yes -- and I _answered_.

[unsteadily they endeavor to regain self-possession]

 **Beren** : [nodding towards Amarie]

Now she's going to think we're completely crazy.

 **Finrod** :

Oh, I'm sure she already does. All of Tirion thinks so, or so I've been informed, and no doubt they think it on the seacoast and in Valmar too. Besides, she told me so when I left: this will merely confirm her opinion irrefutably.

 **Amarie** : [acidly]

Wouldst thou leave off this affectation that I am not present, while thou dost speak of me, else cease from the same? Or shall that prove too much in the way of civilized manners for thee, Finrod?

 **Beren** : [sobering up]

Would you rather we talk about you when you can't hear and respond, milady? Is _that_ how they do it in civilized society?

 **Finrod** : [to Beren]

For someone who isn't real, you make a lot of sense, you know.

 **Beren** :

Thank you. -- I try.

 **Amarie** : [outraged]

I shall not be insulted by an -- an Aftercomer.

 **Finrod** : [to Beren]

I thought you asked her a serious question.

 **Beren** :

Me too.

 **Amarie** :

Finrod, presumest not to disregard me, nor speak me past as I were but a carven figure!

 **Finrod** : [becoming quite focussed]

But you _ordered_ me not to speak to you -- you made that one of the conditions of ever getting the chance to ask for your forgiveness again. Are you going to hold this against me, start the yen over again, because I'm doing what you're telling me to do _now_? Amarie, I haven't got the _strength_ for this. I apologized. You got angry. I'm not allowed to apologize, or to seek you out, and _now_ apparently you're angry with me for obeying you. If you're going to play these games with me, then I'll stay here till the end of Arda and work on my songs. There's a wonderful group of musicians here, and the acoustics are excellent. _What_ _do_ _you_ _want_ _me_ _to_ _do_?

 **Amarie** :

Oh! Thou mocker!

 **Luthien** : [incandescent]

What?!? You set him an impossible task and then you punish him for doing it?

 **Amarie** :

Thou art the one to talk, forsooth. To name a Silmaril for thy dowry -- !

 **Luthien** : [rolling her eyes]

Not this again -- That wasn't _my_ idea.

 **Amarie** :

What matters that, when the end's the same? Dost thou _know_ what he endured for thy sake, thou spoilt daughter of the twilight?

 **Luthien** : [mildly]

Yes, I rather think I do. Better than you, by far. I was the one who discovered them, you know. And helped with the burying.

[raising her voice and pointing to her husband and kinsman]

How could I _not_?! I took care of Beren afterwards and listened to him talk about it -- when he could talk -- night after night after night, I washed _his_ corpse --

 **Finrod** : [embarrassed]

Luthien, please --

 **Luthien** :

\-- of course I _know_! So don't try to put your guilt at not being there on me.

 **Amarie** : [indignant]

Guilt? I have no _guilt_. _I_ did not rebel, wherefore I have no reason to reproach myself.

 **Luthien** : [ironic smile]

Yes, well, I'm sure that's your story.

 **Amarie** :

Story? 'Tis but the truth.

 **Luthien** : [more serious]

I don't know. I look at you and I think -- if that were true she'd be far more unhappy and far less angry. It feels like something of an act to me -- keep your temper hot with us, and then you won't have to think about how differently things might have gone if you'd gone with him and help keep control of matters all along.

 **Amarie** : [shortly]

My parents and elders forbade it.

 **Luthien** : [raising an eyebrow]

\-- And? Did they lock you up in a tower, too?

 **Amarie** :

\--  _And_ I honor them, -- as is my filial duty.

[Finrod makes a stifled noise, but is straightfaced by the time she glares at him]

As I honor the gods and do obey them without question.

[Luthien shrugs]

 **Luthien** :

\-- Indeed. I suppose you have to stick to your story now.

 **Amarie** :

Again with this talk of stories! Have thy Turned people no knowledge of the truth then, to judge all as falsehoods? 

[Luthien gives her an ominous look -- no more quarter to give]

 **Luthien** :

I don't know _you_. I can't tell if you were truly being principled, or just too afraid of being different, or of being disapproved, or of the dangers even. _Don't_ interrupt me! I do hope that it's the former -- I trust as much, because I know Finrod, and his judgment weighs in your favor. But the way it's all woven together is something only you know, or perhaps only the One. But you made your choice, and Finrod made his, and they were irreconcilable. End of stanza. _New_ verse. He's back, he's said he's sorry, and he's proven it by letting your wishes command him. _What_ is your problem?

 **Amarie** : [ice]

My _problem_ is no more than this -- thanks to thy meddling and willfulness, the one I should have wed died an exile and outcast, in the torments of the Enemy so that thou and this vagabond of thine could wed in despite of all graciousness and reason.

 **Luthien** : [offhand]

Don't blame us for what you should blame yourself for. -- At least no one's trying to forcibly split you up and keep you from ever seeing him again for all of eternity!

 **Finrod** :

Er -- just to be clear on matters -- that's _Luthien's_ viewpoint, not mine. I never said any of it was your -- ah, _her_  -- fault.

[to Luthien, sharply]

What was that last bit there?

[the next two exchanges overlap]

 **Luthien** :

They want Beren to leave and me to stay and I won't have it.

 **Amarie** : [to Finrod]

Do not presume to address me!

 **Luthien** : [condescending]

Now, don't get angry because you're getting what you demanded. I really don't understand your problem at all. Do you love him? If yes, work to a solution. If not, give it up. Let it go -- what does it matter if he suffers or not, if he doesn't mean anything to you any more? Go find a hobby, get on with your life, why don't you.

 **Amarie** :

Such facile japery is but to be expected from one born to the darkness.

 **Luthien** : [maddeningly slow emphasis]

Whether I am a Dark-elf or not has no bearing on my question. _Do_ _you_ _love_ _him_? Yes or no answer.

 **Amarie** : [just as patronizing]

Plain thou wouldst have it -- yet it hath not such simplicity. Of course I didst love him, but --

 **Luthien** : [cutting her off]

\-- No. You've got it all wrong. It's _and_. Never "but" -- "I love you, _and_  --"

 **Amarie** : [still more patronizing]

I ken not what thou wouldst convey.

 **Luthien** :

"-- I love you, and I don't want you to do this." "-- I love you, and this is _stupid_." "-- I love you, and I'm going with you." It isn't really that complicated. -- Or else you didn't really love him.

[pause]

 **Amarie** : [ice]

I have neither heart nor time for folly.

[looks to where Nienna's Apprentice was standing -- and is quite obviously not now]

\-- Where has that strange youth betaken himself? He was to guide me to his Master's presence.

 **Finrod** :

I'm not surprised he's made himself scarce, considering how much I'd like to do the same thing myself.

 **Beren** : [looking around]

Huan hasn't come back yet either.

 **Finrod** : [dry]

Well, I've always had a high opinion of _his_ intelligence.

 **Amarie** :

I'll not stand here and be insulted by such compare!

 **Luthien** :

Yes, well, why don't you do that then?

 **Amarie** : [as if to a crazy person or a small child]

Do? -- What?

 **Luthien** :

Walk away, since you won't _stand_ for it.

[Amarie gives a blazing look towards Finrod, who is wearing a suspiciously innocent expression]

 **Amarie** : [softly]

And so thou'lt stand by and see me mocked, even? I'll go, then, and find the Lady myself and bring her my plaint, if I must walk these Halls till even.

[she turns abruptly and strides away towards the corridor without another word or backwards look]

 **Finrod** : [raising his voice]

If she would listen to me, I would tell her that it might not work. Distance and direction aren't exactly the same here as they are Outside.

[she still does not look or pause, though there is a visible if controlled reaction in the set of her shoulders and lifted chin. After she is no longer visible from the doorway the place seems a lot larger and dimmer. Finrod gives a sigh half of relief, half of regret, as Luthien moves to him and puts her arm around his shoulders in a consoling gesture.]

 **Finrod** :

That could have gone much worse.

 **Luthien** : [tight]

I don't see how.

 **Finrod** :

For a moment there I thought she might try to hit me again.

[rubs his jaw reminiscently]

For someone with no combat training who, quote, disapproves of violence, unquote, she did an excellent job of knocking me part-way across the table before we left.

[pulling himself together -- as if the last few minutes hadn't happened at all:]

You were going to fill in the details omitted from the condensed version, and I was going to find us somewhere to sit. I suppose -- I wonder what the purpose of it is? -- that quaint little informal garden might serve the purpose.

[he takes their hands as though to lead them to the hill, but this is interrupted by the loud entrance of Huan, dashing in as if in pursuit of an animal -- he skids to a stop just short of Finrod and begins to vigorously lavish canine attention on him]

 **Beren** :

Hey! Hey! Easy! You're gonna knock someone over.

 **Finrod** : [laughing]

\-- Are you going to do this every time you see me, old Hound?

 **Luthien** :

Huan, sit!

[Huan does so, grinning]

 **Vaire** : [stern]

Finarfinion. -- What are you _doing_ here?

[she approaches from the doorway; Finrod bows.]

 **Finrod** :

Conversing with my cousin and my friends, my Lady.

 **Vaire** : [darkly]

That had better be _all_.

[to Luthien -- gently]

What seems to be the difficulty, dear?

[she notices the Hill -- to Finrod:]

 _What_ is _that_?!?

 **Finrod** : [pleasantly]

Amazing, isn't it? It seems to be the real thing. I'm sure the grass is longer than it was a little while ago.

 **Vaire** : [almost speechless]

I -- said --

 **Finrod** :

And I haven't. It was already there when I came in.

 **Luthien** :

Tulkas' wife put it there.

 **Vaire** :

Oh.

[pause -- shaking her head:]

I wonder why.

[to Luthien]

Would you please come and sit down with us so that we can get this situation taken care of?

 **Luthien** : [lifting her hands]

What part of "not without Beren" is so hard to understand? Should I set it to a melody and _sing_ it instead?

 **Vaire** :

Child, please don't be difficult.

 **Luthien** :

Difficult? Believe me, I haven't even _started_ being difficult.

[she is getting the combat look again]

 **Finrod** : [murmuring]

\-- Tact, cousin, _tact_.

 **Luthien** :

I _tried_ that It hasn't worked at all to date.

[Beren turns her towards him]

 **Beren** : [quietly but earnest]

 _Tinuviel_. -- Don't let them make you crazy. We're together now. We can get through this. If they're willing to talk, the situation isn't hopeless. Not all concessions are bad ideas. Go with the Lady -- she said they want to hear you. That's a good thing, right?

 **Finrod** :

You didn't marry a fool, Luthien.

[after a moment she sighs and nods, though her expression is still very hard. Putting her arms around Beren's neck:]

 **Luthien** : [softly]

Stay close to him, _don't_ go wandering about on your own, don't let anyone talk you into agreeing to anything, even if it seems harmless this time, -- don't even talk to strangers if you can avoid it, and wait here for me. I'm going to sort this nonsense out once and for all.

[she kisses him briefly and reassuringly]

 **Beren** :

But -- these are your mother's people, in a way, really -- they wouldn't _do_ anything to us, would they? They're kind of family, aren't they?

 **Luthien** :

 _Beren_. --  _Listen_ to what you just said.

[pause]

 **Beren** : [smiles wryly]

Point taken.

 **Luthien** : [to Huan]

Will you stay here and help look after Beren?

 **Beren** : [looking at the ceiling]

I tried that once.

[Huan wags his tail twice]

 **Finrod** :

Don't worry, we'll take care of him.

 **Luthien** :

I know.

[she starts to follow, then turns back and gives Beren a quick intense kiss, and then darts to hug Finrod again before reluctantly accompanying Vaire. The Weaver gives Finrod a frown, seeming about to say something, but changes her mind. The three of them are left alone. There is a brief silence, during which Huan melts away into the shadows again; while the other two look at each other uncertainly in a renewal of shyness.]

 **Finrod** :

How are you --  _honestly_?

[pause]

 **Beren** :

It's not as bad as it has been.

[Finrod sighs, unsurprised]

I'm sorry, I didn't mean to depress you --

 **Finrod** : [very emphatically]

 _Beren_. Do not, I beg you most fervently, if you have _any_ compassion whatsoever, apologize for having been killed. -- Unless it really is your wish to leave me still more depressed.

[pause]

 **Beren** : [quieter]

All right.

[pause]

 **Finrod** : [forced briskness]

Where's Huan? He seems to have gone off again.

 **Beren** : [shaking his head]

That's what I said. It's like you said, back when -- Huan's his own dog, and no mistake.

[almost smiling]

 _And_ he's our dog, too.

[smile fading]

He's always right, even when I've disagreed with him, so he's probably doing something to help me again, even though he shouldn't.

 **Finrod** :

Why shouldn't he?

 **Beren** :

Because I don't deserve it.

 **Finrod** :

 _Beren_  --

 **Beren** : [changing subject]

Sir -- how are _you_? Are -- are you _well_? Are you -- treated well? I can't really tell anything about what it's like here -- it's too big, or something and it's just sort of strange and blurry -- and I can't tell much about the people, there's been some shouting, but no one's shoved any spears or other pointed objects in my face yet or threatened to chain me up, so so far I'm not complaining.

 **Finrod** :

No. No chains, here. It's -- very peaceful. A trifle dull, perhaps, but -- not unpleasant. Not for me, at least. Plenty of time to think, which some people find trying, but _I_ don't mind it. And no responsibilities, which is an immense relief. I'd not expected that . . . I had no idea how much I was attempting to keep under control these last few decades, until I no longer had to do so.

 **Beren** :

I'm --

 **Finrod** : [raising his hand abruptly]

No apologies for that, either.

[this leaves Beren with nothing to say for the moment]

I really don't understand why you've had so much awful luck. It can't be explained merely by your own actions. There does seem to be something to that saying, "Circumstances conspired against them."

 **Beren** :

Mm.

[giving him an uncertain glance]

You know something? I just realized -- we're related now. By marriage at least.

[Finrod looks taken aback]

 **Finrod** : [sounding dismayed]

Oh. You're _right_. I'd forgotten about that as well. Oh _dear_.

[sighing]

You don't deserve _that_ on top of everything that's already happened. There's been far too much chaos and madness in your life already.

 **Beren** :

Uh --

 **Finrod** : [changing subject himself]

So that's what the Loom looks like when it's off. -- Hm.

[he looks at it with a considering expression]

I wonder if . . .

[trailing off]

 **Beren** :

Um -- not to sound critical or anything, but -- I always thought there was actual _string_ involved, somehow.

 **Finrod** : [nods]

So did I.

[Beren looks surprised]

\-- What? I hadn't seen it either.

 **Beren** :

Oh.

 **Finrod** :

I never _tried_ to mislead your family --

 **Beren** : [earnestly]

No, no -- I wasn't saying you did -- it could have been us, too, messing things up, or even just me not paying attention.

 **Finrod** : [just as earnest]

Please, don't denigrate yourself. I was saying, I didn't misrepresent deliberately -- but there were many, many things which I didn't understand, or of which I have a much _better_ understanding now. Some of my explanations were in retrospect too facile, oversimplified, or at least open to misunderstanding. Especially about things having to do with the Halls. And I'm lecturing again, aren't I?

 **Beren** : [softly]

It's all right -- I don't mind.

[nods towards the Loom]

She made it do something, right before you two came in, but I don't know how she did it.

[Finrod gives him a quick look]

 **Finrod** :

You say that as though you're expecting me to start _tinkering_ with it.

[pause]

 **Beren** :

You mean you're not?

[they share a somewhat hesitant grin; Finrod moves as though about to put a hand on Beren's shoulder, but doesn't quite know if he ought -- the awkwardness of their reunion is cut short by a familiar voice from the doorway:]

 **Captain** :

 _There_ you are, Sir.

[Beren instinctively moves behind Finrod, trying to vanish as the Captain comes up]

\-- Are we supposed to be back here? I'm sorry, I still haven't been able to establish exactly what's all the ruckus --

[Finrod steps back, saying nothing]

\--  _Beren_?!?

[he grabs Beren, dragging him practically off his feet into a bear-hug -- setting him down, catches his shoulders and gives him a little shake, staring at him, then hugs him again]

Sweet Cuivienen, lad -- we thought we'd lost you forever.

[letting him go, but still keeping an arm around his shoulders, -- to Finrod:]

Sir, it's _Beren_  --

[ -- then laughs at himself]

 **Finrod** : [smiling]

I know. As, apparently, do most of the greater and lesser Powers in this place.

 **Captain** :

You mean all this trouble's over him?

 **Beren** : [hoarse]

\-- Surprised?

 **Finrod** :

Yes, for once it's actually _not_ us.

 **Captain** : [troubled look]

Only -- this means --

[looking at Finrod:]

\-- how long has it been, 

Sir?

 **Finrod** : [meaningfully]

Not long enough.

 **Beren** :

About half a year. A little more.

 **Captain** : [very grim]

What happened?

 **Beren** :

A -- lot of things.

[he is barely managing to control his emotions]

 **Captain** :

Beren -- and what of your lady -- ?

 **Beren** :

She --

[he cannot continue]

 **Finrod** :

My cousin's pulling strings with the Powers to keep Beren from being sent Beyond. They, of course, think that they are convincing her to act in their best interests by letting him go. Which of them has the correct understanding of the situation has yet to be determined -- it's all very much in flux. I'm still catching up with the background, but the present difficulty seems clear enough.

 **Captain** : [frowning]

Resolvable, Sire?

 **Finrod** : [edged smile]

If I have any say in it, yes. We'll need -- oh, _good_.

[The Steward enters a second after he finishes speaking, and has nearly crossed the floor to them before he does a double take at the third member of the trio. After a moment's blank stare at Beren, he looks to the other two and then, seemingly accepting without further question, lets his gaze travel back to the Man.]

 **Steward** : [formal]

My lord Barahirion.

[he bows, very correctly]

 **Beren** :

Sir --

[he moves forward, from under the Captain's hand, and then halts, looking helplessly at the other Elf-lord]

 **Steward** :

I confess myself at a loss for words.

 **Beren** :

\-- Sir, I'm so sorry -- I --

 **Steward** :

Please -- do not distress yourself upon my account.

 **Beren** : [choked]

\-- I saw your bones.

 **Steward** : [coolly]

That is all in the past.

[noticing, frowns -- in a different tone]

What happened to --

[Before he can finish asking the question, the entrance of the rest of the Ten, noisily accompanied by Huan, interrupts him.]

 **First Guard** :

Milords, look who's playing sheepdog --  _Beren_!?!

[At once Beren is surrounded by them and mobbed enthusiastically by eight Elven- warriors' shades, all trying to slap him on the back, fling their arms around his shoulders, ruffle his hair and embrace him like a long-lost sibling. He is completely overcome and gives up even trying to speak, simply accepting their welcome. Finrod looks on, wearing a rather rueful smile.]

 **Captain** : [gently amused]

Now then, now then, take turns, don't throttle the Beoring all at once.

[they spread out, abashed, but still fiercely possessive, dividing demonstrations of affection between Beren and Huan.]

 **Warrior** : [grinning]

I suppose that means it's all right if we do it singly, then -- Beren, _what_ _happened_ to your hand?

 **Beren** : [heavily]

It's a long story.

 **Warrior** :

\-- That bad?

[Beren gives a wry grimace, not quite a smile]

 **Second Guard** : [concerned]

Why are you still here? Are you in trouble again?

 **Beren** :

Er --

[the Soldier is looking around with interest at the Hall and its decoration, or lack thereof]

 **Soldier** : [to the elder of the two subordinate Rangers]

Well, that answers _that_. It's as boring here as it is everywhere else. They really like it that way -- it isn't for some therapeutic reason. Pay up.

[the Ranger sighs and hands over a brooch, manifesting it as he does]

 **Ranger** :

I like the little ridge though, -- even if it doesn't really seem to fit with the rest of the decor.

 **Beren** :

She made that.

 **Steward** : [frowning]

Who? Lady Vaire?

 **Beren** :

No. _Her_  -- um, the Lady of Summer, the Bride.

 **Captain** :

Oh, yes, that makes sense. The roses especially -- they look like her style.

 **Steward** :

\--  _Nessa_ was here?

 **Beren** :

And Lord Astaldo -- he -- he was --

 **Captain** : [knowingly]

They're a bit much to take, either one of them.

 **Beren** :

Yeah, but -- actually, he was really nice. They both were. Just -- a little --

 **Captain** :

\-- Overpowering?

[Beren nods]

 **Captain** :

I know. They're wonderful people, but very little sense of restraint. If you ever go to one of their parties, _don't_ ever let Tulkas talk you into a drinking contest. -- Or Nessa, for that matter.

 **Guard** :

That girl who works for them, who is she, -- Measse, that's it -- did a pretty good job of drinking you under the table back in the day, sir.

 **Captain** : [mock indignation]

And how would you know but by hearsay, eh? You were long since past consciousness, as I recall.

 **Beren** : [eyes widening]

That's not the -- the same Measse you ask that you'll come home at the end of a fight?

[silence]

 **Youngest Ranger** : [whispering]

I'm not used to this either.

 **Finrod** : [briskly]

All right then, everyone! Catch up later -- we have work to do.

[he gestures for the Steward and the Captain to draw near, while the rest hang about, beginning to drift off and sightsee around the staff area of the Halls.]

I want all of you to stay here and guard Beren -- I've promised Luthien I'd look after him for her. Will you make sure nothing happens to him while I go and see a few people who might be helpful?

 **Captain** :

You know you've no need to ask that.

 **Finrod** : [quick smile]

I know. -- But it's more polite that way.

 **Soldier** : [overhearing]

Ah, Sir, -- what could happen to him here?

 **Finrod** : [shaking his head]

I've neither idea nor the wish to find out.

 **Captain** : [with a meaningful look]

 _All_ of us, Sire?

 **Finrod** :

I'd feel better that way.

 **Steward** :

Are you certain that's wise, my lord?

 **Finrod** : [edged]

I can take care of myself. There's no trouble here that I can't handle very well on my own.

 **Captain** : [raising an eyebrow]

Shouldn't that be, -- none that you haven't handled as of yet?

[Beren, with a worried expression, puts his hand on Finrod's arm]

 **Beren** :

Sir, I don't want you to get in any trouble because of me.

 **Finrod** :

It won't be because of you.

 **Beren** : [urgent]

But if you're trying to find help for me and Luthien, then it would be. I don't want to owe you any more, Sir. I -- I couldn't live with that.

[pause]

I mean . . .

 **Finrod** :

Beren, you're not in my debt: I owed your father my life.

 **Beren** :

But my father didn't get _killed_ saving your life!

 **Finrod** : [getting exasperated]

You _know_ that's irrelevant. Do you think that the lives of your companions were worth less than your own or your families? No. You don't. And neither do I. Lots of people did get killed at Serech. You're the last Beoring, you get to collect on it, like it or not.

 **Captain** : [rolling his eyes]

Not _this_ again!

[the Soldier has still been standing nearby, listening with concern]

 **Soldier** : [aside, to the Captain]

What's going on, Sir?

 **Captain** :

It's the "Endless Battle." You know --  _The_ Argument.

 **Soldier** :

No, I don't know. What about?

 **Captain** :

That's right -- you were first, that was after your time. They're arguing over whose fault it is more.

 **Soldier** : [bemused]

Oh. But --

 **Captain** :

Not what you're thinking, lad -- the other way round.

 **Warrior** : [interrupting]

Where are they up to?

 **Captain** : [listening]

Going over the mountains west, as opposed to what we actually did and what might or might not have happened in various hypothetical situations which did not, obviously, occur.

 **Warrior** : [heartfelt]

 _Damn_. They're just getting started, then.

 **Third Guard** :

What are we up to now? Anyone remember the tally?

 **Ranger** :

I lost count after twelve-score.

 **Soldier** :

\-- But _why_ are they arguing?

 **Captain** : [snorts]

What, they need a _reason_ to claim responsibility for every earthly mishap? Remember who you're talking about: "I ought to have Seen and single-handedly prevented the Kinslaying," on the one hand, against, "If only I'd been killed at Aeluin everything in the world would be fine."

 **Steward** :

It was at four hundred eighty, and eleven, when I was taken. Or _one_ , depending on whether you subscribe to the view that it's all actually one long Argument with breaks. I was counting every time they repeated an exchange as a new engagement.

 **First Guard** :

There were times when I could have killed the both of them myself, _or_ myself, just to get away from it.

 **Ranger** : [quietly]

It was worse when they stopped, though.

[sighs and nods of agreement from the final veterans]

 **Beren** :

But you asked me my opinion about that and I agreed it was risky --

 **Finrod** : [cutting him off]

You know you didn't feel competent to contradict me, because of your youth, regardless of the fact that in terms of actual field experience of recent date --

 **Steward** : [looking up at the vaulting, fervently]

Dear sweet Lady, make them _stop_!

 **Ranger** :

That doesn't work here either, sir. I don't think anything can.

 **Youngest Ranger** : [muttering]

\-- That's because they're both _swarn_.

 **Finrod** :

Beren, I'm the eldest, I was in command, I should have known better --

 **Captain** :

Great Mother of Spiders, no, _no_ , _NO_!!! I am _not_ listening to this for another hundred-forty-three years, can you imagine?!

 **Steward** :

 _Most_ unfortunately -- yes.

 **Beren** :

But I shouldn't have just --

 **Captain** :

That's it, no more, I've _had_ it --

[shouting]

Hey! You two! Would you _stop_ it? We already _know_ how this goes, we _don't_ need to hear it again!

"-- It's my fault, I shouldn't have involved anyone else in the first place."

"-- No, it was my decision to get involved, _not_ yours."

"-- But you _had_ to help me, you didn't have a choice."

"-- You only had authority over me because I gave it you to begin with. Besides, I was in charge of the entire operation, therefore any and all responsibility is solely mine."

"-- There wouldn't have _been_ any operation if I hadn't started it all, so it _is_ really my fault."

[normal tone]

\-- Did I cover everything?

 **Warrior** :

You forgot "But your entire civilization was collateral damage in our war --"

 **Fourth Guard** :

\-- and "but we wouldn't have _had_ a civilization without you --"

 **Steward** :

But otherwise I think you touched upon all the salient points with admirable succinctness. I couldn't have done it better.

 **Youngest Ranger** :

You did the voices very well, too, sir.

[absolute silence. Finrod and Beren look at each other, guiltily. Both of them start to say something, several times, and can't.]

 **Steward** : [amazed]

\-- Holy Stars. It actually worked.

 **Captain** : [bland]

Of course, if you absolutely insist, we could always test out the Ered Wethrin hypothesis the way we did with the Bragollach.

 **Finrod** :

Ahem. I think -- I should go and see -- about doing -- what it was I was going to do. _Now_. -- Excuse me.

[he turns and leaves abruptly]

 **Fourth Guard** :

\-- Did we go too far?

 **Beren** : [shaking head]

No, he just couldn't keep a straight face much longer and we already got our ears ripped good by Amarie for inappropriate behavior once this . . . well, already.

[The mention of Amarie's name brings varied and strong reactions]

 **Steward** :

Amarie?

 **Captain** :

She's here? -- What happened?

 **Warrior** :

We're doomed. She'snabsolutely ruthless.

 **Steward** :

 _Amarie_?

 **Youngest Ranger** :

Was there an accident?

 **Second Guard** :

There aren't accidents here.

 **Youngest Ranger** :

Do you mean "here" _here_ , or "here" as in Aman?

 **Second Guard** :

Aman "here." Besides, she's Vanyar, what would she need to learn here?

 **Steward** :

The Lady Amarie? You're sure?

 **Beren** :

Er, tall, blonde, and answering to the name of "Amarie" -- ?

 **Captain** :

Hard to think who else it would be. -- Don't worry, even if she is here, I imagine she's still against violence.

[the Steward gives him an annoyed Look]

\-- Not that that can't be conveniently forgotten. Again.

 **Beren** :

Not -- here like us. Just --  _here_.

 **Warrior** :

 _How_?

 **Beren** : [exasperated]

 _I_ don't know. All I know is that she didn't want to be here and she kind of laid down the law to the guy who brought her here that she wasn't interested in talking to Finrod and then spent a long time yelling at him anyway. The King, not the other guy. -- And us. And then she was losing to Tinuviel so she went off in a huff to complain to whoever it was who sent for her. If anyone said who it was I missed it.

[pause]

 **Steward** :

Ah. That's interesting.

 **Captain** :

 _Very_ interesting.

 **Steward** :

Bets?

 **Captain** : [snorts]

\-- No! You cheat.

 **Steward** : [haughty]

Employing Foresight is _not_ cheating if all other parties are well aware that one possesses it. Besides, it's neither guaranteed nor infallible.

 **Soldier** :

Then how come you always win, sir?

 **Steward** : [austere]

 _Luck_.

[several of the Ten exchange significant Looks]

 **Beren** :

Okay, why are you worried about people ambushing him? Who would do that, and why? -- And how?

 **Captain** :

It's a long story -- not quite so long as Noldolante, however -- but I suppose that technically we did start it, at the very beginning --

 **Steward** :

\-- Not just technically --

 **Captain** :

\-- by pounding the hell out of a Feanorian or two followed by lessons in Why Pell-work Is Not Enough Nor Will You Encounter The Rules Of Formal Combat In The Wild, followed in turn by -- the worst cut of all -- apologies.

 **Beren** :

But why were you guys beating up Feanor's partisans? Or was there a reason?

 **Ranger** : [wryly]

There's _always_ a reason. Even if it's just the appellation "House Feanor."

 **Captain** :

Oh, there was an unpleasant fellow who likes to hang about the High King and act as though he's a notable at court again -- one of quite a few, but this chap has the gift for getting on one's nerves like you wouldn't believe. He was one of their top Elves back when Maedhros was still High King, and he never stops letting people know how he was the Second Casualty in the War. Apparently we're all supposed to accept his assumption that Grey and Green losses don't count.

[snorts]

Why he's so proud of being too dumb to figure out it was an ambush in advance -- particularly since they were planning on it themselves, and surely an evil god with centuries' practice at deceit and betrayal ought to be able to think of such a thing himself -- and of not succeeding in covering his lord's retreat and thus making his death count for something, I have yet to figure out. But there you have it. At any rate, we hadn't been here very long -- no idea what that would be in the Outside, I'm afraid, but it didn't seem very long -- when he turned up while our lord was relating our misadventures to his uncle and made so bold as to provide unasked-for commentary. He found the story most diverting.

 **Beren** : [lethally cold]

He was making fun of the King? -- And you all?

 **Captain** : [nods]

I warned him not to make light of what he didn't understand, as Himself was being too dignified to pay attention to such offensive behavior. I did so, in no uncertain terms. -- He laughed again.

 **Beren** :

Then what happened?

 **Captain** :

He discovered that the imagined experience of being picked up by the collar and slammed repeatedly against a stone wall was nearly as unpleasant as the actuality.

 **Soldier** :

Then _we_ laughed.

 **Captain** :

Then he complained bitterly to the High King, who found it tiresome, until it was suggested -- I'm sure you can guess by whom -- that he issue a challenge and endeavor to satisfy his honor in the traditional way. After some balking about whether or not such a thing would be possible, and this being decisively demonstrated -- again by the King -- he did so.

 **Beren** :

And?

 **Captain** :

I was still quite angry. -- He should have known that His Majesty wasn't making the suggestion out of a pure disinterested sense of fair play -- but if he hadn't the brains to be wary of taking any free advice from someone he'd just been insulting, that's hardly our responsibility, now.

 **Ranger** :

It was _very_ funny.

 **Steward** : [sighing]

Since then the situation has somewhat escalated, as might have been expected, though perhaps not to the scale that has from time to time been reached.

 **Beren** :

 _That's_ why you are in -- in trouble all the time? You're fighting with the guys from House Feanor?

 **Captain** :

Well, it isn't _all_ the time.

 **First Guard** :

And we certainly aren't the only ones.

 **Soldier** :

Replace "fighting with" with "polishing the floor with" and you'll be closer.

 **Warrior** :

I still think we'd have been all right if we had left the walls alone.

 **Captain** :

No, because someone would still have complained until the rafters rang due to the fact that every single time time we kicked their sorry hindquarters back to Himring, except for the one time we did "Under Stars" and tossed them into the sea.

 **Steward** :

That, I think, was the unforgivable insult.

 **Captain** :

Yes, well, _you_ saying afterwards that Dagor-nuin-Giliad was a case history in basic strategy and every recruit these days studied the tactical errors made by Feanor before learning how to manage a spear and a horse at the same time _didn't_ exactly help.

 **Steward** : [sharply]

It's no more than the truth.

 **Captain** :

It was more the tone of voice. Besides, it's just as true that we've beat them roundly on every occasion. Hence the sneak attacks and the complaints.

 **Warrior** :

But if we hadn't moved the walls, Lady Vaire wouldn't have gotten involved.

 **Steward** :

I do _not_ recommend wagering anything on that unproveable possibility.

 **Beren** :

I'm sorry, but -- this isn't making any sense.

 **Captain** :

It's a long story.

[pause]

 **Beren** : [wry]

As long as the Return of the Noldor?

 **Captain** : [ironic]

Not _quite_.

[from this point, with that routine, in spite of recurring guilt attacks, any lingering reserve on Beren's part is gone -- he settles back into their old familiarities]

 **Beren** :

Okay, so what happened? -- Is happening? Whichever.

 **Captain** :

Ever since the Dagor Bragollach, various parties here have been fighting over how it might have gone differently. The most obstreperous of the lot were those who went West at the "Glorious Battle", because they had the experience of winning easily at the "Battle-under-Stars", the first one fought after the Return.

 **Beren** :

Yeah, I remember, that's the one we used to play in the door-yard on moonless nights. -- Boy, did we get in trouble for beating on the "Gates" of "Angband" with sticks when we did the Coming of Fingolfin. Huh.

[he shakes his head in bemusement at it all.]

 **Captain** :

Hold onto that thought, as you'd say. -- When I say "fighting," I mean endless discussions and arguments, the sort that make a council back home look as quick as an exchange of hand-signals. The Old Guard was convinced that If Only They'd Been There, the Battle would never have been lost, and we Young Whelps were obviously incompetent and/or cowards to flee the field.

 **Ranger** :

As you'd expect, that didn't go over well with those who actually _were_ there.

 **Warrior** :

But until we showed up they'd never done anything but talk about it. At nauseating length, I might add.

 **Captain** :

Then after listening to the debate cycle round twelve or fourteen times, Himself comes up and says, "Why don't you put your talk to the test and _prove_ that you could have done it better?" Not in those exact words, of course, but you get the picture. And they all shut up for a bit, until they started jeering at him about how it wasn't feasible, and he said, "Well, perhaps not for you, by yourselves," and they said, "What, you could?" and he said _nothing_ , and manifested a quarter-size copy of Glaurung in the middle of the hall. And some lava for him to play in.

[grinning]

After everyone had sorted themselves out, minus those who didn't feel like it just at the moment, and the shouting and the recriminations had died down to a dull roar, he asks, "Well, why didn't you shoot him?" to some of the more obnoxious of the old-timers, and then added, "That's what cousin Fingon did when the Worm was that small," and everything split into an uproar again with the dividing lines not being House Feanor and Everyone Else for once, but Those Who Were There and Those Who Weren't. And the upshot was a challenge to refight it, as much as possible like the real thing, with strict rules governing what could be done and not done, such as having to stay dead if killed, or your horse likewise if mounted, and not being able to make yourself unlimited arrows, but having to glean them off the field, or to mindspeak farther than you could alive. Making sense yet?

 **Beren** :

No. I _think_ you're saying you somehow pretended to fight the Sudden Flame amongst yourselves in the Halls, like us when we were kids playing Lords of the West versus Morgoth. But I don't understand where the horses are coming from and the arrows and how you can be killed if you're already dead. -- Unless you mean you have to stay down like when you get "killed" with a stick that's supposed to be a famous sword.

 **Second Guard** : [encouraging]

That's right. It's exactly the same thing, only instead of pretending we had horses and spears, we -- er --

 **Steward** : [raising his eyebrows]

\-- Pretended we had horses and spears.

 **Beren** :

But how would it work? And it doesn't seem like you could convince _them_ , because they would still say, well, yes, but that's _you_ , not Orcs, if you won. And what about the Balrogs and the fire? And anyway if you did make an illusion of lava, it still isn't the same because first of all, it isn't hot if it's an illusion, right? and second, the terrain -- the floor is _flat_ , not hills and stuff, and that makes a huge difference.

 **Soldier** : [wistfully]

We should have had you helping plan it. That would have been fun.

 **Captain** :

As to your first objection, is it _hot_  -- that depends on how convincing an illusion it is. Which in turn depends equally on how much the artist knows about the subject, and how convincingly then chooses to hold it. Not everyone is willing to think about such things in all their painful details. As to the second -- that's what the debate about the walls concerns. Though it was actually the floor as well as the walls.

[pause]

 **Beren** : [flatly]

Why did King Finrod move the walls? -- And the floor?

 **First Guard** : [grinning]

My, he's quick.

 **Beren** :

\-- And, by the way, _how_?

 **Captain** :

Can't answer the how for you, I'm afraid -- I can't do it myself at all. You'll have to consult these young punks on that matter --

[gestures towards the Youngest Ranger and the Soldier]

\-- they're the best of us, after His Majesty. I find the stuff far too convincingly solid to convince myself that since one works stone, or anything for that matter, with one's mind equally as much as with one's body, with sufficient concentration and understanding one ought to be able to reshape matter regardless of physical contact. "After all," as he said, "if Lady Vaire can do it, I should be able to."

[silence -- suddenly Beren chuckles, and instantly suppresses it]

Oh yes. _Why's_ a lot easier -- we needed a very large open space to start with -- we didn't do it to full scale, exactly, we had to cheat a little, but it was -- big. _And_ to address that terrain problem you noted.

[pause]

 **Beren** : [stunned]

Goddess of mercy . . . you turned the Halls of Mandos into Ard-galen?!

 **Ranger** : [shrugging]

Not all the Halls, just some.

 **Third Guard** :

A little part.

 **Soldier** :

A good bit of it was illusion too -- Thangorodrim, for instance, was just the gates and a shell for the lower portion, since no one actually got inside it.

 **Beren** :

Good grief! -- and they let you get away with it?

 **Captain** :

For a while. Eventually they noticed and we had to stop. Which _might_ not have happened if certain people hadn't gone and complained bloody murder about it. It really did have to do with the walls, though.

 **Steward** :

\-- And the fact that killing each other, even thus in seeming only, offended the Powers' sense of fitting behaviour within these walls.

 **Warrior** : [sighing]

I'm not sure that what the King said to her was the most tactful thing to say, either. Even if it was true.

 **Beren** :

Do I really want to know what it was?

 **Steward** :

His Majesty was somewhat aggrieved due to the fact that walls had been being reconfigured for some time prior to the reenactment, as part of his experiments, and that he assumed the Lady of the Halls was quite aware of it all along, it not occurring to any of us that she should not be.

 **Warrior** :

There was that business with the missing gallery, too, Sir.

 **Steward** : [nods]

There was.

[Beren gives him a cautious look]

Lady Vaire ordered us to remove all traces of alterations throughout the Halls. One of the galleries which was removed was apparently one which she herself had shaped as part of an expansion plan. I say "apparently", because it isn't certain: King Felagund maintains that the one which was his attempt at duplicating it was on the opposite side of the corridor, and that her Ladyship has gotten confused about which was which. None of the rest of us is certain. -- They argue about this from time to time, to no certain resolution.

 **Beren** :

. . .

 **Captain** :

Look, this is tiresome, standing around. Why don't we make use of the hill that Nessa's kindly left for us and make ourselves comfortable.

 **Steward** : [looking up at the ceiling and shaking his head]

You _would_ think that a pile of dirt and weeds looked comfortable.

 **Captain** :

Weeds! Those are _flowers_ , Edrahil -- can't you tell the difference? And by comparison to a stone floor -- most definitely, wouldn't you agree?

 **Steward** : [ignoring him]

It seems to be rapidly becoming overgrown with wild roses. _Not_ cultivars, and therefore _weeds_. And very likely with their natural thorns, and thus not comfortable.

 **Beren** : [trying to interrupt]

Sirs --

 **Youngest Ranger** : [smiling wryly]

Don't waste the effort, Beren.

[he puts an arm over Beren's shoulders and leads the way]

We'll just have to make sure _we_ take the grassy bits and leave the thorns for Lord Edrahil so he'll have something to complain about.

 **Steward** : [to the world at large]

\-- Young people these days.

 **Beren** : [as everyone settles down on the Hill]

So . . . who played _us_?

 **Fourth Guard** :

We didn't actually do _our_ bit, because it wasn't important in terms of the overall outcome.

 **Captain** :

\-- That is to say, all that happened in terms of the Bragollach was that we never made it to the real front with any reinforcements, so Serech was irrelevant in that sense.

 **Beren** :

Oh . . . okay. So what _did_ you do?

 **Captain** :

Headed various units under the the King's command.

 **Beren** :

Who was _he_? -- The High King?

 **Captain** :

No, his uncle was quite happy to take part.

 **Beren** :

Er . . . I meant the current High King.

 **Captain** :

Oh. No, he took the most difficult part. They didn't actually refight the Duel, since it would have been a draw most likely, but the exercise ended when Fingolfin made it to the Gates. -- What's wrong?

 **Beren** :

You mean -- he --

[breaks off, wide-eyed]

 **Captain** :

Of course. No one else has studied the War in such depth and in such a technical way, interviewing survivors -- and veterans -- of as many parts of the field as possible. Who better to play the Arranger of Battles?

[pause]

 **Beren** : [suspiciously bland tone]

Somehow I don't think that would have been seen as appropriate either.

 **Captain** :

I don't think it helped, no. The resentment over the Bragollach had mostly died down, though, before the Feanorians started things back up again.

 **Beren** :

Why? I mean, other than being House Feanor, what's the reason?

 **Second Guard** :

Isn't that reason enough?

 **Steward** : [to the Captain]

There would be considerably less hostilities did you refrain from provoking them.

 **Captain** : [superior tone]

I have never yet drawn first.

 **Steward** :

No, but you needn't respond every time.

 **Captain** : [snorts indignantly]

What, I should stand there and let them hack at me without defending myself?

 **Steward** :

I meant the verbal provocation that invariably results in them drawing upon you.

 **Captain** :

If they refuse to accept that they are totally outclassed and persist in challenging either with wits or weapons, I see no reason to spare them a lesson. Better they harry me than the King. For everyone -- I'm actually being kind to them, you see.

 **Beren** :

I'm guessing I really don't want to know the story, but -- why are they going after him? You'd think they'd be ashamed to.

 **Captain** :

Partly a simmering resentment over the fact that none of them are as good as he --

 **Steward** :

\-- the remainder, resentment over his being proven right on a matter of speculative discussion.

 **Captain** :

Namely, the debate over whether or not -- as House Feanor affects to hold, or did -- the words of the Ban were metaphorical, or literal, as our lord argued. The claim that we were never going to be allowed out of here and "long" was a euphemism for "never" -- which was used as the justification for much resentment and obduracy -- being quite thoroughly disproven by the amnesty granted Himself. For a while there it got completely out of hand, but after the last rout I think they've given it up, at least for a while. Sooner or later some idiot's going to --

 **Beren** : [interrupting]

Wait -- wait a second. You're telling me that he _doesn't_ _have_ _to_ _stay_ _here_?

[silence]

I don't understand.

 **First Guard** : [wry grin]

Long story.

 **Steward** : [dry]

Not _that_ long.

 **Beren** :

But --

[shaking his head in frustration]

Explanation? -- Please?

 **Steward** :

His Majesty has personal reasons for not accepting.

 **Beren** : [flatly]

\-- You.

 **Captain** :

No, actually, not at all. That was part of the haggling-over-terms that gave Lord Namo such headaches.

 **Steward** :

I would not call it " _haggling_ " --

 **Captain** :

Really? Then what would you call it?

[the Steward gives him a cool Look]

Haggling, I say, as per the grounds for the offer being equally applicable to all of us.

 **Steward** :

Essentially, the argument went as follows: seeing that our lord was guiltless in the matter of the Kinslaying, and had departed Aman out of a sense of responsibility towards the rest of us, not for his own ambitions, and in consideration of his generosity and valor in Beleriand -- and it is possible, though these are mere deductions based on certain unguarded remarks, there was also a certain measure of pressure by parental forces -- there should be no real reason to continue to hold him here, and that mitigation of sentence was in order. To this King Finrod countered that we were no less free of guilt where Alqualonde was concerned, and that if he were to be released early on this count, and the deeds and sufferings that had transpired on the further shore, -- then we too should be granted the same. -- Or he would not accept it.

[pause]

 **Beren** :

Sounds like haggling to me.

 **Steward** : [as if he hadn't spoken]

Pursuant to which there was considerable debate, amongst the Powers, and while we awaited the final decision, word came in reply to the King's messenger that Lady Amarie refused to accept his apology and forbade him to contact her again for a full Great Year.

 **Captain** :

At that point Himself says, "Never mind about me," just when he'd won his concessions -- the wording of it was a tremendous battle, since he wouldn't apologize for thoughts he never held nor for actions he considered justified, either -- and that miffed the Lord and Lady no end.

 **Beren** : [frowning]

Did they withdraw the offer?

 **Steward** :

Of course not.

 **Beren** :

But you're still here.

[silence]

 **Steward** : [gravely]

Would _you_ have taken it?

 **Captain** : [quickly]

A yen isn't very long to us, Beren.

[comprehending, Beren looks away, intensely embarrassed]

 **Beren** :

I'm sorry, I didn't mean to say that --

 **Fourth Guard** : [comfortingly]

It's all right, everyone thinks we're raving lunatics.

 **Beren** :

I can't believe I asked that --

 **Captain** :

 _Beren_. We know you wouldn't have taken it under the circumstances. We know you don't think we'd leave him. Stop _worrying_ over such an insignificant thing.

 **Beren** :

But --

 **Captain** :

 _Enough_.

[Beren starts to protest some more, then gives in.]

 **Beren** :

So you could just walk out of here -- or however it works -- but you don't. That must really irritate everybody.

 **Ranger** :

We're taking bets on whether we're going to be the first in history to be evicted from the Halls.

 **Beren** :

Why?

 **Ranger** :

It would fit with the cyclical notion of history repeating itself, and the wish has been expressed loudly more than a few times that it was allowable.

 **Youngest Ranger** : [correcting]

I think he was trying to ask why they'd want to throw us out at all.

 **Ranger** :

Oh. Well, they were really, really put out with us introducing the concept of dueling in the first place. Battle reenactment is so far beyond that that the Lord and Lady were completely speechless when they found out.

 **Steward** :

I believe it is the failure to leave off that is the issue now, not the past.

 **Fourth Guard** :

Only it isn't our fault, Sir.

 **Steward** : [dry]

Another debatable point, that.

 **Beren** :

So what's going on? I don't really understand.

 **Captain** :

The resentment over our status keeps tending to spill over into outright aggression. Naturally we're not going to allow them to attack us -- or the King -- without a fight. And it goes on from there.

 **Steward** :

Complicated by the fact that His Majesty refuses to allow his behaviour to be curtailed by threat of offense.

 **Beren** :

So the rest of the Elves here are angry because you could go if you wanted, and they can't.

 **Steward** :

A small but active minority, _almost_ exclusively composed of partisans of House Feanor.

 **Beren** : [puzzled]

Not everybody?

 **Captain** : [quietly]

Most people aren't ready. Not even the Feanorians --

 **Steward** :

\--  _especially_ not the Feanorians --

 **Captain** :

\-- and they know it. But there's a lot of resentment left over from Beleriand as well.

[pause]

 **Beren** :

That seems all backwards.

 **Captain** :

It does, doesn't it?

 **Beren** :

So that's why they might attack him if they see him in the Halls?

 **Captain** : [nodding]

Now you have to remember that Finrod Felagund is also and as much a scion of the House of Finwe as any of the more egregious members of the family, and that means that on some level he enjoys competition -- especially against his relatives, and their representatives -- as much as anyone else. Possibly more. Most particularly when nothing critical is depending on the outcome. This means that he can't just lose gracefully and take the challenge out of it -- no, he's got to beat them in new and more spectacular ways each time, which in turn simply incites them to new levels of aggression. The last time they set upon him with an entire company of horse.

[pause]

 **Beren** :

What happened then?

 **Captain** :

Well, put it this way -- none of _them_ are Maiar.

 **Ranger** : [smug]

\-- And don't they realize that now!

 **Captain** :

Lady Vaire was quite put out with Himself for traumatizing them so badly, but Lady Nia pointed out that they had made tremendous strides in terms of progress towards humility and self-knowledge, so that harangue didn't last long. It did cause the imposition of an absolute crackdown on him rearranging the structures of the place, but there are ways around that.

 **Beren** :

But what happened?

 **Captain** : [shrugging]

They cheat, he uses corresponding power. Thirty-to-one and cavalry to boot most definitely being cheating, he forwent restraint and used some of the Dagor Bragollach illusions on them -- only they weren't _all_ illusions: some of the rifts and ridges were quite real -- as the horses _weren't_ he had no compunction whatsoever about employing the technique and even though the napalm was illusory, when you've just been thrown into a twelve-foot crater you didn't believe was there, you're _not_ inclined to test the actuality of such things.

 **Third Guard** : [gleeful]

The most insulting part was when he showed up to meet his uncle without the slightest mention of having been waylaid, and no sign of it at all -- they never even got near him -- and the upper-level House Feanor folk who were waiting to see him set down didn't know what to do -- they couldn't exactly ask, "Oh, did our warriors miss you in the Halls somehow?"

 **Beren** : [faintly]

I see.

[pause]

So _he's_ here because he doesn't have to deal with Amarie not forgiving him in here, and you're here because he's here, and nobody actually _wants_ you in here, and the other Noldor aren't sure whether to hate you because you can leave, or because you don't. Even though they don't really want to leave, either.

[pause]

I don't know whether to laugh or cry.

 **Soldier** : [cheerfully]

Some people think trying to hit us is the appropriate response.

 **Beren** : [shaking his head]

If I was alive I would say this needs a drink to make any sense out of.

 **Captain** :

If you think that would help --

[He takes the flask from his belt and starts to offer it to Beren, but pauses to unstopper it first before handing it to him]

 **Beren** : [staring at the canteen in his hand]

What's this?

 **Captain** :

Er -- a drink . . . ?

 **Beren** :

But what is _it_?

 **Captain** : [shrugs]

A passable recollection of miruvor.

 **Beren** :

But you just _gave_ _it_ _to_ _me_.

 **Captain** : [bewildered]

I thought you wanted a drink. Sorry if I misunderstood

 **Beren** : [agitated]

But how can it be real? If it's _your_ memory, not mine, then how come it didn't disappear when you handed it to me?

 **Captain** : [frowning]

Because I don't want it to?

 **Beren** :

How do we know it's the same for me as it is for you?

 **Captain** :

We don't -- but . . . we don't know that when we're corporate either, do we? I could have experienced the taste of it differently then.

[Beren shakes his head, baffled]

 **Beren** : [increasingly manic]

Is it an illusion? But what does illusion _mean_ here? If we don't have have any bodies, then isn't _everything_ an illusion? Is that how it works?

[pause]

 **Captain** :

Do you remember the last night we dared risk lighting a fire, and you "made the mistake" -- I think that was what you said -- of asking -- What _color_ was? and if color was _in_ _things_ , how could it be changed by light? And after when he'd finished the preliminary explanation, you said something like, "If it was really that complicated nobody would be able to see" -- ?

[frowning]

\-- Did I ever apologize for laughing? I didn't mean to make you feel foolish.

[Beren nods]

Well, it's rather like that. I could try to explain it, but I'm not sure it wouldn't just make it worse.

 **Beren**. [dissatisfied]

Huh.

 **Captain** :

Edrahil, do you want to take a shot at explaining the notion of the "persistence of ideas" -- ?

 **Steward** : [sighing]

Not particularly.

 **Beren** : [getting stressed out again]

Why _can_ I even see you? Or _anything_? Or feel things?

 **Captain** : [forceful tone]

Beren, it's _all_ _right_. _You_ needn't if it troubles you.

[collects the canteen back from him]

 **Beren** : [louder]

 _No_. I shouldn't be able to. I'm not real, I don't have a body, so things shouldn't seem _real_ to me either.

[gripping his wrist with his remaining hand, pulling at his sleeve]

\--  _What_ _am_ _I_? What is _this_? How can I sense myself when _I_ _don't_ _exist_?

 **Ranger** : [reasonable]

But your body isn't what senses things. Not without you at home to perceive them. So why shouldn't you be aware, regardless?

[Beren is seriously thrown by this and hunches over with his head almost to his knees, on the verge of an anxiety attack]

 **Youngest Ranger** : [to the Steward]

It would have been better if you'd tried, Sir.

[Huan crowds in and starts nudging Beren with his muzzle, until the latter straightens up, so that he can rest his head on Beren's knees.]

 **Huan** :

[whines]

 **Captain** : [quietly]

He wants you to scratch his nose. --  _Huan_ thinks you're real. And you're not going to deny _him_ existence, are you?

[Beren shakes his head, not looking up. The Captain puts a hand on his shoulder.]

You were going to tell us what happened, and why you're here.

 **Beren** : [muttering]

It really _is_ a long story.

 **First Guard** :

And we've got plenty of time.

[Beren makes a mostly unintelligible reply in which the word "stupid" is about all that can be heard]

 **Captain** :

Beren? Beren, _look_ at me. You don't have to _understand_ being a ghost any more than one's got to understand being alive. I don't know much about mortal ghosts -- you're the only one of us to ever have met one, before now -- but if my own experience is anything to judge by, you remember yourself and the way you experienced Middle-earth in your lifetime too clearly to let that go. Does that make sense at all?

[Beren half-nods, half-shrugs]

There are people who choose to drift around here in an oblivious haze, completely caught up in their own pasts -- and then there are those, no less self-obsessed, who most definitely and definedly interact with every- one else, much to everyone else's regret. Some haven't recovered from the distress of being killed, and can't or won't pull themselves together, and there's nothing that anyone can do for them until they decide they want to communicate with the rest of society and make the effort. There are people who simply refuse to be seen. _We_ find it unspeakably tedious, and there's no one here we've killed whom we're trying to avoid. Do _you_ have reasons to interact with the world at large? Are you stubborn enough to try? Both rhetorical questions, of course.

[leans a bit closer]

And you certainly needn't feel ashamed of showing fear in _this_ company, or looking a fool, or coming undone.

[pause]

 **Beren** : [low voice]

When I first got here I couldn't remember much of anything. I couldn't see. I didn't even remember my _name_ until Huan found me. All I knew was I had to stay until she came.

 **Captain** : [gently]

Beren, you're not _supposed_ to be dead. Of course you'll --

 **Beren** : [interrupting]

I'm mortal, of course I'm supposed to die --

 **Huan** :

[sad whine]

 **Captain** :

Well, Himself has been having certain complicated discussions with the Powers that are in charge here, most particularly with Lady Nia, about that very matter.

[the rest of the Ten look troubled, and Beren gives him a blank expression, and he drops the subject]

Regardless, you're not meant to be violently evicted. If you hadn't been killed, if you'd somehow survived --  I'm making an assumption here, that it wasn't peaceful or natural, but am I wrong?

[Beren shakes his head]

\-- then you'd still be unconscious, weakened and confused for a prolonged amount of time. I've seen Men wounded throughout the course of the Leaguer, and aside from the prolonged part, it never seemed much different from ourselves, the wandering in bad dreams and disorientation and various lingering effects after a severe injury. Am I not right? That _your_ mind also feels the impact of a deep wound?

[Beren looks away, with a shudder, and after a second gives a very quick nod]

 **Beren** : [muttering]

Everything from the time they found me and rescued me to the time when I got shot is pretty hazy.

[pause]

 **Captain** : [blinking]

That isn't a long story at all.

 **Warrior** :

Who shot you?

 **Beren** :

Curufin. No, I meant, that part wasn't very interesting. I kept waiting for it to end and me to wake up, because it didn't seem like it could be real. -- That happened when the sons of Feanor caught up with us.

 **Guard** :

I thought they were going to Himring?

 **Soldier** : [confused]

But wait, they were in Nargothrond. Did you go back, then?

 **Captain** :

You remember about that. What's-her-name told us, about how the Prince threw them out so hard they bounced --

 **Second Guard** :

\-- a little late, but better late than never --

 **Captain** :

\-- and didn't let them get lynched in the backlash.

 **Youngest Ranger** :

What _is_ her name, anyway?

 **Steward** :

No one knows. She still refuses to say, and her friends respect that decision. She was born in Formenos, and none of us knew her in the old days.

 **Youngest Ranger** :

But it doesn't matter any more!

 **Steward** :

To her it still matters very much.

 **Captain** :

\-- Though maybe he should have if they started going after Beren for revenge. Is that what happened?

 **Beren** :

Kind of. They tried to kidnap Tinuviel again.

 **The Ten** : [outraged, nearly simultaneously:]

What?!?

 **Beren** : [correcting himself]

It was more a target of opportunity thing, they weren't looking for us, I don't think. We were right about halfway across Dimbar when they caught up with us.

 **Captain** :

Couldn't you have hidden? There's a fair amount of cover through there.

 **Beren** : [embarrassed]

We were -- I was kind of distracted. The bastards almost ran us down and Curufin pulls over and yanks her up before we could get out of their way and flings her across his saddlebow like he's going to ride off with her. I -- I jumped on him and tried to pull him off the horse, and instead I ended up bringing all four of us crashing down, and Tinuviel got thrown clear of the horse, and Curufin was kind of stunned too, and I tried to rip his head off until she came round and whistled me off him. It's a wonder neither one of us got gutted or lost a leg from the Ancrist. -- Apparently Celegorm was about to run me through as well, but Huan got in between us and held him at bay. I didn't even notice that.

[sighs]

That was not one of my more rational moments, all right. Huan probably wouldn't have let them take Tinuviel, or get very far, but I didn't even think of that. I just wanted to kill the spawn-of-Morgoth with my bare hands.

[silence]

I know. She told me I was acting like an Orc too, by implication.

[the Ten look at each other]

 **Warrior** :

We were just thinking it was a shame she made you stop. At least I was.

[nods all around]

 **Soldier** : [awed]

You brought down a cavalry charger and defeated the Feanorion, unarmed?

 **Beren** : [shrugs]

Tulkas said he helped. Or something. It certainly didn't feel like something I was doing by myself.

[pause]

I was _really_ angry. 

It -- it kind of all came together when he laughed. It was the same as at the Council after they won. If there had been a rock handy I could have pounded his face off with it, but choking him until his tongue was hanging out was almost as good.

 **Youngest Ranger** :

Couldn't you have cut his throat with his own knife?

 **Beren** :

I didn't even think about weapons. It wouldn't have been half as satisfying, anyway. I wanted him to suffer, and then some. And to _know_ it was me that was killing him.

 **Fourth Guard** :

I'm surprised she made you break off.

 **Beren** : [sighing]

She said we were doing Morgoth's work for him by fighting. And even retroactive Kinslaying is still Kinslaying. -- I just sometimes wish I had been too caught up in the moment to hear her until I'd finished crushing his windpipe. Especially after I got shot.

 **Warrior** :

But that wasn't what killed you?

 **Beren** :

No, that was a long time after. Er -- you know what I mean. I took that bastard's stuff -- I figured he owed me replacements, since it was their fault I lost my gear -- which didn't actually do me any any good at the time, because I wasn't going to kill them and there wasn't any way it was feasible to put on his mail safely there -- and I also figured he should pay something to her, so I took his horse, too, and we were leading it away towards the forest, when --

 **Youngest Ranger** :

Just a second, Beren -- have I got this right? -- You confiscated Curufin's arms and armour, and his horse?

 **Beren** : [grimly]

Yeah. And his saddlebags. I left him the clothes on his back, but that was all.

 **Youngest Ranger** :

But _he_ shot you?

 **Beren** : [shrugs]

I'm afraid I wasn't exactly careful of his hair or his face yanking off his hauberk and padding, either. I kind of accidentally stepped on him a couple times, too. Which was satisfying in the short term but probably contributed to things.

 **Youngest Ranger** :

No, I meant, with what?

 **Beren** :

Oh. He doubled up with Celegorm -- they were still heading through Dungortheb, I guess to their brothers' place out East, though I thought it was crazy, doing that with no armour instead of the long way around.

[he pauses and looks pensive]

 **Captain** :

You all right?

 **Beren** :

What? -- Yeah. Yeah, I was just thinking if it would have been possible without armour for me. Answer's no. But then I didn't have someone else for a bodyguard, or a horse. And they weren't going through the mountains, just down the Old Road.

 **Captain** :

You were going to explain how you happened to get shot.

 **Beren** :

Right. So anyway, before they ride on, Celegorm puts a curse on us, tells us it would be better to starve to death in the wilds than make them angry, and wherever we go it wouldn't do us any good, because I'd never succeed in holding onto anything I managed to get -- either the Silmaril or Tinuviel. Which didn't take long to come true.

[pause]

But you wanted to know about him shooting me. His brother. -- Me, not his brother.

[he looks tired and frustrated with himself]

 **First Guard** :

\-- We know what you mean.

[Beren nods in thanks]

 **Beren** :

All right, so we're walking away towards the forest, and Huan's coming with us -- he was following along, kind of reassuring the horse on the other side, and Curufin grabs his brother's bow and pulls on us, and I guess Huan must have heard that or something, 'cause he spins around and jumps in between and _bites_ the arrow out of the air the way you can grab a javelin if you're in the right place, but the bastard's got another one nocked and ready to loose and he does that before Huan could charge them, and --  _he_ _was_ _aiming_ _both_ _times_ _at_ _Tinuviel_. -- Not at me.

[baring teeth]

Only he was, and he knew it. So I stepped in front of her, and that's how I got shot.

[silence]

I figured if the Curse was going to come true, it wouldn't be the way he thought.

 **Steward** :

Where were you struck?

[Beren gestures towards his upper left chest, just under his collarbone]

 **Captain** :

Stand up.

[He gets up with Beren and marks the level of Beren's wound on himself with his hand -- about the middle of his sternum. He looks very grim, and sounds more so.] 

The Princess and I are almost the same height. -- That wasn't an accident or a scare-shot.

[the Ten exchange looks of increasing anger and comprehension. Furious:]

He was shooting to kill her.

 **Beren** :

Yeah, well, he _didn't_  -- that was left for me.

 **Captain** : [taking him by the shoulders]

 _Beren_. Whatever possible mischance or mischances might have ambushed you out of the Void -- I will _never_ believe that you did anything -- even by accident -- to harm Luthien. Call me a naive fool, if you like, but I don't believe it.

[pause]

 **Beren** :

It was my fault she died.

 **Warrior** :

 _How_?

 **Beren** :

I made a dumb mistake -- a lot of dumb mistakes -- and got killed, and . . . and she faded.

 **Steward** :

 _Faded_? The Princess chose to follow you?

 **Beren** : [shaking his head]

That's not -- you can't -- you're making it sound like she was responsible.

 **Captain** :

Most of us in the King's following have known the Court of Doriath since before your people were born. I don't think there's one soul here who's met her who'd doubt that the child of Melian and Elu Thingol should prove as resolute in love as those two -- any more than we who know _you_ believe that you'd ever hurt her. Sit down and stop blaming yourself for things you didn't do.

 **Beren** :

But --

[the Captain pushes Beren down gently, while the Youngest Ranger and the Fourth Guard pull him down from either side, and sits down himself]

 **Captain** :

So what happened after you got shot?

 **Beren** :

I don't remember.

[at their Looks]

No, I mean, I passed out, I only know what Tinuviel told me. Afterwards. Huan went after them and then they took care of me, and that made me realize that it was never going to work, there was no way I could go on pretending it could, and I had to convince them.

 **Warrior** :

Er . . .  _what_?

 **Beren** :

That she couldn't stay with me, we couldn't just pretend that everything was fine like it used to be and the world didn't matter to us -- we had to resolve this and she needed to go back to Doriath where it was safe. -- Or it was, then.

 **Warrior** :

No, I -- I meant, earlier -- I was a little confused by all the "theys".

 **Steward** :

I believe that the first reference was to the Lords Celegorm and Curufin, the second and third to the Lord of Dogs and the Lady Luthien. -- Is that correct?

 **Beren** : [nodding]

\-- Someone else should really be telling this.

 **Captain** :

No, you're doing fine -- we just want more details. -- Did I really hear you say that Huan here actually attacked that pair of traitors?

[Huan makes an unhappy grumbling noise]

 **Steward** :

I'm not entirely sure that -- technically -- the Feanorions' actions should be considered _treason_ , seeing that --

 **Captain** : [cutting him off]

\-- They had guest-right and they dishonored that along with kin-right. That makes them traitors not just once, but twice over, even if they never did swear fealty. Now _be_ _quiet_ , Edrahil, I'm not going to argue semantics, we want to hear what happened to Beren.

 **Beren** : [embarrassed]

Sirs, please --

 **Steward** : [smiling a little, for the first time]

It's all right. Please continue.

 **Beren** : [sighing]

So anyway, yeah, Huan went for them, and she said he was really scary, she'd never imagined he could look like that, he was even angrier than he had been fighting Sauron, and if I hadn't been hurt and he hadn't broken off the chase to come back and help me she doesn't know what he would have done to them. So then she pulled it out -- the arrow -- and cleaned it out, and he found her some kind of plant to use for a pain-killer --

 **Youngest Ranger** :

Which one?

 **Beren** :

Didn't recognize it. I don't know the lowland vegetation as well as the northern types. Worked, though -- even the scar didn't hurt. -- She _sang_ it shut. It should have taken weeks to knit, and maybe never properly, and it healed _overnight_.

 **Captain** :

What class was the point?

 **Beren** :

All-purpose military-hunting, long barbs to keep it in --

[makes a demonstrating V with his left hand]

\-- and sharpened on the outside. --  _Not_ birdshot. The sort of thing you don't dare try to take out if you don't know what you're doing and have irons ready in case something big's been cut. -- And then she built a shelter out of branches to keep the wind and rain out and a fire and kept me from getting dehydrated and getting trapped by the power of the Dark while I was unconscious.

 **Steward** :

You sound surprised.

[pause]

 **Beren** :

It -- just -- is not what I thought of when I thought of Elven princesses, um, chopping up branches and dragging piles of wood around and so forth.

 **Captain** : [innocent]

And you've met exactly how many?

 **Beren** :

Er -- two . . .

 **Captain** :

Finduilas is hardly a statistical sampling, you know. You never met His Majesty's sister, or his cousin, or --

[checks]

Ah.

 **Steward** :

\-- Indeed.

 **Captain** : [urgent]

Beren, if you happen to encounter the High King's daughter, _don't_ bring up the sons of Feanor to her. She doesn't like hearing that they're bloody maniacs and insists it's all a misunderstanding, and she tends to the preemptive strike, even if she does apologize after.

 **Beren** : [blinking]

Uh, okay.

 **Captain** :

But anyhow, you know that a majority of our medical people are female -- and you know what Healers do -- so what are you so amazed about?

 **Beren** : [sheepish]

Tinuviel just always seemed so -- so much too _nice_ , to be completely unfazed by blood up to her elbows and deranged relatives trying to kidnap her and getting knocked off a horse and knocked out and me being hurt and having to do everything by herself -- with Huan, yeah, but there wasn't a whole lot of help he could give her past that point, except give moral support and keep Curufin's horse from running off.

 **Warrior** : [very interested]

Which one was he? Stormwing or Watersong? Those were their best steeds -- I'm sure they would have taken _them_.

 **Beren** : [shrugs]

I dunno -- what did they look like?

 **Warrior** :

The dappled-grey one or . . . er, the other dappled-grey one . . .

[trails off]

 **Beren** : [straightfaced]

The big grey one with spots.

[they grin]

He never said what his name was -- I just called him "Roch" and he didn't seem to mind.

[quiet laughter all around]

I'm pretty sure he called _me_ "that maniac who knocks horses over" -- it was a long time before he stopped looking at me with his eyes all white around the edges trying to see what I was doing wherever I was, even after Huan took him aside and explained it was an accident.

[shaking his head]

\-- I didn't know you could _do_ that. I guess it's like pulling your mount over on yourself, but -- he wasn't a pony, by a long shot -- ! It was kind of funny the way he used to try to keep Huan in between us when we were walking at first, and if Huan was off scouting or hunting -- he'd try to hide behind _her_ , like I couldn't see him if his head was out of sight.

[smiling]

It was kind of cute -- at first Tinuviel didn't realize what he was doing, and then when she did she'd walk a little faster or a little slower so that he'd have to hurry to keep up, or then stop to stay hidden, or then she'd hop up and talk to us from his back. I've never seen an animal try to look three directions at once. He was a nice horse, though. I thought it would be a lot harder to ride him -- oh, I'll have to tell him he was right, I could have done it for his plan. King Finrod, I mean.

[sighs, with a nostalgic smile]

Those were good days.

[checks -- his smile fades]

Well -- by comparison. While they -- lasted. I --

[he looks down, biting his lip, and rocking a little; the Guard beside him puts an arm around his shoulders and gives him a little shake]

 **Fourth Guard** : [consolingly]

\-- It's all right -- you don't think _we'd_ grudge you any happiness, do you?

 **Steward** :

"While they lasted" -- yet obviously they did not last long. What happened to bring them to an end??

 **Beren** :

I -- uh -- I had to go get a Silmaril.

 **Several of the Ten** : [simultaneously]

\--  _Why_??

 **Beren** :

I had to.

 **Captain** :

But that doesn't make any sense at all, lad. You were supposed to get the stone to win the Lady's hand -- but the Princess came to find you, so the question of needing it to break her free from Doriath was moot. Why didn't you just -- what's that mortal word? --  _elope_  -- ?

 **Beren** :

That wouldn't have been honorable. -- I made a vow. I promised to fulfill the task.

 **Fourth Guard** :

But you _know_ it wasn't a fair task.

 **Beren** : [frustrated]

 _But_ _I_ _promised_.

[pause]

And Tinuviel was going to get killed staying with me, or worse. We just smacked the Enemy's top commander upside the head, so to speak, and this was the same guy who spent _four_ _bleeding_ _years_ trying to hunt me down. I could imagine what he would try to do to us now.

 **Captain** :

But could he? I mean, without any base to work from, with his elite corps ripped to shreds, how much can he do now? That night essentially put him in the same spot you were in those last years in Dorthonion. I would be very surprised if he weren't replaced by someone with no failure record and consequently no real experience of the War.

[Beren shrugs uncomfortably]

 **Beren** :

That doesn't do anything about local Orc-bands and the rest of the minions that escaped from the Tower, in fact it could be worse because they didn't have anyone to tell them where to be now. And the sons of Feanor still being out there. And even with Huan we couldn't hardly protect her from her two psychotic kinsmen. -- I kept trying to tell her this. And she kept saying we could just sneak into her parents' back woods and hide out along the edges the way I did before, and we'd be fine.

[growing frustrated just remembering it]

And I kept trying to explain that this wasn't going to work, no way in _hell_ was it going to work, and she needed to be someplace where there were defenses, strong defenses, and that meant Doriath, because there was also no way in hell we could go back to Nargothrond -- because I _knew_ what happened to isolated farmsteads and people who tried to hold out on their own in the open. And she'd just keep on saying we'd be fine.

[the Ten exchange troubled glances, considering the problem]

 **Beren** :

\-- And that there was no way in hell _she_ was ever going to go back to Menegroth unless I came with her. And that wasn't going to happen without a Silmaril. Though I thought it was optimistic to think that even doing that would guarantee safe-conduct. So I got up really early one morning when she was still asleep and I told Huan to stay with her and keep her safe, and then I rode back again west and north to Ard-galen.

 **Captain** :

Without saying good-bye!?

 **Beren** :

I couldn't have done it otherwise. And . . . I wasn't strong enough for the argument -- I would have ended up giving in again that day.

[The Captain glances over at the Steward, who does not look at him]

 **Steward** :

Did you truly believe it possible that you might accomplish it, on your own?

 **Beren** : [shaking his head]

No. But I couldn't not try. I just couldn't let her get killed or -- or caught, and have it be my fault. Not if I could do something to stop it. I thought she'd be reasonable enough to go home once it was obvious I was really gone this time.

 **Warrior** :

What happened to "Horse"?

 **Beren** :

I turned him loose after we got to the Plains -- I told him he didn't have to go back to Curufin if he didn't want to, I didn't want him getting stressed about it, and going through what Huan went through, plus the spiders and the fell things on the way there, and he was glad enough to see the last of me -- though I think he did finally trust me a little by then. Last I saw him he was heading south towards the river as fast as he could gallop.

 **Warrior** : [astounded]

You convinced an Eldar war-steed to return to the site of the Battle?

[pause -- stifled:]

I would say -- yes, he trusted you -- but _not_ a little.

[pause]

 **Captain** : [encouraging]

Keep going.

 **Beren** :

So, I was going to try to make it in -- I figured it couldn't be much worse than Dungortheb, there had to still be springs and stuff, even if nothing grew there any more, and so long as it wasn't too contaminated I could still drink it, because it couldn't take anywhere near as long as the mountains to get over, since it was flat. But not completely flat, so probably there would be enough cover I could evade any patrols up to the walls, and then maybe find a route up like we had planned initially for the mission, sneak in through some access way or something. And then get killed. -- Or more likely caught, again.

[silence; the Ten exchange significant glances]

 **Captain** : [bemused]

I've never known _anyone_ who could combine the most outrageous self-confidence and absolute pessimism quite the way you do.

 **Beren** :

Well, it didn't _happen_ that way, because it turns out Huan's one of those dogs who puts the most creative interpretations on "stay" --

[scratches Huan's ears -- in the "doting dog-owner" voice:]

\-- isn't that right, boy? That's what you _did_  --

[Huan snuffles against his face]

\-- and so he decided that "stay with Tinuviel" could be stretched to mean "bring Tinuviel with me wherever I go" and they showed up before I actually got anywhere and yelled at me for being an idiot. It was really awful -- I saw them from a distance and thought "I don't believe it, I'm almost exactly where we were caught before, this is some kind of twisted game the Enemy's playing, letting me get two leagues farther along" -- and then Huan left because it would be more of a risk for us to be seen with him than he could be helpful defending us, and to go round up some reinforcements, even though he didn't say anything about that then and we didn't know about that till later.

[there are some confused looks exchanged at this, but no one interrupts]

And then we crossed the desert -- that part seemed really hard at the time, but by comparison to the rest of it it was actually pretty easy -- but the sun was really rough on Tinuviel, and I kept cursing myself for dragging her into it, but I _couldn't_ _stop_  -- and then we got to the road -- this causeway thing they've built out of slag and rubble and stuff, it goes a long way out into the Plains, and there was shade next to that. We hid down there from a troop of Enemy soldiers being sent out West -- I think they must have been going to the siege of the High King's fortress -- and after they were past we tried to get through the Gates, but this Wolf --  _Thing_  -- there, the size of a, a, -- no, bigger -- than the biggest wild oxen you've ever seen. You know how much bigger Huan is than most werewolves? She said that's how much bigger than Huan Sauron was. When he was a wolf. -- Well, that's how much bigger than Sauron this one, that was lying there in front of the Gates, was.

[there are some hasty calculations made and more looks exchanged]

 **Captain** :

You're talking about something three-to-four times the size of an ordinary warg there.

 **Beren** :

Yeah. He gets up and gets in the way -- I mean, even more in the way, 'cause he already was in the way -- gets in my face, and starts sniffing suspiciously at her in spite of her cloaks and all I could think was, Tinuviel was gonna die, and --

 **One of the Ten:** [cutting over, from the background]

"-- and it would all be your fault --"

[Beren stops, turns, and glares at the Captain]

 **Captain** : [raising his hands]

Wasn't me. -- Someone beat me to it.

[Beren closes his eyes and makes an exasperated noise]

 **Second Guard** :

\-- Sorry, Beren.

 **Beren** :

Now I forgot where I was.

 **Captain** :

You were explaining about the Wolf at the door, and how it was all your fault.

 **Beren** : [gives up, laughing] -- All right, all right. So he's there, and I'm thinking, "We're _dead_ , I have to fight this guy, and there's _no_ _way_ I can take him --" and she just steps out from behind me and says "Down!" and wham! --

[gesturing wildly]

\-- there's this _flash_ like when lightning hits a tree right by you but without any noise and he just _drops_ on the ground like a felled ox and that's it. And we just went sneaking past him into Angband, like a couple of rats going by a sleeping cat.

 **First Guard** : [awed]

She killed it?

 **Beren** : [sighing]

No, it would have been better if we could have, because then he wouldn't have got into Doriath, but Huan said it was fated so I'm not sure anyone else even could. He was just sound asleep. Anyway, we thought maybe we could duck in and hide and check out the place before doing anything else, but --  _He_  -- spotted Tinuviel right away and threatened to blast her down right there, if she didn't explain what she was doing there -- and she did this amazing act where she told him the exact truth -- only not _all_ of it -- and sounding like she was completely helpless and terrified, and he thought _he_ was in control and playing her like a fish on a line, only it was completely the other way round. I had to go against all my instincts to rush out and defend her and just trust her to know what she was doing, like with Carcharoth.

 **Steward** :

You weren't noticed?

 **Beren** :

I was flat on the floor under his chair in the dark. Everyone was watching Tinuviel.

 **Captain** :

You were under Morgoth's throne?!

 **Beren** : [shrugs]

I know, it sounds really lame -- but storming out waving a sword into the middle of a hall full of Balrogs and assorted minions didn't seem like it was going to work all that well.

 **Soldier** : [to the Second Guard beside him]

Somehow I just had an image of Feanor when he said that.

 **Beren** :

Yeah, well, you know -- lurking around in the shadows and dashing out when they're drunk and careless is more my style.

 **Second Guard** :

I'm having a hard time imagining this at all.

 **Third Guard** :

It would help if any of us had actually seen the inside of Angband ever, or if Beren had bothered to describe the scenery.

[the next several exchanges all overlap as people talk over each other and answer different questions]

 **Beren** :

Ah, it was really ugly --

 **Warrior** :

 _I'm_ still trying to imagine a wolf the size of an aurochs or larger.

 **Beren** :

\-- it looked kind of burnt, kind of like the Nightshade, only worse than the edges you guys saw, and --

 **Steward** : [dryly]

How peculiar --  _I'm_ trying very hard not to.

 **Beren** :

\-- there were designs on them that I don't want to remember. And _Balrogs_. _Multiple_ Balrogs.

[pause]

 **Youngest Ranger** :

Did you run into Glaurung?

 **Beren** : [deadpan]

You know, I was wondering what was lacking to make the experience complete, and guess what, that was it. Somehow there was a disaster that we actually _missed_.

 **Captain** : [also straightfaced]

Shocking inefficiency. I wonder how that happened.

 **Ranger** :

Beren, I know you're superb at that "lurking around" business, but I'm still finding it somewhat hard to believe that you were able to wander freely inside Thangorodrim without being spotted. Not to mention Her Highness.

 **Beren** :

Oh. We -- we were disguised as minions.

[he sighs]

 **Ranger** :

I see. That makes sense.

 **Captain** : [noticing Beren's downcast look]

What's wrong?

 **Beren** :

Oh . . . I was just thinking.

[he checks briefly, and goes on more brightly:]

\-- You know if I'd been able to do that myself back in Dorthonion, I could have --

 **Captain** :

\-- Lad, if you'd been able to turn yourself into an Orc during your War, you'd have gotten yourself into so much trouble you wouldn't have lived long enough to get yourself _into_ more trouble. -- You know I'm right.

[Beren ducks his head, smiling a little]

Now you can't stop _now_  -- you've just gotten to the most exciting part. So far.

[he reaches over and shakes Beren's shoulder, trying to get him to look up. Earnestly:]

You know we -- none of us -- wanted you here. But it's too hard for us _not_ to be pleased now that you have turned up. Stop fretting. Trust the King. -- Trust your Lady. They'll work things out for the best.

[Beren sighs and nods]

 **Beren** :

Okay, where was I?

 **Soldier** :

Under Morgoth's seat, you said.

 **Beren** :

Yeah -- when I made that vow that I'd avenge Da if it took me to the Gates of Angband to challenge the Dark Lord himself -- that was _not_ the scenario I had in mind. So I'm hiding there, and looking out between his heels, trying not to make any noise, and I knew he was a giant, I remembered about him smashing big pits in the ground when he killed the High King -- we even passed them on the way in, they're still there -- but I wasn't ready for _how_ _much_ larger than us. Or having to lie there and watching his minions eating corpses. I still have nightmares about that place.

 **Steward** :

You said he recognized Lady Luthien?

 **Beren** : [nodding]

She came down in front of the hall when he told her to, and tried to keep bluffing that she was a courier from Sauron, but he goes, "What are you talking about? We just had the reports from Taur-na-fuin. You're not one of our people!" and --

 **Ranger** : [surprised]

That's almost exactly what happened to us --

 **Beren** : [bitter]

Yeah, I know --  _again_. So she admits it, and he starts laughing and wants to know what her dad's thinking to send her on a mission, if Thingol had lost it finally. And she explains how he doesn't know she's there, that he tried to keep her too hemmed in and she ran away, and all roads eventually lead to Angband because that's where the power in Middle-earth is and she realizes that now, and she's willing to serve him as an entertainer because she needs to and has no place left to go, and he starts making all kinds of crude remarks about _needs_ and _serving_ and I'm trying to keep my cool and not wreck it _this_ time by losing my temper --

 **Captain** :

No, you can't have all that blame. _None_ of us were expecting to hear her name under those circumstances, and _all_ of us reacted. Himself most of all.

[Beren does not look entirely reassured but goes on:]

 **Beren** :

And anyway what couldI have done? Maybe hamstrung him? That didn't slow him down much the last time, and it didn't seem like it would help her any. So I trusted her.

 **Captain** :

Best thing you could have done.

 **Beren** : [frankly]

It was _hard_. When he reached out to grab her, saying something like, "This will make me feel better about the gods enjoying our misery," it was all I could do not to lunge for his ankle. And Tinuviel says, "Nope! You listen to _me_ now!" and melts right out of his hands like he was trying to catch hold of a shadow, and she flings open her capes and starts to dance, like swallows over the water, that quick, or like real bats when you see them out in the door-yard flying after bugs at twilight, to her own music, and it was like Esgalduin pouring in to drown us all with sleep.

 **Soldier** :

\-- You too?

 **Beren** :

Of course. Not like I could resist it, if a god couldn't.

 **Soldier** :

She couldn't -- be _selective_?

[Beren shakes his head]

 **Beren** :

You don't understand, this was the _real_ _thing_  -- this was like a flood when the ice melts up in the mountains, it's coming down and everything in its way is _going_ down. But it wasn't a _weapon_  -- not like knocking someone over the head to put them out -- she gave --  _us_  -- what we needed --  _what_ _we_ _really_ _wanted_ : absolute peace. Complete rest from pain, and having to think, and regrets, and hating each other, and that's why there was no way anything there could hold out against it. Not even Morgoth. Though she said it took longest to take him down, but in the end he slumps down like an avalanche and the Iron Crown goes _rolling_ across the floor --

[making a sweeping gesture with his hand]

\-- and not even _that_ woke anyone up. She said it sounded not like metal clanging but like when thunder hits all the sudden, it was that big and heavy. So then she wakes me up and I crawl out from under trying not to step on any of the other minions or the snakes -- hey, why are there adders in Angband? Just loose on the floor -- his people just stepped over them, or on them, or kicked them out of the way. And it was cold, so they should have been hibernating but these were awake, until they weren't any more.

 **Steward** : [thinks for a second]

Worm prototypes.

 **Beren** :

? ? ?

 **Steward** :

\-- Experimental Dragons. Did they appear to be fashioned out of metal?

 **Beren** :

Oh. I -- I'm not really sure, it was hard to see -- but they did make a lot more noise than adders usually do when they moved. Like someone filing something. So maybe. And I got up, and . . . there they were.

[he stops, staring into the distance, until the Captain clears his throat]

I . . . it was like a sunset, and the northern lights, and sunrise, and when you look up through water and see daylight, all together . . .

 **Steward** :

\-- Yes.

 **Beren** :

But it was like sunlight through Autumn leaves in the wind, too, and the Stars . . .

[pulling himself together]

And then we tried to get the jewel off the Crown -- it was way too big and heavy to take the whole thing, like trying to carry a cartwheel made out of metal -- and I'm trying to pop it out of the setting with my bare hands, and it isn't working, and Tinuviel's hovering like she's about to take off again, trying to get me to hurry, and I'm getting more and more frustrated, and then after all -- stupid! -- that I remembered about the Angrist, and I got that and sawed off the prongs that were holding it on, and . . .  _light_. I thought it would feel cold, like a polished stone, but it felt like sunlight in my hand. It shone right through -- like a candle through cloth -- but it wasn't hot. It didn't even occur to me that I should be afraid -- like picking up bees. I knew they weren't afraid of me, or angry, they wouldn't do anything to me . . .

[he is rapt at the memory again]

 **Soldier** : [quietly]

That's right. I'd forgotten all about that -- how dangerous they were. You shouldn't have been able to even touch them.

 **Steward** : [aside]

Ah. My conjecture was mistaken.

 **Beren** :

Sir?

 **Steward** :

I had assumed that was the cause of your maiming.

 **Beren** :

No, that -- that was a little later.

[pause -- he continues under the gentle pressure of encouraging looks]

So then I thought if the first one came off that easy, and we weren't going to try this again, I shouldn't waste the chance because who was ever going to get another like that? and I went to hack out the second one, and the knife -- you remember how Curufin used to brag how it could cut through anything? Well, he was wrong.

[grimaces]

It _stuck_ and popped apart when I tried sawing the next setting, and the piece of it went flying up like that --  _bing_  --

[gestures]

\-- just like an arrow, or a spear, and hit him in the forehead. And he kind of snorts and moves around like someone asleep who's got a fly walking on his face and we didn't dare keep trying, we just grabbed the Jewel and ran like crazy. And we almost made it.

[The Ten share glances of regret -- Beren does not realize what they are assuming]

But Carcharoth was already awake, and he's standing there sniffing around as we come up, and the instant he sees us it's over. There's no other way to go, and he's blocking the exit, and he's _mad_. And Tinuviel was already almost collapsing when she took the spell off me, we're holding onto each other pulling each other along but she's leaning on me more, and she just gives him this _look_ , like, "I can't do this again, -- but I have to" and he sees her and his hackles go right up --  _she_ was the one he most wanted to kill at the beginning, she really bothered him even when he thought she was Thuringwethil. So I pushed her behind me and shoved the Silmaril up in his face.

 **Youngest Ranger** :

Why?

 **Beren** : [shrugging]

Instinct, mostly. -- I thought if it burned Morgoth, it might repel him, or at least blind him,or at least have a chance where a blade wouldn't -- and it did, for a second, but he was too strong, or I didn't do it right, and he just whipped right back around with his head and bit at it like it was a fly.

[bringing his left hand down hard against his wrist]

He went through it like kindling -- I could hear the bones crunch when he closed, there wasn't any time for me to pull back or anything -- and bolted it down like he'd caught the fly and was swallowing it. And then he just stood there for a second with his eyes all glowing and growling, just like a guard dog would for trespassers -- except for the eyes glowing -- and I knew we'd had it, but then he gives this howl like he'd been shot, but it's as loud as the whole pack would be, and he kind of arches like a fish jumping out of the water, and then he keeps on bucking like a colt -- or like a hooked salmon, and he flings around for a minute there before dashing outside like he was closing with deer. And there was nothing but air between us and the Plains.

 **Third Guard** :

So you didn't die _then_.

 **Beren** :

No. Tinuviel dragged me out of there and we managed to get clear of the Gate before it fell in.

 **Third Guard** :

Carcharoth wasn't waiting for you?

 **Ranger** :

Why did it fall in?

 **Beren** :

No, he was gone. Nothing but dust clouds and echoes way out there. Huh?

 **Ranger** :

What was that about the Gate?

 **Beren** :

Oh. Morgoth woke up then, I guess, since there was this unbelievable roaring noise coming from below and the walls started shaking and the floor, and it just kept getting worse -- all the wargs in the place started howling the way dogs do sometimes, and rocks were falling down from the ceiling, and after we got out there was a landslide from up on Thangorodrim and it filled up most of the archway with rubble and took down a lot of the masonry over the Gate itself.

 **Captain** :

That seems rather counterproductive behavior, doesn't it?

 **Beren** :

Yeah, his temper-tantrum meant that the pursuit couldn't get after us right away. So anyway she carries me the rest of the way out and into the open as far as she could, and we couldn't go any farther, and we collapsed in one of the gouges left by Grond, which was a little bit of cover, and she keeps trying to heal me even though her voice makes her a target, and the lightning bolts are hitting awfully close --

 **Warrior** :

\-- Lightning-bolts?

 **Beren** :

Yeah, he wasn't willing to wait for them to unblock the door, I guess, and these fireballs kept coming at us from the peak, and the ground kept shaking, and I thought the whole world was ending or something. She actually sucked all the poison out of the amputation site -- that sounds so much neater than it was -- it -- well, you've seen a dog eating a hare -- it was blood and ends and sharp bits and --

[he stops short and bends down to hide his face against Huan's coat again. Brief pause]

 **Warrior** :

Are you all right?

[Beren shakes his head, not looking up. Huan makes a grumbling noise, his brow furrowing, but doesn't move (which would force Beren to straighten)]

 **First Guard** : [understandingly]

None of us had to _watch_.

[the Youngest Ranger pats Beren on the back, his expression sympathetic]

 **Captain** :

Beren? -- Beren?

[when he still doesn't move, the Captain signals to the Youngest Ranger, who obediently pokes Beren hard in the ribs, causing him to sit up in outrage]

You're not being very considerate, stopping all the time like this, you realize.

 **Beren** :

But I don't remember the next part.

[The Guard on his right grabs him by the shoulder and shakes him hard in humorous exasperation]

 **Third Guard** :

\-- Well, did you die or not then? That's all we want to know.

 **Soldier** :

Speak for yourself!

[to Beren]

\-- Star and Water! can't you just _tell_ _the_ _story_ , and save the apologizing for after?

 **Beren** : [chagrined]

Well . . . I . . . was just lying there while she worked on me, and I kept blacking out and coming to again and wondering why I couldn't die, and after a bit Tinuviel finished singing and pulled her cloak over us and we just _waited_ , and at some point I didn't wake up again.

 **Soldier** :

And what about _her_?

 **Beren** :

The Eagles came and picked us up and took us back to Huan. Back to Doriath, as a matter of fact, right where we started from when I tried to sneak off.

 **Steward** :

So you were still alive at that juncture?

 **Beren** : [flatly]

I'm not doing a very good job of telling this, am I?

 **Steward** :

Most people are somewhat disoriented and find it difficult to recount their death-experiences without _some_ initial counselling. Of course, you've always been somewhat disorganized and deficient as a storyteller, though no more so than most mortals.

[Beren gives him an anxious look]

 **Second Guard** :

Don't listen to Master Particular there. _I'm_ enjoying the tale so far.

 **Steward** :

I am speaking only from a bardic standpoint, in answer to milord's direct question. Continuity and coherence are challenges for a human mind to achieve.

 **Captain** :

That's because Ea is complicated and messy and happens all at once. -- So you weren't dead. Yet.

 **Beren** :

Um, no, I wasn't dead, though I wasn't sure about it at the time. I --

 **Captain** :

I thought you didn't remember anything --

 **Soldier** : [interrupting]

Wait a minute, wait a minute --  _what_ Eagles? Where did _they_ come from?

 **Beren** :

I think they live in the mountains down south of Rivil Falls.

 **Soldier** :

You mean --  _the_ Eagles. -- Manwe's Eagles?

 **Beren** :

The sacred Eagles, yeah. Ordinary eagles couldn't carry anybody anywhere. Except maybe a baby and that's not a fun thing to think about.

 **Soldier** :

You got a _divine_ _intervention_ to pull you out of there? Like the King's uncle?

 **Beren** :

Yeah, only we were still alive. Mostly.

 **Third Guard** :

But why did he send them for _you_? Was it because the Princess is Melian's daughter?

[the Youngest Ranger looks as if he's going to say something, but doesn't want to interrupt]

 **Beren** :

No, because of Huan. I mean, Huan sent them. For us.

 **Ranger** :

And they just came? Like that?

 **Beren** : [shrugging]

Well -- yeah. Is that not supposed to happen?

 **Ranger** :

It -- seems very odd. Not to mention implausible. I didn't think that Manwe would be watching that closely, and then there's the Doom. Though neither of you are Noldor, so perhaps . . .

 **Youngest Ranger** : [finally]

Our traditions say that the Eagle-king acts on his own. He's the Sky-king's liege, not a slave. The same with his family.

 **Beren** :

I think they did it because Huan asked them to. I don't know exactly. _She_ talked to them, not me. I was unconscious. Then when I woke up it was like nothing had changed except the weather, because pretty soon we started fighting about how it wasn't safe to stay out there and she kept arguing that it was, since nothing had happened that they couldn't handle in and the bad weather was over which was the worst of it and it was going to be summer pretty soon. Finally I convinced her we had to go back to her parents' place.

 **Second Guard** :

Every time I think you've come to the end, you start a new adventure. Does this story ever stop?

 **Warrior** :

Well obviously it did, since they're all _here_ , right?

[elbows the other in the ribs]

Don't interrupt again now that he's finally telling it. -- What do you mean, " _summer_ "? How long were you comatose?

 **Beren** :

End of winter -- beginning of spring. I came out of it when the Balance changed.

[silence]

 **Warrior** : [quietly]

At least you weren't in pain for the duration.

 **Beren** :

Actually --

[breaks off, then picks up again guiltily]

It wasn't exactly pain, but -- I thought I was dead, and lost somewhere trying to get _here_. It was all grey, and the terrain was terrible, and it kept changing, and there were things in it I had to fight and escape from, and there was this light, or something, that kept luring me over to it, but I had this feeling I shouldn't go that way, that it was an illusion to a trap -- but everywhere I went seemed to go back there, except when I closed my eyes and followed the Song. Her voice was the only true thing in that place. But I wasn't always brave enough to do that, and I kept getting lost again for a long time. But she got me out of there finally.

[silence]

 **Captain** :

Do you have any idea where you were?

 **Beren** : [meaningfully]

You don't think it was a dream either.

 **Captain** :

Oh, I think it was a dream. Very definitely. And I think the Lord of Fetters was trying to lure you into his hold.

[pause]

 **Beren** :

Okay, that's kind of what I thought. But Tinuviel wasn't sure, because she couldn't see where I was, because I'm not an Elf, and she didn't know if _we_ go into the Grey Country too, or if I was just trapped inside my mind because of the poison. There wasn't anybody else there with me. Except I could hear her singing.

[the Captain reaches across and takes Beren's chin, looking him in the eyes]

 **Captain** :

That's an awfully long time to be lost. Mortal or not.

 **Beren** : [hugging Huan's neck]

I -- know. They took care of me all that time.

 **Captain** :

And you kept on, and got home safe and sane.

[he grips Beren's shoulder and then his wrist]

Good job.

[Beren half-smiles, still shaken talking or thinking about it]

 **Steward** :

So you returned to Doriath, and to Menegroth, after all?

 **Beren** :

Yeah. I had a hard time believing that they weren't about to shoot me, or lock me up like he threatened, but Tinuviel just stormed right back in like a hurricane and acted like she owned the place, and people just fell in with it. It was really strange -- this time nobody was laughing, and the way they were staring it was like they hoped we were gonna rescue them -- only we didn't know right then from _what_. It was so different from the other time . . .

 **Steward** :

Was Huan with you both?

[Beren nods]

One would rather imagine that put a somewhat of a constraint upon anyone who would have arrested you.

 **Beren** :

Yeah, but nobody even tried. Or wanted to. And we go in to where her parents are dealing with the chaos, and she drags us right up there and says --

 **Captain** : [interrupting]

\-- What chaos?

 **Beren** :

All the refugees. And everybody being mobilized who could carry a weapon.

 **Steward** :

Refugees? From where?

 **Ranger** :

And how would they get into Doriath?

 **Beren** :

From Doriath. -- Um, they were in the Thousand Caves, that's why it was so crazy.

 **Steward** :

From what, then?

 **Beren** :

Carcharoth.

 **Fourth Guard** :

 _That's_ where he went?!

 **Beren** :

Eventually. He was rampaging around the North all that time we were there hiding out in the outskirts of Neldoreth, and finally he busted in through the barriers on the eastern side like the Labyrinth wasn't even there and started killing people in Doriath. He was basically rabid at that point --

 **First Guard** :

How could he get in?

 **Beren** :

Apparently the Silmaril made him practically invincible, -- though personally I thought he was to begin with -- and at the same time it made him crazy -- though Tinuviel said he already _was_ crazy, it was so obvious in his aura that she couldn't believe I didn't see it. When they cut him open it had blistered him all up inside like a bucket of hot coals, as fast as he could heal it kept burning right into him.

 **Youngest Ranger** :

So he's dead.

 **Beren** :

Yeah. Thanks to Huan.

[he strokes the Hound's head]

So everyone had evacuated the woods and meadows and moved into the Caves for protection, and they look at us like they can't believe we're back, like we're gods or something come to save them -- I guess a lot of them assumed we were dead to begin with -- and we go into the throne room, and there's this big row going on over what to do and people waving maps and the Queen's just sitting there looking like a ghost, like she doesn't care about anything anymore, and she's in pain, and trying to keep a brave face for everyone else, like my aunt before she got too sick to move, and --  _he's_ looking like Da the night after everybody left and he didn't have to. But he has to keep doing his job.

[shaking his head]

I was so obnoxious to him. I couldn't help it. We come in and there's all this commotion, and Thingol looks up all angry at the ruckus and then he sees _her_ , and I've never seen anyone look that -- that stricken. But in a good way. Except --

[he looks down for an instant, biting his lip]

Except when His Majesty recognized _me_. It was like that, only more . . . So we go right up to them, and Tinuviel's holding on to me like grim death, and she's got me between her and Huan on the other side, so obviously she thought they were going to grab me or kill me too, and I get down on one knee and he's just staring at me, and I could see the veins starting to go up on the back of his hands, and before he could say anything I said, "Hey, I'm back like I said I would be -- you gonna keep your promise now?"

[silence -- the Ten react to this image]

Yeah. I know. But what could I say? I couldn't even say "you can't call me a thrall," 'cause that wasn't true any more, and I just had to -- take control, I couldn't let him put me on the defensive again or I'd be stammering like an idiot like before. And I couldn't do that to her in front of them. So he goes, "Where's the Silmaril?" cool as anything, like we'd been gone a week or so. And I said, "I've got it in my hand right now," and he says, "Let's see it, then." So I hold out my hand, like so, and he gives me the evil eyebrow, and I just smiled at him and shook back my cloak and showed him my stump, and I said, "Guess you better call me 'empty-handed' after all."

 **Captain** : [sighing]

Oh, Beren . . .

 **Beren** :

I know, I know. And he says, "You want to explain that, young Man?" and I told him that the Gate-Guard of Angband bit it off and the jewel with it, and he just sort of glares at me, for a long, _looong_ time. And then he goes, "You took my daughter _where_?" -- Fortunately Tinuviel took over the conversation at that point, and there was a lot of guilt operating there, and she used it for all it was worth, because they actually listened to her this time. And me, afterwards -- they had them get chairs for us and it was actually civilized, when they interrogated us about what we'd been doing.

 **Captain** :

You know, you seem to have a gift, or a curse, for being outrageously insolent to powerful people who mean you no good. How many times does that make?

[Beren has to stop and think]

 **Beren** :

There's Thingol, and Sauron, and the sons of Feanor, and Sauron again, and Thingol again, so six. Wait, I forgot about Carcharoth. That's seven.

 **Captain** :

What about Morgoth? Surely helping yourself to a Silmaril should count.

 **Beren** :

Yeah, but I wasn't in his face about it. He didn't even know I was there. Not like shooting him in the middle of his bodyguard, or asking him who the hell he thought he was, messing with us.

[shaking his head]

I -- I still wonder about that, if I made things worse . . . jumping in like that when he was at a loss for words, before it went to combat. But it seemed like a distraction was needed, even if we weren't supposed to say anything, and . . . but I still think about it sometimes when it gets to be around the Starless Hour, and ask myself -- did I give us away by doing that?

 **Steward** : [distant]

\-- No. He was playing with us from the outset. He knew we weren't what we seemed. If he hadn't, your bluff might have worked -- that's a typical power- ploy, to demand more than one's jurisdiction allows, to see how far one can push before meeting resistance.

 **Captain** :

Hence the reason they say war and diplomacy are really the same thing, you know.

 **Steward** :

\--  _And_ you were correct in your observations from spying on him so long that he did not in fact have authority except in times of crisis over the forces despatched to the western and eastern fronts, which at that time was not the prevailing situation. Had he not revealed that he was aware -- as we were not -- that the last "Great Chief" had been killed raiding Doriath during the time of our journey and a new one had yet to be chosen, I myself would have judged it the manifestation of internal power struggles between the Lord of Wolves and Morgoth's other field commanders -- a small gesture of authority, intended to remind them who was foremost. He might well have said, "Get out of my sight and stop wasting my time, and tell old So-and-so to train you better." Or words to that effect.

[pause]

 **Beren** :

Are you sure?

 **Steward** :

That it might have worked, or that he knew beforehand? -- though the one hinges upon the other.

 **Beren** :

\-- Yeah.

 **Steward** :

There is no doubt in my mind that he was aware of some discrepancies and already suspicious before we were taken. The way his questioning played out leaves no room for it. I've done the same thing myself at court, when we were alive, to draw careless adversaries into self-incrimination.

 **Fourth Guard** :

So did _he_ kill you? Was that the mistake you were talking about, to flout him? -- Elu Thingol, I mean, not the Abhorred One. -- Now you've got me doing it too.

 **Beren** :

No, I . . . he wasn't actually as angry as he was making out to be, it turned out. In the meantime Celegorm had sent him a letter which was even more obnoxious than anything I'd said so far, and he apparently decided that compared to that crew he could _almost_ cope with the thought of me as a son-in-law, in a lesser of two evils kind of way.

 **Fourth Guard** : [amazed]

Is that a joke?

 **Beren** :

No, it was really bad. I didn't see it -- he had sent the scroll back under separate cover to Orodreth, which must have been interesting, and I wonder when it got there, if it was before or after they were kicked out -- but they recited the contents for us word-for-word.

[pause]

We're pretty sure Curufin wrote the actual thing. It was all about how they'd taken over Nargothrond and gotten us killed and if he knew what was good for him, he wouldn't try to challenge them about Luthien 'cause he was going to marry her. Um, Celegorm, not his brother. And a lot of stuff which I didn't get but Tinuviel says was about stuff that had happened in the past. So they let me stay there.

 **Ranger** :

That doesn't sound particularly welcoming.

 **Beren** :

Hey, I only said _not_ _quite_ as mad. -- He was really angry before. That leaves a lot of room for variation in "not quite."

 **Third Guard** :

But they let you get married.

 **Beren** :

Yes.

 **Third Guard** :

Even though you hadn't actually brought it to him.

[Beren nods]

 **Steward** :

And they didn't poison you at the feast?

 **Captain** : [staring at him]

Where did you come up with that notion? You're even more paranoid than I am these days.

 **Steward** :

Being betrayed rather does that to one.

 **Beren** :

No. No, they were completely honorable about it. I -- I think her father did understand that I was asking for help, and _why_ , showing up without it -- even if I did phrase it as an insult. And Tinuviel just didn't let up on making them feel bad. One big factor in the guilting was that they felt really awful about us being up on the central borders after I was bit, about how she would rather live alone out in what was essentially their backyard with just Huan to help her get through the winter, rather than ask for help taking care of me, because she couldn't trust them. I think that ripped his heart out more than anything else, because it was no way I could have been controlling her, not with --

[snorts]

\-- " _spells_ ," and not with just ordinary emotional means. There was damn all in the way of comfort for her from me during that time, and I think that made them realize how serious she was and how they'd misjudged her. Even more than her fighting the Dark Lord and his minions, which I don't think they ever really believed.

 **Second Guard** :

How could they _not_?

 **Beren** :

Well, it did sound kind of improbable. And the way she told it was this very offhand, almost sarcastic way, like you might make a joke, and if you didn't know it was true you might think she _was_ making a joke -- and you know how I tell stories. Everyone kept saying things like, "Not our little Luthien, surely!"

 **Steward** :

Oh. --  _Dear_.

 **Beren** :

Yeah, that just made her get more sarcastic. And it _was_ kind of hard to believe, even if you were there for it, but still, I mean -- we did have Huan there with us, which we didn't before, and so forth. -- I could see why she was making such a big deal out of having them call her _Tinuviel_. So anyway it was really long and confusing, because they kept interrupting -- not like you, of course --

[the Guard on his right shoves him lightly, and he grins]

\-- and between her saying things like "So then I told Morgoth to shut up," and me going, "Um, I don't remember that part," every other minute, I've heard far more plausible fictions being told about stuff like what happened to the column on the porch and why we had no idea how it got all scorched like that.

 **Captain** :

\--  _Told_ them, too, I gather.

 **Beren** : [wide-eyed innocence]

I have no idea what you're talking about, Sir.

 **Captain** : [same tone]

Of course not.

 **Beren** :

Like she said, it was pretty hellish at dinner -- oh wait, you weren't here then -- but it was. Her dad kept cringing every time I opened my mouth, but it turned out it's because -- well, part of it at least -- because of my accent.

 **Ranger** : [indignant]

What's wrong with your accent?

 **Beren** :

He said it sounded like I was mangling the words on purpose and drawling my vowels to sound affected and insolent.

 **Steward** :

You can't help your native dialect.

 **Beren** : [sighing]

No . . . but I tried. And that just made it harder to talk. And then . . . then he started to make a crack about how could his nephew stand to listen to us, and then he choked off and dropped his cup and got up and walked away to where the little golden trees were and just sat down for a bit, and nobody knew what to do or say, and then he came back and pretended like nothing had happened. And then Tinuviel asked if Daeron was off sulking and couldn't even be civil, and there was this dead silence, and it turned out that was another thing I was responsible for, besides the Wolf.

 **Warrior** :

What happened?

 **Beren** :

He split when they were searching for her, right after she ran away, and nobody knows what happened to him. I suppose that Carcharoth might have killed him, even, but I doubt he could have stayed hid all that time if they were quartering Doriath looking for Tinuviel.

 **First Guard** :

He isn't _here_.

 **Third Guard** : [sarcastic]

Unless he's laying very low. -- Again.

 **Warrior** :

He'd _better_. If _I_ run into him I'm going to let him have it.

 **Beren** : [softly]

Guys -- you don't have to be -- so -- I'm okay. I'll be all right.

 **Soldier** :

No, you're not, and yes, we do.

 **Second Guard** :

Though you do look a lot better now. You're more yourself.

 **Beren** : [frowning]

You know, that really is a weird expression. -- How can you be more or less yourself? Either you are yourself or you're not.

 **Youngest Range** r:

What if one of the Enemy's agents is disguised as you?

 **Fourth Guard** : [around Beren]

Then that's not _you_.

 **Youngest Ranger** :

But what if you're possessed?

 **Fourth Guard** :

Then it isn't _you_ _yourself_ either.

 **Youngest Ranger** :

All right then, but suppose Morgoth has put a control on you, and you don't know it, and you're still doing what you would ordinarily do, but wouldn't you say that you were _less_ _yourself_ then?

 **Captain** : [to Beren]

Do you really want to have another metaphysical crisis?

[Beren shakes his head. To the debaters:]

All right then, table this discussion. -- Unless you lot would rather hear yourselves argue than find out how it ends.

[they shut up]

 **Beren** :

All right, where were we again?

 **Steward** :

At a very unpleasant-sounding Acclamation banquet.

 **Beren** :

Hoo boy, was it ever. Between me trying not to make a complete fool of myself, and Tinuviel ready to savage anyone who looked cross-eyed at me, and the Queen and King trying to be civil and not doing a real good job at it -- and the general atmosphere of panic and Doom over the whole place, and people starting to admit that maybe it wasn't _all_ my fault after all --

 **Captain** :

\-- You're admitting it wasn't?

 **Beren** :

Hey. Don't put words in my mouth.

[Huan grins and thumps his tail on the grass and whoever is too close; Beren taps him on the top of his skull]

\-- Quiet, you. I mean, it wasn't like I had anything _directly_ to do with the fact that they were sending an embassy to Himring to demand justice from Maedhros against his younger brothers, or that they had to do that because the two mad bastards kidnapped their daughter, or that she got kidnapped by them because she ran away, and she ran away with no guards or anything because they locked her up in a tree. _Indirectly_ it was _my_ fault because she wouldn't have done it except to help me, and Carcharoth wouldn't have been able to get through the Labyrinth after slaughtering the embassy if I hadn't given him the Silmaril --

 **Ranger** :

You're making it sound like you just handed it to him.

 **Beren** : [dryly]

On account of how that's essentially what I did, even if it wasn't what I was trying to do. And everyone was kind of proud that one of their own had taken down the Lord of Fetters, even if they didn't half believe it and it was only temporarily. So it was really weird. Oh, and did you know that Melian and Tinuviel's dad lived up in Dorthonion before it was called Dorthonion before anyone else lived there, when they were newlyweds?

[the Ten shake their heads, looking at each other.]

It's true. I'm not making that up. They started talking about that as a way of trying to make conversation with me, and it was awful, because they kept saying things like, "How did the grove we planted along the top of the cliffs turn out?" and I'd say, "you mean the forest on the pine bluffs?" and then I'd have to tell them it got burned and turned into the Nightshade, or they'd say to each other, "Remember that meadow where we used to listen to your birds?" and I'd have to tell them we put a town there, only that got burned too, or about how they lived for a few decades at the lake, on our island, not that far from where Da's buried, and Tinuviel and her mother were having some kind of staring war across the table, and I'm not sure if they were really talking, or just meaningful looks, but she seemed to think all this proved some kind of point, like " _See_?" and I thought the candlesticks were going to melt, the way they were glaring at each other. So that was pretty depressing, too.

[sighs]

And before that -- does this sound familiar or not? there was all kinds of fuss before dinner after we finished telling about our adventures about trying to make us comfortable and especially, presentable, and that just sent Tinuviel right around the bend, anyone saying _anything_  -- or even implying, or _maybe_ implying anything -- about her hair or clothes or me being a mess -- I mean, Captain Strongbow just said something about how Huan must take a lot of brushing being as big as he is, and she tore into him like a rabid w --

[abrupt stop]

 **Captain** : [to the two on either side of Beren]

Thump him on the back, he's choking on guilt again --

 **Beren** : [hastily]

\-- and there was trouble about trying to find something to fit me, and me saying I didn't care if it was kids' clothes or not, or a woman's tunic, clothes are just clothes and the only thing that mattered was were they warm and I could rip the sleeves off or roll them up and nobody had to make anything special, but of course they did anyway, only it wasn't quite done in time for the feast and we did the apologizing thing and Tinuviel and her mom had a fight over her wanting to wear her old dress, sort of come-as-you- are solidarity, and she threatened to show up wearing _nothing_ but her hair, and Melian _cried_ , and that was -- and she said, "Why should _I_ care, I cried enough and you didn't pay any attention," and I had to beg her to back off, so she let them fancy her up, but she was really grumpy about it, and _that_ wasn't fun, and . . .

 **First Guard** :

It sounds worse than the council disaster.

 **Beren** :

It went on longer. Or at least it felt like it. I -- I was feeling so _trapped_ , like when I was in a cave or a hole and they were beating the woods for me overhead, trying not to either panic or go into that kind of vacant way where you just step back and watch it all happen.

 **Steward** :

"Fugue state."

 **Beren** :

Is that the word for it?

 **Ranger** : [nodding]

Comes from "being hunted."

Beren:

Figures. I sure felt hunted then. Anyway the conversation for obvious reasons kept working around to Carcharoth and what they were doing about him, which was organizing a massive wolf-hunt for the next day because they had finally got a good report on where he was -- you know Beleg's _crazy_ , right? Crazier even than _I_ am -- and especially now that they knew it was because he had the Silmaril, they really didn't want to find out if it would keep making him stronger, or wait to see if it would kill him, 'cause a lot of their Sages thought that it would probably heal him or help his healing abilities -- something like that -- at the same time as it was burning him, and there was no telling if even Menegroth's shields would keep him out. And . . . I knew I had to go because it was my fault.

 **Captain** :

I thought you said that it wasn't.

 **Beren** :

On the final count it was. _He_ was.

 **Captain** :

 _Carcharoth_ was your fault? Since when were you involved in summoning demons to this Circle and giving them bodies?

 **Beren** : [earnestly]

Carcharoth was made to stop Huan. He wouldn't have been put there if Morgoth hadn't gotten scared hearing about how Huan destroyed Sauron's power. Huan wouldn't have tried to take on an entire fortress single-handedly --

 **Huan** :

[sharp bark]

 **Beren** :

\-- Yeah, yeah, whatever -- by himself, if it wasn't for Tinuviel trying to save me. None of us would have been there if I hadn't been going for the Silmaril. Therefore it's ultimately and really my fault.

 **Steward** :

What did Lady Luthien say to that argument?

 **Beren** :

You _don't_ want to know. -- Trust me on that.

 **Youngest Ranger** :

You surely didn't fight on your wedding, Beren?

 **Beren** : [deadpan]

Why stop then? We had an unbroken record going.

 **Youngest Ranger** :

But that's bad luck!

 **Beren** :

No kidding. You don't say.

 **Youngest Ranger** : [sad]

That's not the way you dreamt it would be.

 **Beren** : [gloomy]

It's _way_ worse than that. _She_ _brought_ _that_ _up_ _to_ _me_. -- One of the things I never thought of about having a demi-goddess for a mother-in-law -- the Queen actually told her, way back --

[he breaks off]

 **Youngest Ranger** :

Told her what?

 **Beren** : [muttering]

About how I was dreaming about her when we were in the Pit.

 **Captain** :

But what's wrong with that?

 **Beren** :

It --

 **Captain** :

There was nothing disrespectful or inappropriate in it.

 **Beren** : [helplessly]

No, but --

 **Steward** :

Surely you do not imagine that your lady didn't equally dream of and long for you? Else why should she wish to wed you?

 **Beren** : [pleading]

Look, I'm only mortal! I don't have Elvish attitudes about everything, and --

[breaks off, wincing in humiliation]

 **Ranger** : [agreeably]

Your people _are_ strange about that. I remember someone --

[to the Soldier]

\-- your wife belonged to that school, didn't she? -- theorized that mortals weren't supposed tonbe incarnates and this was one more proof that Morgoth had given them bodies,nbut I never believed that.

 **Soldier** : [nodding]

I don't see how she could have been right about it: he was able to touch the Silmaril, after all, and if mortal flesh were inherently corrupt that oughtn't have been possible. -- How come Men are so peculiar about something as normal as the conception of their own offspring? I've never understood why you all make such an issue of it, especially since you need so many of them. Why would mortal parents want to pretend to their children that they just happen along out of thin air --

 **Ranger** :

\-- or under rocks, don't forget under rocks --

[Beren covers his face with his hand, laughing in spite of himself]

 **Soldier** :

\-- even when everyone knows it isn't true?

 **First Guard** : [musingly]

I think for the same reason that mortal children want to pretend the same thing. It's like the time we were visiting Eithel Sirion and there was a new human guardsman there who wanted to know what the celebration was for, and we told him, and after he finished coughing and someone fetched him a new drink, it turned out he thought we were joking.

 **Third Guard** :

You saying back, "You mean you don't remember it?" didn't help convince him otherwise. It _was_ funny, but we never understood why the High King's Men would rather congratulate the Prince on his _birth_ than his _conception_. It seemed like silly semantic games to me.

 **Second Guard** :

We could ask Beren instead of speculating.

 **First Guard** :

We could, but he'd just get even more embarrassed than he already is.

[to Beren]

\-- Of course, I didn't ask you when _your_ conception-day was, because by then we knew better, but I hadn't met very many mortals back when Dor-lomin was just getting started, I'd just come back from a few score on the Coast Watch.

[Beren ducks down between the Sindar Ranger and the Fourth Guard, hiding against Huan's ruff]

 **Fourth Guard:** [mischievously]

\-- Speaking of which, when _is_ yours?

[Beren groans without looking up]

 **Captain** :

He's going into a "fugue state" again -- why don't you all stop teasing him about being strange and let him finish the story?

 **Youngest Ranger** : [indignant]

Beren's not strange, Sir!

 **Fourth Guard** : [reasonably]

Yes, he is. He's strange even for a mortal. Perhaps _especially_ for a mortal.

[leaning way over so that he can see Beren's face a little]

But we love him anyway. And we _do_ want to know what happens next.

[pause -- Beren finally lifts his forehead off Huan's neck and looks at the Guard, who smiles at him until he finally smiles back, if rather wanly.]

 **Beren** : [quiet]

There's not much left. Except us getting killed.

 **Fourth Guard** : [remaining lying across Huan's back as though the Hound were a log]

So are you going to tell us how that happened finally?

 **Beren** :

Yeah. It's almost over.

[looks down for a moment]

We rode out from Menegroth early, and we quartered the district where he was supposed to have been last, and it was really strange, being there again, because he was practically where I lived all those months, but it was so different -- the woods were so quiet, as if even the trees were afraid of him, no birds, not even any bugs around, it was spooky. When we caught up with him he went to ground in very dense cover, no way could you go in there and have a chance --

 **Captain** :

Where was it?

 **Beren** :

Um -- you know where the north edge of the forest is, there's those rocks where Esgalduin comes down from the plateau into a gorge?

 **Captain** :

sYes. That ravine's quite narrow, but it goes back a long way.

 **Beren** :

Right, and it's mostly thornbrake, with thick sedge growing in between the branches. So we staked it out, we were sure he wouldn't have the patience to stay there, since he hadn't shown any sort of reasoned behavior before according to them. But it was starting to get late in the day, and I was getting worried because if it got to be dark, all the advantage was going to be on Carcharoth's side --

 **Captain** : [bland]

Out in the night with an ox-sized werewolf in rough country in a gully so steep that it's dim there even at noon -- you don't think that was a good idea?

 **Beren** : [just as innocent]

\-- I do have reasonable moments from time to time -- and I kept saying this, and maybe we ought to think about trying to fire the thicket, even though that wasn't a great idea, and her dad was pointing out that the way the wind was we'd be completely blinded by the smoke as well as choked by it and it wouldn't help, either, and Huan I guess agreed about the dangers of letting it get too dark, because all of the sudden we realized that he wasn't there next to me any more, but we didn't see which way he went. And then _he_  --

[tapping Huan's nose]

\-- starts baying down in the thickets, and everyone's on edge, even more that is, looking to see if we can see them, but we don't until Carcharoth busts out on our side and comes rushing up the hill towards us with Huan hot on his tail, and he's going too fast for any of the watchers to catch up with him, I think maybe someone hit him with an arrow but it didn't slow him any more than a charging boar, and most of them went wild, and he didn't seem to know which of us he was going after, me or Thingol, but then he goes for her dad and I tried to block him like he was a boar,

[gesturing]

\-- but I fumbled it and he grabbed me and shook me like a hare and then Huan jumps on him and he drops me and they start fighting like a mortal dog going after a bear, so loud it made rockfalls come down where the waterfall was, and the echoes keep bouncing back overhead until I thought I was going deaf, and other people start running up to us but no one can get near the fight, and Thingol doesn't answer them when they're asking him if he's hurt, he doesn't tell them it's mine, it's like he doesn't even hear them -- he just keeps staring at me, holding my hand, like he's trying to ask me something, only he can't, or like he knows I'm dying and doesn't want to say it.

 **Huan** :

[loud whines]

 **First Guard** : [upset]

Didn't you take Curufin's mail? Weren't you wearing it?

[Beren reaches over Huan's head and pulls back the Hound's lip, revealing his fangs.]

 **Beren** :

Two or more times bigger than that? And jaw strength to go with it? I might as well have been wearing just a gambeson.

[He grabs Huan's lower jaw and wrestles gently with his head, as if the Hound were a puppy (though a puppy the size of a Kodiak bear)]

Only difference it made was making it harder for them to to start treating me.

[winces and headshaking all around]

Poor Huan comes staggering over all stiff-legged to us and lies down next to me, and he's all torn up, and he tells me . . .

[he trails off, stroking the Hound's ears. Sadly:]

\-- You were right about us having the same Doom. -- Then Mablung opened up Carcharoth and that's when they saw how badly the Silmaril had burnt him inside, I heard them talking about it, but he still risked reaching in to take it, because he didn't want me not to have fulfilled my promise because of his fault. Even if it didn't really matter anymore. He -- I'm sorry I didn't get a chance to know him better.

 **Captain** : [quietly]

Mablung's a good Elf -- wise and fair-minded as well as brave. Thingol has some excellent people working for him.

 **Beren** : [nods]

Yeah. Beleg too. The one thing that really freaked them was that apparently my hand was still locked around the stone --

 **Fourth Guard** :

After all that time?

 **Beren** :

Yeah. It didn't evaporate until he touched it, and then it was just _gone_ , bones and everything, like the jewel was keeping it there.

 **Steward** :

But it burned the Wolf.

 **Beren** :

Weird, huh? So he brought it over to me really quick, and put it in my hand and held my arm so that I could give it to her father, and he didn't even look at it, he just kept looking at me, and going, --  _Why_? Then they made a stretcher for both of us and carried us back to Menegroth . . . I was glad they put me next to _him_ , even if he couldn't feel it . . . I could almost pretend it was like old times, out in the woods.

 **Ranger** :

Was Thingol glad?

 **Beren** : [shaking his head]

Not at all. Nobody was.

 **Steward** :

I imagine he was rather relieved at the outcome, nevertheless.

 **Beren** :

No. He -- he did change, even before. He was really upset when he heard about Curufin shooting me.

 **Fourth Guard** : [scratching Huan's ribs while he talks]

Yes, but you said _he_ was shooting at the Princess. Don't you think _that_ was the reason?

[pause]

 **Beren** : [deliberately]

It would have been easy --  _very_ easy -- to let me die, then. And he did everything he could, to get me back to her, alive. It wasn't his fault that she couldn't heal me.

 **Warrior** :

Couldn't they have gotten you back faster? Why couldn't he have taken you up before him and ridden the distance in a quarter of the time?

 **Captain** :

Good point. Why didn't he?

 **Beren** :

Sir -- I had a collapsed lung. It wasn't -- just the poison. And all kinds of crushed ribs and things torn from when he shook me and -- they hardly dared to move me onto the stretcher. It's like the problem of do you pull an arrow or not if it's poisoned but an artery's nicked and you can't cauterize it then and there. If they jostled me it might of made the bleeding worse.

[pause]

And there was something wrong here --

[touching his sternum]

\-- and in my back. It -- I shouldn't have lasted an hour.

 **Captain** :

But you did make it back to her.

[Beren nods]

 **Beren** :

I was barely managing to keep breathing -- again, it didn't really hurt, not all that much, they weren't letting me suffer if they could help it, it was just that it took so much effort -- like rolling a big chunk of fieldstone when it's just you and nobody else, each time you get it over you think, "That's it, that's the last one, I can't do this again --" and then you fling yourself at it again until it goes over again, just a little bit farther. And then we were there, and -- it was strange, 'cause I shouldn't have been able to see anything, by then, I could barely see the flames of the torches around, but I could see _her_ , and everyone else, like the way I see you now, but her the brightest, even brighter than the stone, and there was light in the trees as well, especially in the big one, and I don't know if I was just hallucinating or what. It didn't feel like it.

[pause -- the Ten exchange significant looks]

 **Captain** :

You need to tell the King about that. It sounds like it means something important, but I'm not entirely sure what.

 **Steward** :

I concur.

 **Beren** :

Uh -- okay.

[pause]

 **Third Guard** : [gently]

Can you _please_ finish?

 **Beren** :

She came up to us and put one hand on each of us and looked at me, and I tried to tell her -- everything -- I was sorry, and for her not to be unhappy, and it wasn't her fault she couldn't save me this time -- but I couldn't, I -- I didn't have words any more, and she just said, "I know. I love you too." And she told me to wait for her here, and then she kissed me. And then it didn't _hurt_  . . . it was just . . .  _strange_  . . . I was pulled along -- whatever _I_ was -- in the wind like a leaf in Fall -- I couldn't even have thought of resisting if I'd wanted to. And when I'd gotten here I . . . I just waited in the dark. That was the only thing I _could_ do, until Huan came for me and started taking care of me, and things started coming back. And these people I couldn't really see -- they were just lights and voices, but that might have just been me -- they kept coming and asking me what I was doing, or what I thought I was doing, and telling me to move, and I couldn't do what they wanted because I had to _wait_.

[he breaks off, sounding very frayed at the recollection. Huan leans up and shoves his nose in Beren's ear, keening. Into Huan's fur:]

Good boy. -- You're my good boy.

[to the Ten:]

I'm sorry. I'm acting so stupid about it.

[long silence]

 **Steward** :

 _We_ weren't alone. -- Except for him.

[nodding towards the Soldier]

 **Soldier** : [shaking his head]

That was only a little while. And Lady Nia was with me for most of it.

 **Beren** : [wiping his eyes]

So . . . you're really all right? I know he said, but . . .

 **Steward** :

We've no complaints.

[several of the Ten exchange ironic Looks at that]

 **Soldier** : [smiling at Beren]

Especially not now.

 **Captain** :

It's too quiet, but that's all. After the Gaurhoth, we're not inclined to gripe about the scenery being dull or the subdued quality of experience here.

 **Beren** : [glancing up at the shadowy vaulting]

I thought maybe I was missing things, but it sounds like it really isn't all that much more, uh, _detailed_ , than what I can make out.

 **Ranger** : [looking over at the Soldier]

We had a bet going that it was boring on purpose so that people won't malinger, but that turned out not to be the case.

 **Beren** :

And Finrod isn't bored crazy by it?

 **Captain** :

He's a very hard person to bore. When it gets dull he comes up with something interesting to do.

 **Third Guard** :

And then _no one's_ bored. Though it usually means we get into trouble.

 **Beren** :

You seem so -- unfazed by the idea now.

 **Soldier** : [shrugs]

What are they going to do? Lady Vaire lectures us, or Lord Namo lectures us, or they both give us disappointed looks, and we apologize, and it's fine till next time. There's not much of a big deal about it any more.

 **Youngest Ranger** : [quietly]

\-- At least not for you.

 **Captain** :

I haven't noticed you remaining non-participant in any of his schemes.

 **Youngest Ranger** : [frowning at his commander]

\-- Of course not.

 **Captain** :

Well, then. But it is true, many people are much more upset at getting scolded than we are, and much more worried that some unnamed _something_ is going to happen to them.

 **Beren** :

Has it ever?

 **Captain** :

Aside from being told to go away and think about things until one is fit for Elven society again? Not often. Or ever.

 **Second Guard** :

Except for us.

 **Warrior** :

Yes, but we're insane. Everyone knows that.

 **Beren** : [worried]

What happened to you guys?

 **Second Guard** :

Lady Vaire lost her temper.

 **Beren** :

And?

 **Second Guard** :

She yelled. And broke a lamp. Though that was by accident, she was pounding against the door frame and didn't look.

 **Beren** :

That's _it_?

 **Second Guard** :

That's it.

 **Captain** :

But you must understand, the Weaver has never, _ever_ lost her temper in the entire course of earth's history. No one -- including the demigods who work here -- can remember her raising her voice. Or banging on things. It was very distressing.

 **Steward** :

Though the circumstances were rather amusing. The timing of it, at the least.

 **Captain** :

I thought you didn't think any of it was funny.

 **Steward** :

There is a difference between being amused and howling like a loon.

 **Beren** :

What was funny about it?

 **Captain** :

Certain persons were taking exception to our attitude, and --

 **Beren** :

What's wrong with your attitude?

 **Captain** :

Oh, we don't know how to behave at all. We sing ridiculous songs --

 **Soldier** :

\-- And make jokes.

 **Steward** : [pointedly]

\-- And a few individuals have been known to use deeply offensive language from time to time.

 **Fourth Guard** :

And we haven't gone through the normal stages of "denial" and "anger" and "resignation" and "acceptance."

 **Captain** :

Though _someone_ seems to be stuck at resignation.

 **Fourth Guard** :

I mean, what's to deny? "No, I didn't get eaten by a wolf-demon?" And little point in being angry about it _now_ , is there?

 **Ranger** :

We occasionally use weird sentence constructions and peculiar expressions picked up from some backwoods barbarians we met in the North Country.

 **First Guard** :

And all in all we're a strange and incomprehensible and uncouth lot, and a bad example to the rest.

 **Captain** :

\-- But according to certain core members of the sort-of following of Feanor, we're also pathetic pets and grovelling lackeys of the Powers, which is why we're so repellently cheerful and unconcerned about the things they stress over.

 **Warrior** :

\-- Like who interrupted whom in front of whomever else, back before they were exiled to Formenos. I mean, really -- that was over five hundred years ago, and some of the people they're talking about are still in Beleriand, so they can't speak for themselves, and who really gives a damn, any more, anyways? -- Criminetlies!!

 **Captain** :

\-- Which obscure mortal idiom would be taken as a pointed insult, and I'd probably have to end up skewering someone before the conversation was over, if I'd said that. So there was nattering along that vein, and His Majesty was continuing to play and pretending not to hear any of it, and I'd taken my blade and put it on the table, as a little reminder, because sooner or later Himself ignoring it was going to push someone's temper past flashpoint and I don't consider it drawing first to simply point out that I'm there, I'm paying attention, and if you lay a discourteous hand on him I'm going to chop it off.

 **Steward** :

The High King hates it when you do that, you know.

 **Captain** :

Yes, but he hates it even more when I hit offenders with the board or the pieces, or the table. Lesser of evils and so forth. Besides, what really irritates him is when I make suggestions as to what he should have done to win. And right at that moment the Lady of the Halls storms in like the wrath of Osse shouting "Finrod Ingold Finarfinion, WHAT have you done to my _house_?!?" A number of people vanished right then and there, and the ones who wanted to stay and see us get into trouble made themselves scarce when glass started breaking. And Himself shouts back, "I did what you _told_ me to do!" and they go back and forth for a bit until milady hit the sconce trying to emphasize the point that we were to leave the walls alone, supporting walls or not.

 **Beren** :

I see what you mean about the timing.

 **Captain** :

Then she became _extremely_ upset, and the King offered to try to fix it for her, and she threw the bits at us and left.

 **Beren** :

Ouch.

 **Captain** :

Oh, matters worsened after that. When people started coming back to see if we'd been thrown in the dungeon -- there isn't one, but try convincing anyone of that by logical means like maps --

 **Fourth Guard** : [scratching Huan between the shoulderblades]

\-- Though she could make one, I suppose, if we bother her enough --

 **Captain** :

\-- the Lady came back as well and saw that we'd made a basin to stop the dew from running all over the floor and that Himself was not only trying to mend it but had gotten a few of the smaller breaks back together, and she kneels down next to us and starts apologizing for losing her temper and finishes fixing the lamp, and he apologizes in turn, and tries to convince her to let him keep on working on it, and this goes on until it's almost as annoying as you two, and they parted company ruffled and exasperated but not furious.

 **Beren** :

That doesn't sound like grovelling, though. Not really. That's kind of like a border dispute, when you both claim it's really your fault.

[pause]

I'm not sure what I'm trying to say. I didn't want to usurp his authority.

 **Captain** :

There _is_ truth in your words, though. It does become a contest of pride and will. Not that anyone in the present company knows anything about that.

 **Beren** :

So why does he just stick around for them to insult him?

 **Captain** :

That doesn't happen as often any more, I must confess.

 **Ranger** : [innocent]

Can't imagine why, Sir.

 **Captain** :

But it's hard to hide here, if you don't want to be invisible and inaudible and blend into the background. The more -- interesting one is, the more other people tend to cluster 'round, just to see what will happen next. Or to ask advice, or his opinion, or just to listen to him talk about things.

 **Steward** :

That, too, is little different from the world Outside.

 **Captain** :

He isn't really cut out to be a hermit, however much he might like to pretend to himself that he is.

[pause]

 **Beren** :

Nope.

[he suddenly shivers and looks around a bit wildly]

 **Captain** :

What?

 **Beren** : [low voice]

I think there's someone else in the room. But I can't see anyone.

 **Captain** :

Very likely.

 **Beren** :

You can't tell?

 **Captain** :

No more than you. Not if they choose to remain thus.

[softly, to the room at large]

\-- You're welcome to join us, you know. We're not as dangerous as everyone says we are --

 **Warrior** :

\-- though twice as crazy --

 **Captain** :

\-- don't listen to him, it's thrice -- but you're just as welcome to stay as you are. -- All of you.

 **Beren** :

How many could there be?

[the Ten shrug]

\-- But there could be _other_  -- ghosts, here.

 **Steward** :

You needn't fear them.

 **Beren** :

I'm not -- Okay. I am.

[shaking his head]

It's stupid, but I -- I'm still mortal. I still have those old superstitions, even if I am one now.

 **Youngest Ranger** : [troubled]

Are you afraid of _us_?

 **Beren** : [snorting]

Of course not!

 **Captain** : [shrugs]

Sometimes they _are_ spies and mean us ill. It doesn't matter. We have nothing to hide, they won't find any discreditable murders in _our_ pasts, and there aren't any secret "tricks" to our winning: it's a few hundred years more of hard fighting and training together combined with in-depth analysis of the situations.

 **Steward** :

Most of them are simply unready. Occasionally they join us, at least for a little, and it does them good.

 **Captain** :

And _us_.

[Beren gives him a bemused look]

The King was utterly shattered when he arrived -- the thought of you being reserved for prolonged torment as a result of his mistakes was more than he could bear. Lady Nia was the only one who could get through to him, and even that was just bringing him to the point where he was willing to talk, not moving beyond that. He spent most of the time insubstantial, or nearly so, and if any of us tried to reach him when he wasn't, he'd vanish. -- Until the news came of your escape.

 **Steward** :

We were speaking of matters -- and of yourself, milord -- and much to my astonishment I was seized by someone who had not been manifest but a moment previously and it demanded of me to tell, at once, whether indeed it was of yourself we were conversing. And after the initial shock had passed and the confused account set somewhat in order, we hastened to find our lord and inform him.

[pause]

 **Captain** : [half-smile]

What he's not saying is that he almost shoved the Lady right out of the way and quite forgot to apologize after. I've never seen anyone rattle him the way you do. -- Sorry, I didn't mean to break in.

 **Steward** :

Of course not -- you never even notice that you're doing so.

 **Captain** : [encouraging]

Keep going.

 **Steward** :

Why? You'll merely interrupt again in another sentence or two.

[the Captain grimaces and shakes his head]

 **Captain** :

All right, then. -- So Edrahil catches hold of him by the shoulders shouting, "He's safe -- it's all right, he's _safe_ ," and Himself, too surprised to disappear, hears this and says, "Perhaps she'll forgive me, then," and we're trying to explain that it isn't what he thinks, and that takes a bit, and then a little longer for him to grasp it, and then all of the sudden he's _back_ , and he says, "Well then, I suppose I should leave off mourning and go pay my respects to the Lord and Lady of the Halls and then to my kindred. But not, I think, like this, or they'll think I'm a most confused Wild Man," and Edrahil says, "Oh, I doubt that very much -- I understand the Laughing Folk are far more particular about their appearance," and --

 **Steward** :

I did _not_  --

 **Captain** :

Yes, you did.

 **Steward** : [piqued]

Not like _that_.

 **Captain** :

No, I can't quite do that tone of yours, it's inimitable. And he bursts out laughing and says, "Help me get presentable, then, will you?" and had him braid his hair the way Lady Earwen used to, in the Teler fashion, or as close as we could remember it, and attired himself after the manner that was his habit when visiting her parents, in Alqualonde, and had word sent to Lord Namo and Lady Vaire that he was ready to speak to them.

 **Beren** :

That sounds like it's supposed to be some kind of statement. Is it?

 **Captain** : [nodding]

He's gotten over his guilt about the Kinslaying entirely.

 **Third Guard** :

Getting killed for it seems to have thoroughly exorcised it, for all of us.

[quietly]

\-- It hurt so much seeing him like that and not being able to do anything . . . we were afraid he'd stay that way until you had to be dead, one way or another.

 **Steward** :

Meeting and speaking with those of the Kinslain who are still here has helped as well, I think. And so we went out to meet those who are here, and he shone so brightly that some thought him Eonwe come to bear word from Taniquetil, and all were astonished when he came to pay respect to his uncle, for none had the slightest notion he -- or we -- had even arrived here, for the duration of his time in sorrow. His spirit dimmed with the Lady Amarie's refusal, -- but your coming has given him more heart than even the organization of the Battles.

[Beren looks away, embarrassed]

 **Beren** : [changing the subject]

How did he send her messages, anyway? I thought no one could leave here. I mean, except being sent by Lord Mandos.

 **Captain** :

Well, the people who work here can.

 **Beren** :

People?

 **Captain** :

The Powers are people, don't you agree?

 **Beren** :

Well, yeah, of course -- but -- he didn't have Mandos himself running errands for him, did he?!?

 **Captain** :

Of course not. I think he asked one of the security staff to deliver it on the way to Everwhite. It might have been one of Lady Vaire's spinners.

 **Ranger** : [respectful but unhesitating]

No, sir, it was the Weaver's handmaiden who brought the reply back. Remember? She was very apologetic about bearing bad news.

[pause]

 **Beren** :

You're making it sound like the -- the Ainur? -- are hearthguards and maidservants going on holiday and visiting their families and gossiping. Just like a great hall's household back home.

[silence]

\-- Because it's like that?

[nods all round]

Heh.

[shakes his head, laughing at himself.]

Okay. Who's Eonwe? I'mtrying to remember and I just can't. Is he the guy who makes storms?

 **Soldier** :

No, that's Osse. Eonwe's the chief royal courier of the gods. Kind of like Lord Edrahil only not as particular about everything.

[the Steward sighs]

 **Beren** :

Oh. -- Now, when you say, "his uncle," you mean the late High King, right? Not Feanor? I've been assuming that's what you meant, but . . .

 **Captain** :

Since Feanor doesn't want to acknowledge the rest of his family, and since nobody ever sees him anyway, it's simpler just to distinguish them that way.

 **Beren** :

Why doesn't anyone see him? Is -- is he kept locked up?

 **Warrior** :

He refuses to mingle with us lesser beings. We don't merit his condescension.

 **Third Guard** :

\-- And he's a raving lunatic.

 **Steward** :

Even his most loyal followers have had to accept that the eldest son of Finwe inhabits a world entirely of his own construction which bears very little resemblance to the Arda that the rest of us have experienced. A small group -- not coincidentally the same that are most vehemently aggressive towards our lord -- persist in maintaining that it is merely the height of his genius and the depth of his griefs which keep him isolated in his meditations, beyond the ability of mere Eldar to comprehend, though one rather doubts that they fully believe it; but the rest have resigned themselves to the situation which obtained in Beleriand, where absent their respective lords, they acknowledge the headship of the High King and do as they please.

 **Captain** :

Except for the others -- sorry.

 **Steward** : [austere]

I was about to say -- Saving those who have attached themselves to the following of Felagund, or would, did he choose to engage in such rituals of authority, and not hold them empty forms and to no purpose.

 **Beren** :

Now I'm getting confused again. -- Still.

 **Steward** :

Since we are dead, and no longer in Middle-earth, he asserts that it is futile for him to name himself King, and will not claim the title. Yet all award it to him regardless.

 **Beren** :

And people do what he says. Sounds like he's still King.

 **Steward** :

It grows complicated, because in the past decade those of his and his brothers' followings who came at the Sudden Flame have attached themselves to the following of Fingolfin -- yet, on the other hand, that is in essence the selfsame circumstance that prevailed in Beleriand. So now that he is here, many would resume their earlier ordering, -- yet again, he will not claim it, in part because he wishes no strife with his uncle, and it is a small trouble between them that so many -- even of the High King's own following -- incline to ask him first for advice, since Fingolfin has little inclination for anything saving the chess-table.

 **Beren** :

So he's pretending that he's just an ordinary citizen of the Halls like anyone else, and you're claiming that he's still the King and you're still his vassals -- and most people agree with _you_ all. Even a bunch of the Feanorians.

 **Steward** :

Concisely and correctly put.

 **Beren** : [not asking]

That's why, isn't it? That's the real reason the Feanorians -- or some of them -- are so angry at him, isn't it. Because he's taken over again without even trying. Or wanting to.

 **Captain** :

Nail on the head, lad. The mind that comes up with short-notice plans for heisting a Silmaril or three isn't likely to rest content in idleness, and he can't help but tangle everyone else along after him, either for or against. That's the real issue -- that he's shaken everything up, and and not everyone is happy about it.

[pause. Wistful:]

\-- Would it have worked?

 **Beren** :

Sorry, _what_ have worked -- ?

 **Captain** :

The plan -- could it have been possible to carry it out, do you think?

 **Beren** :

Oh.

[pause]

You know, I'm still not sure. I -- it was hard to observe much when we were there, we had to focus on what we were doing and, and . . . it was so strange, I -- I really couldn't tell you. Maybe. It certainly would have a better chance of working than a frontal assault, on account of how that would have _no_ chance whatsoever.

 **Captain** :

You don't think so? Not even with a concerted effort by the Armies?

 **Beren** : [earnestly]

When the guy loses his temper, _earthquakes_ happen. This is definitely not someone you want to be around if you're getting him mad. -- And the place was _full_ _of_ _Balrogs_!!!

 **First Guard** :

How many?

 **Beren** : [thinking]

Er, four?

[defensive]

\-- They take up a lot of space.

 **Warrior** :

One Balrog is too much. At a distance.

 **Youngest Ranger** : [softly]

I ran. I lost my bow.

 **Ranger** :

You threw it away to pick up Halmir.

 **Youngest Ranger** : [bleak]

It didn't do any good.

 **Ranger** :

That wasn't _your_ fault. How many times has he told you that? Get over it!

[the Sindar Ranger looks away, biting his lip.Huan stretches over and licks his hand, begging for a nose-scratch, until he gets it. To Beren:]

I don't understand why you felt you had to go to Menegroth after all. Not after you recovered.

 **Beren** : [shaking his head]

Because I couldn't take care of myself, let alone Tinuviel.

 **Ranger** :

Why not?

 **Beren** : [gesturing with his right arm]

Like _this_? How much use is a one-handed ranger? I can't shoot, I can barely climb -- I can't even use a sword or a spear properly now --

 **Ranger** : [trying to be helpful]

But couldn't you have switched to your left hand? You couldn't use a shield, but if you were fast enough -- you must have trained with either hand in the past?

 **Beren** : [almost shouting]

Look, I couldn't do it, okay? I'm not bloody _Maedhros_ , dammit! My balance was all off and I --

[he stops abruptly. There is a shocked silence]

 **Captain** : [carefully]

I don't remember anyone here saying a word about Feanor's eldest.

[Beren looks away, biting his lip]

Sounds like _someone_ has, though.

 **Beren** : [ragged]

Things have been rough these past few weeks. She said -- and I tried but -- and I said -- and --

[he breaks off]

 **Captain** :

Lad, it's more likely that someday they'll be comparing Maedhros to you.

[Beren snorts at that suggestion]

\-- You went into Angband of your own will. You didn't turn into a gibbering wreck at your first sight of Balrogs, plural. You got one of the Silmarils, and if circumstances hadn't ambushed you you'd have gotten all of them. You got out of Angband alive. -- And you're human.

 **Beren** :

I was rescued. And I lost the stone. And I shouldn't have done it given what happened.

 **Captain** :

Regardless --  _you_ _recovered_ _a_ _Silmaril_. None of us in the whole span of time since the Return can make such a claim. Whatever else happened after -- nothing can take that away.

 **Beren** :

She did it all mostly -- and Huan. I can't claim any credit.

[Huan makes a grumbling sound and looks sad]

 **Captain** :

Would they have done it if it weren't for you?

[Beren rests his forehead on Huan's neck]

 **Beren** : [muffled]

I should have been in the cairn with Da and the others.

 **Captain** : [musing]

You know, you used to say that all the time, and I always wondered --  _who_ were you thinking was going to bury you? Because you realize, if you'd been killed by the strike team, you wouldn't have been able to bury _yourself_. That never made sense to me.

[Silence -- Beren straightens and gives him a Look]

\-- Well?

 **Beren** : [annoyed]

It was a figure of speech.

 **Captain** : [nodding]

Ah. I see. Metaphorical and so forth.

[Beren abruptly reaches out his hand]

 **Beren** : [through gritted teeth]

\-- Would you pass me that bottle?

[as he takes a pull from the canteen the Captain reaches over and jogs his elbow, hard]

 **Captain** : [innocently]

So is it real, or not?

[spluttering, Beren nods, wiping his face on his sleeve.]

 **Ranger** :

I don't know if that was a good idea, Sir.

 **Captain** :

No, I'm safe, he's feeling far too guilty to try anything back right now.

[Beren tries to say something, but is still choking too much to be intelligible]

 **Ranger** :

\-- That's what I meant, Sir.

[but Beren only grins, partly coughing and partly laughing now, as he braces the flask against his knee and works the cap back on with his remaining hand]

 **Steward** : [ignoring the silliness]

What is the reason behind the difficulties that are being raised over your remaining here with Her Highness of Doriath? Or have any been given?

 **Beren** : [between coughs]

Because I'm not supposed to be here. It's against the law. -- Is there anyone else in history who's been declared outlaw by the Powers on both sides?

 **Captain** :

But you're not causing any trouble. -- Unlike certain other residents.

[glances at the Steward]

Including, yes, ourselves.

 **Beren** : [passing the flask back]

Not like starting small indoor wars, no, but they were really put out with me -- with us -- for staking out a pillar in the hallway and refusing to move until she came.

 **Soldier** :

\-- Perhaps we wore out their patience for people holding vigils in the corridor?

 **Captain** :

But you waiting quietly in a corner doesn't seem to be much in the way of problems!

 **Steward** :

I doubt that that is presently the source of the difficulty, however much it might have negatively influenced attitudes towards Lord Beren from the outset.

 **Beren** : [shrugs]

It's the Law. They kept saying things like, "You're human, and you're dead -- you don't belong in the world any more, go home!" I felt like a stray dog that had wandered into somebody's house to sit by the fire -- at least nobody threw any kindling-wood at me.

 **Youngest Ranger** :

That's like me.

 **Beren** : [bewildered]

Why _you_?

 **Youngest Ranger** :

Not _on_ , like you -- but back.

[Beren still looks confused]

I don't want to be reborn in Beleriand.

[Beren just looks at him. A bit defensively:]

And it isn't that I'm afraid of what could happen to me -- I don't want to lose everyone, and _forget_.

[he glances around at them, a little embarrassed, but resolute. The other nine look sympathetic, but also a bit resigned.]

 **Beren** :

But that's the land that belongs to your people. You don't mind giving that up?

 **Youngest Ranger** : [stubbornly]

These _are_ my people. This is where I belong.

 **Warrior** : [trying to reassure]

You know, I think you're worrying about nothing. I don't think they even know you're here. No one's said anything to you, have they?

 **Captain** :

Oh, they _know_ all right. They're just choosing not to be aware of it, because then they don't have to _do_ anything about it. -- Like the time that Lieutenant Telumnar refused to accept that no, he could _not_ in fact fire all the way across the Ginglith at that point and that the enemy patrols were well aware of it, until he'd wasted all his ammunition shooting over -- into -- the gorge, and then after you'd all let him panic for a bit everyone contributed a couple of arrows so that Supply wouldn't notice anything outside of Normal Use requisitions.

 **Ranger** : [astounded]

You knew about that? -- We -- thought you didn't know, sir.

 **Captain** :

Of course I -- didn't know about it. If I had, I would have had to take Official Notice and say tiresome things about it. Instead, you got a useful problem-solving exercise and Telumnar got a valuable lesson, namely, don't assume that the same conditions of terrain apply everywhere in Arda, and listen to the people who've been dealing with it longer, even if they are younger than you.

[pause -- the Youngest Ranger mutters something that sounds suspiciously like "Told you so"]

Too bad that he had to learn that lesson repeatedly. I swear the High King shoved him off on us to cut down on their own casualties. Who was it -- wasn't he the same idiot who got one of those foolish things in Dor-lomin and didn't realize it wouldn't last?

[deafening silence]

Oh. Don't tell me you were all stupid enough to do that? You're not _supposed_ to have little bits of soot or whatever under your skin -- couldn't you have guessed that it would work its way out in a yen or less? I suppose Telumnar was the only one who made a fuss about the whole affair. It figures.

[to Beren]

What _are_ those things called? The designs they do with pins?

 **Beren** :

\-- Tattoos? That was something they used to do in Hithlum. It was considered kind of barbaric by my great-grandparents' day.

 **Captain** : [nods]

That would be about the right time. Personally, I never enjoyed getting stitched up so much that I'd voluntarily have sharp pointed objects stuck in me for no good reason, but I suppose there's no accounting for -- stupidity.

[the others groan and roll their eyes. Enter two Elven shades, both sharing a strongly similar air of confidence, not arrogance per se, but an assumption of command and belonging, as well as a family resemblance. After glancing around and determining that no Powers are to be seen, they stride over to the group. The Ten rise respectfully, Beren following their example, but there are worried expressions on many faces as they come down off the hill.]

 **Steward** : [bowing]

My lords.

 **Beren** : [whispering]

\-- Who are they?

 **Youngest Ranger** : [also whispering]

 _Trouble_.

[the newcomers stand with folded arms, giving the Ten looks of impatience, annoyance and dislike. Jude Law and Ethan Hawke ( _Gattaca_ ) might be cast as these siblings.]

 **Angrod** :

 _What_ is going on? Has anyone got the _least_ inkling of a clue? Or is this just the usual muddle of rumour, guesswork, and half-truths being passed off as information?

 **Aegnor** : [staring at the Hill]

And what in Arda is this _mess_? Are you trying to get yourselves thrown out after all?

 **Captain** : [to Angrod]

Your Highness, I take offense at that. My people have always been scrupulous in distinguishing between certainty, uncertainty, and conjecture.

 **Angrod** : [nastily]

For all the good it did you.

[Aegnor sees Beren and freezes]

 **Captain** :

Sir, for the respect I hold your brother, I will not challenge nor accept challenge of you, and you know it.

 **Aegnor** : [flatly]

Starless Grinding Ice. It's him.

 **Angrod** :

So where _is_ my brother, then? --  _Who_?

 **Captain** :

He went to find the King your uncle, but --

 **Aegnor** : [snarl]

\--  _Him_.

[Angrod turns in mid-snap and stops, open-mouthed, the look of exasperation changing to equal parts surprise & revulsion]

 **Angrod** :

Ah. What in the name of Morgoth is --  _he_  --

[shaking his head in dismay]

\-- doing here?!

 **Beren** :

Um --

 **Captain** : [giving no ground]

He's dead.

 **Angrod** :

\-- He's also mortal, if that information has somehow _also_ escaped your notice.

 **Captain** : [pleasantly]

Really? You don't say. -- He's also married to your cousin, which is a complicating factor.

[stunned silence]

 **Angrod** : [flat]

Your sense of humour has not been improved by your too-brief sojourn here.

 **Captain** :

No jest at all, my lord.

[the brothers look at each other, still unsure, and then back at the Ten, and then at Beren, then at the Captain]

 **Angrod** :

What do you mean, " _married_ " -- ?

 **Captain** :

What is usually meant by the word, of course.

 **Aegnor** :

You _are_ joking.

 **Captain** : [shaking his head]

Far from it.

[Aegnor turns a blazing look on Beren]

 **Angrod** :

You mean to say this --  _mortal_  -- dared to claim her after all that's transpired?

 **Captain** :

Milords, he can hardly be blamed for the accident of his birth.

 **Angrod** :

He can be blamed for everything else. -- For killing my brother.

[Beren cringes; the two other Rangers silently move in in a protective angle, flanking him, ready to pull him back inside the safety of the group if it gets any uglier]

\-- For daring to set _greedy_ and _lustful_ hands on the noblest lady of our people -- if not _black_ _magic_ as well.

 **Captain** : [sharply]

\-- Now then, my lord. Whatever your feelings on the affair, you have no right to denigrate the love between the Beoring and her Highness.

 **Angrod** : [grimly]

They aren't like _us_. They change their mates as easily as we would our cloaks. If you're going to call the relations of Men "love," you might as well speak of the "weddings" of cattle!

[simultaneously with the other two replying, almost together, Aegnor clears his throat and his brother looks briefly shamefaced]

 **Captain** :

Unjust, sir, as well as untrue, and unworthy of --

 **Beren** : [upset]

\-- No, I _love_ Tinuviel. _Not_ just her voice, not just her body, not just her soul -- I love _her_. And I always will.

[quiet voice]

And I didn't want the King to die because of me, even though it was my fault.

 **Angrod** : [addressing Beren for the first time]

Then why didn't you kill yourself at once before involving him, and spare everyone the catastrophe of your existence?

[Beren flinches back and the Rangers step forward, protectively. Huan gets up from where he is lying on the hill and growls, a long, low, warning snarl, his hackles rising. The Princes are given pause.]

 **Steward** :

Your Highness, I believe you twain were seeking your brother --

 **Angrod** :

And I believe, _sir_ , that you have no idea where he is.

 **Steward** :

As you were informed, he is seeking after your uncle -- and, one presumes, endeavoring to evade the wrath of Lady Amarie meanwhile.

[pause]

 **Angrod** :

Don't tell me _Amarie's_ dead, too.

 **Steward** :

No: merely, as has been given to me to understand, intensely furious with my lord for having gotten himself killed and having left her -- in that order of precedence and not of chronology, needless to say -- and with everyone else remotely connected with those two incidents. I much misdoubt any more clemency upon -- us -- than was granted on that Night in Tirion.

[the brothers share a wary look]

I do recollect her words to you as well as I recall mine own receivéd reproaches -- as, surely, does she. Perhaps you would wish to fortify your minds in preparation of response, anticipating a resumption where we all left off, with I am sure additional grievances as yet unanticipated . . . because the Lady is said to be seeking the recourse of this place's Powers, and it's most likely that her path shall find her here.

[Aegnor gives a disgusted snort, but Angrod looks somewhat more uncertain -- it would seem that the memories of the fight are not diminished or pleasant. After a brief hesitation they pull themselves together and stride out -- but not without a parting shot:]

 **Aegnor** : [over his shoulder, to Beren]

\--  _Edain_.

[Beren recoils as if slapped, closing his eyes. There is a long silence after the sons of Finarfin have gone.]

 **Beren** : [softly]

They were my heroes when I was a kid.

 **Captain** :

It is _not_ your fault, lad. They would be as angry if it were only us without you here.

[but there are uncertain looks exchanged around them.]

 **Beren** :

How did they know who I was?

 **Captain** : [half-smile]

You're so obviously a Beoring to anyone who's known your people. The Princes knew your father, uncle and cousins, and your grandfather, and -- And the rest of your family, going way back. There's no mistaking you.

[sighing]

Not to mention that -- unfortunately -- there isn't anyone else left that you could be.

 **Beren** : [nodding]

They knew all my ancestors -- and then they died fighting for our country -- and I lose it all, and get _him_ killed. Actually, considering -- they were a lot more polite than they could have been. Considering.

 **Steward** :

It -- is more complicated than that. -- Considerably.

[The Captain gives the Steward a long, meaningful look over Beren's head]

 **Beren** :

How? What could be worse than _that_?

 **Steward** : [ignoring the Captain's silent plea]

Our lord's brother -- that is, Prince Aegnor -- was once in love with a lady of your people.

[Beren looks from him to the others, realizes that this is completely serious]

 **Beren** : [stunned]

A mortal?

[the Elf-lord nods]

What _happened_? Did she die?

 **Steward** :

Not then.

 **Beren** :

So -- what _was_ it? -- Did her family forbid it?

 **Steward** :

Whether they would have objected or no, it never reached the point where such a question would have arisen.

 **Beren** :

Did _his_? But -- their father wasn't here, he didn't come over with you, so who?

[The youngest Ranger starts to say something but doesn't quite manage before Beren starts talking again, and subsides]

Wait -- Finrod was head of the House -- H --  _He_ didn't tell them they couldn't, don't say that --

 **Steward** :

No one forbade it. It was broken off voluntarily, without outside interference -- saving, perhaps, the influence of the Enemy.

 **Beren** :

 _Morgoth_ broke up their relationship?

 **Steward** : [shaking his head]

I was speaking metaphysically. Only in the sense of the wider Marring, destroying and damaging things in the world before they have a chance . . .

[pause]

 **Beren** :

You're keeping something back. Why are you playing guessing games with me?

[he looks from one to another of them -- they don't look away, but none of the Ten can bring themselves to answer. Finally:]

 **Steward** :

She was a Beoring.

 **Beren** : [frowning]

Someone from Dorthonion?

 **Captain** :

Someone of your _House_.

 **Beren** : [shock]

 _Who_?

 **Captain** :

It was a long time ago, lad. Before you were born.

 **Beren** :

Not -- not _Ma_? I know my parents married kind of late, but -- I would have -- they would have --  _someone_ would have said _something_ over the years --

 **Steward** : [quickly]

No, no -- not Emeldir. _Long_ before you were born.

 **Beren** :

Then -- why -- I don't understand -- if no one --  _why_?

 **Captain** :

Because _Aegnor_ , I'm sorry, is a --

 **Steward** : [cutting him off]

\--  _Don't_.

 **Captain** :

You don't know what I was going to say.

 **Steward** :

Either "coward" or "fool," and the matter is significantly more complicated than that. -- Am I not right?

 **Captain** : [shrugs]

Well, actually, "-- blithering idiot."

 **Steward** :

Near enough.

[to Beren]

\-- It can be of minimal consolation, but --  _I_ did not enjoy being rebuked by his Highness either.

 **Beren** :

The Prince yelled at you too? _Why_?

 **Steward** : [bleakly]

Because I made a jocular comment to the effect that, if matters in Middle-earth were anything to go by, his attractiveness, far from being diminished by having left and come back, would be enhanced by the exotic aura of travel and danger -- a renowned adventurer, instead of merely "one of Feanor's youngest half- nephews," -- and that eventually, once we were let out, the intrinsic interest would outshine the tarnish of rebellion and could hardly fail to impress whichever lady he wished to win. Lord Aegnor was not amused. As you might put it, I "had my ears ripped good" for it. He did apologize, once he realized that I had no notion of why he was so infuriated, but the apology was nearly as distressing as the offense.

 **Captain** : [earnest]

I _would_ have told you, if I hadn't been sworn to secrecy.

 **Steward**.

I don't blame _you_.

 **Captain** :

I wish you wouldn't blame _him_ , either.

 **Steward** : [dispassionate]

The issue is resolved. I understand why he chose to keep it entirely within the family and to seal all the intelligence files on the affair even after the deaths of his Highness and Lady Andreth. I simply disagree. I am well aware that at least a modicum of my disagreement stems from personal discomfiture at having been kept in the dark, and the King is well aware of my views on the matter. End of subject.

[The Captain looks away in distress]

 **Beren** :

Wait a minute -- you mean _my_ great-aunt Andreth? An'-the-Deep-Minded?

[silent nods of affirmation]

 **Beren** :

The Prince was engaged to _my aunt_?

 **Captain** :

Well, not _betrothed_ per se. He lost his nerve before it got that far.

 **Beren** :

Prince Aegnor -- and my _aunt_?

 **Captain** : [nods]

Just as true as the first time you said it, lad.

 **Beren** :

But --

[shakes his head]

How come I never heard about it?

 **Captain** :

It wasn't common knowledge. They were both very private people and unlike yourselves, no one ever made a public spectacle of their relationship.

 **Beren** :

But _someone_ must of known. -- People gossip. Stuff gets talked about.

 **Steward** :

 _I_ did not know, and I was contemporary to it, though indeed not present for the most part. I should guess that some few of the Lady's close kin were aware, and that such as were, chose not to speak of it for consideration of her feelings. After all, what was to be said? No promises were made, hence none broken, no public disrespect given, it was a private matter -- at least at the point beyond which it did not progress -- and for many reasons, not least of which I hazard the uncertainty of what, in the end, should be said, I guess that few should wish to think on it, let alone discuss the matter.

 **Beren** : [dangerous]

\--  _What_ reasons?

[silence -- the Steward looks towards the Captain]

 **Captain** : [shaking his head, sadly]

That's your department, not mine.

 **Steward** : [sighing]

The complication of vassal to lord, your House being liege to the Princes as well as to King Finrod, and all that that entails -- which might have yet been insufficient, had Lord Aegnor broken betrothal, and that publicly, so that your great-grandfather should have been compelled to address the matter in open counsel, or seek redress for his sister's disdaining even to the King's own court. But since that did not happen, far easier to let it be.

 **Beren** :

That's one reason.

[pause]

 **Steward** :

The other -- which is all the rest -- is --  _Time_. That the Prince should continue, in outward seeming at the least, _unchanged_ , while the Lady endured the encroachments of her mortality, would surely have silenced any whose hearts urged them to protest otherwise. -- Or so I must hazard, in absence of evidence. 

[Beren is completely quiet. Abruptly he sits down on the floor.]

 **Captain** :

Are you all right?

 **Beren** :

No.

[he gives a short laugh]

So -- after all that --  _I_ show up, too dumb to figure it out for myself, or to get the hints the universe kept throwing at me, that, hey, this is _not_ possible, deal with it, and -- no wonder he didn't think it was the best thing for either of us. But -- what d'ye know, I had to go and prove him right.

[fiercely]

I _should_ have died at Aeluin.

[Huan whines and paws at his knee]

 **Captain** : [aside]

\-- Damn all oaths to Angband!

 **Beren** : [ragged]

I know. -- The world is a horrible place.

 **Captain** :

You don't need to tell us that.

 **Beren** :

It's like -- every time I think it can't get worse, -- it does. I -- I --

[he slumps sideways, bracing unsteadily on his elbow, letting his head hang down. Alarmed, the Captain kneels and tries to lift him upright, but Beren only leans against him, unable to support himself]

 **Captain** :

 _Beren_  --

 **Beren** : [looking up but not tracking at all.]

Sir -- ?

 **Captain** : [very worried]

Can you see me?

 **Beren** : [thinly]

Not well . . . . It feels like I'm going into shock.

 **Captain** :

But you can't go into shock, now --

[to the Steward]

\-- Can he?

 **Beren** : [closing his eyes]

It's like -- everything's not real. Or _I'm_ not real. And I just want to go _away_.

[pause]

And I'm cold.

 **Guard** : [appalled]

He's _fading_.

 **Warrior** :

But _how_? He's already dead!

 **Steward** : [quietly]

Because this Shore is _not_ where he is called.

 **Captain** : [urgent]

Beren --  _look_ at me. You have to stay focused. You _can't_ give in. It isn't that bad.

 **Ranger** :

That's right. -- We're here. We shan't let you fade.

 **Captain** : [pleading]

We promised Himself we'd look after you -- you don't want to make a liar out of me, now, do you?

 **Warrior** : [very hesitant]

But -- if -- since he's mortal -- and -- humans are _meant_ to move on, after they're dead -- ought we to interfere with the laws of nature?

 **Huan** :

[sharp bark]

 **Third Guard** : [savagely, grabbing him by the arm]

Don't even think of such a thing! How can you _say_ that?

[he seems about to hit the other Elf, who is just as upset and does not even try to resist, before the Steward motions them apart]

 **Steward** : [very stern]

 _Enough_. The question has to be asked. -- And the answer is of course _yes_. One presumes --

[looking around the hall]

Yes. We'll bring him over to the fountain, such as it is.

[he kneels and picks Beren up despite the latter's initial, unsuccessful attempt to stand of his own strength, and Huan leaning in on them]

 **Warrior** : [worried]

But will that _work_?

 **Captain** :

Why not?

 **Warrior** :

He's . . .

[stops]

 **Captain** :

Right, then.

[to the Steward]

Can you manage?

 **Steward** :

Of course.

[followed by the others, he carries Beren over to the side of the rectangular basin and kneels by the edge]

A cloak, if you please.

[the Warrior hands his over at once, before anyone else can, and the Steward tucks it around Beren like a survival blanket, not putting him down. The Captain looks at the wall fountain with displeasure -- it's very quiet, with hardly a ripple to be heard.]

 **Captain** : [exasperated]

What's the good of a falls that doesn't make any noise?

 **Ranger** :

No idea, sir.

 **Youngest Ranger** :

I think it's supposed to be subtly aesthetic, actually.

 **Captain** :

Well, _do_ something about it, Lieutenant.

[he turns back to Beren and the others, leaving his subordinates to it. The Rangers look at each other, the Youngest seeming dismayed. His colleague shakes his head and shrugs -- he sighs, squares his shoulders and begins to study the water sculpture with a resigned expression. Almost instantly the stone begins to reform, changing from a tall sheet of low grooves to a mass of leaning boulders and an escarpment blending out of the surrounding wall, which causes the water to cascade down with considerably more vigour and consequent noise. Except for the fact that all the stone is the same even gray and there is no moss or other plant life, it looks quite realistic (except for the context.)]

 **Captain** :

Good job.

 **Youngest Ranger** : [woodenly]

Yes, sir.

 **Captain** :

Oh, you're not still worrying about them noticing you, are you? -- I'll tell Lady Vaire that I'm responsible for the mess and your name won't come into it at all.

 **Youngest Ranger** :

She'll know that you're not telling the truth --

 **Captain** : [interrupting with a touch of impatience]

\-- It _is_ the truth. I made the decision, gave you a legitimate order and you only carried it out, ergo I am responsible.

[his subordinate does not look totally convinced -- the Captain rises and takes him by the arm]

Look, do you really think we're going to desert you at this point, hand you over without a struggle to the authorities if they want to send you back?

[looks meaningfully at Beren]

Do you think His Majesty would allow it?

 **Youngest Ranger** : [small smile]

No, sir.

 **Captain** :

Good lad. Let your elders do the worrying -- that's what we get paid for.

 **Youngest Ranger** : [old joke]

 _You_ get paid?

 **Captain** : [claps him on the shoulder]

Get everyone on point -- set a perimeter, I don't like the feel of things.

[to the Steward]

\-- Unless you disagree?

 **Steward** : [shaking his head]

A very good idea. Now, I've had a moment for thought -- go find the King, and bring him here --

 **Captain** :

\-- Yes. Of course.

 **Steward** :

\-- and take Huan.

 **Captain** :

Ah, for tracking, of course --

 **Steward** :

Not only. Cavalry equals speed.

 **Captain** : [shocked]

Ride _Huan_?

 **Steward** :

If he didn't mind before in the same cause, I much misdoubt he'll object now. -- Do you, boy?

 **Huan** : [bouncing in place]

[short impatient barks]

 **Captain** : [shaking head]

This still seems wrong. I do apologize --

[he swings up onto Huan's back, and the Hound takes off like a racehorse. The remaining Eldar spread out into a loose circle, fanning out from the waterfall, one of the Rangers scaling up to take a watchpost on top of the rock formation, their expressions worried, but taking the task too seriously to let concern distract them. The fall splashes quite a lot, just like a real one.]

 **Beren** : [shakily]

You're getting wet.

 **Steward** : [nods]

So are you.

 **Beren** : [fretful]

 _How_?

 **Steward** : [same calming tone throughout] 

As I understand it, each thing which exists in the world -- not merely ourselves -- has both its outward and material being, and its inward and permanent essence, the which differs from the former chiefly in that most material fact of _matter_. And we, that are the essences or principles of ourselves, may no less perceive, and encounter, those essences of other things, even as in life we did, though through the intermediation of our respective bodies, with greater or lesser tangibility, as the ideas of those things are held more strongly, or weakly, in our thought. -- Such at least is the King's theory concerning the facts, which are themselves undeniable.

 **Beren** :

Is that why -- why everything's sort of vague to me? Because humans don't have Insight the way you do, and there's no surfaces?

 **Steward** :

Perhaps. Perhaps not. It might well be that your spirit has been so damaged that, even as one cannot well sense or act when gravely injured, you have not the strength to focus your perception upon our surroundings.

 **Beren** :

Or perhaps I'm too dumb to think about things properly.

 **Steward** :

I very much doubt that. You grasped my explanation well enough -- which places you signally ahead of many another resident here.

[puts his hand in the basin]

Do you want some? Even if it is merely the idea of water.

[gives him a drink, obliging him to pay attention and cooperate a little]

 **Beren** :

You're trying to keep me distracted.

 **Steward** :

Yes.

 **Beren** :

You taught me the Old Tongue. And made me memorize "The Fall of the Noldor."

 **Steward** : [nods]

\-- Otherwise known as "that really long depressing Quenya poem."

 **Beren** :

I'm afraid you wasted your efforts, sir -- I can't remember any of it now.

 **Steward** :

It served its purpose.

 **Beren** :

Every time I started losing it you drilled me on verb endings and stuff until I was too angry and frustrated to panic.

 **Steward** :

Do not overcredit me: it was not solely altruism on my part. Such exercises served as distraction not only for yourself. -- More water?

 **Beren** : [shaking his head]

I don't belong here.

 **Steward** :

But you _are_ here. Therefore you must have some purpose to accomplish here.

 **Beren** :

I'm not supposed to be. I shouldn't have stayed. That's what _he_ said.

 **Steward** :

Lord Namo?

 **Beren** :

All of them. I stayed because Tinuviel said to wait. And I did. And now everyone wants me to go.

 **Steward** :

Not the Princess, surely?

 **Beren** :

No . . .

 **Steward** :

Nor us.

[pause]

 **Beren** : [very quietly]

Lord Edrahil?

 **Steward** :

Yes, Beren?

 **Beren** :

Do you miss your family?

[pause]

 **Steward** :

Indeed yes. Though whether they in turn regret my absence, I could not dare to say.

 **Beren** :

I haven't belonged to the world of Men since my father was killed. I don't have a place in Middle-earth where I belong. I destroyed the one other place that was a home for my people. I destroyed Doriath. I should have died where I was born.

 **Steward** : [gently reminding]

 _Luthien_ is your family, now.

 **Beren** : [closing his eyes]

And I killed her too. She doesn't need me. You've told me how beautiful Valinor is . . . she could have all that forever. She doesn't belong in _here_ , being harangued yet again because of me. If I was gone, she'd be safe --

 **Steward** : [sharp]

 _Beren_. "Carnamirie."

 **Beren** : [reaction]

"Red-jeweled."

 **Steward** :

That is the _word_. What does it mean?

 **Beren** :

\-- "Rowan."

 **Steward** :

"Yallume."

 **Beren** : [uncertain]

"Cup" -- ?

 **Steward** :

That's "yulme." -- " _Yallume_."

 **Beren** :

"Finally" -- ?

 **Steward** :

Correct. -- "Roquen."

 **Beren** :

That's easy, "horse" -- no, " _rider_."

 **Steward** :

"Maiwe."

 **Beren** :

Eh. Not an easy one . . . something to do with the sea. -- "Gull."

 **Steward** :

"Coronar."

 **Beren** :

"A year." -- One of _our_ years, not a Great Year.

 **Steward** :

"Tindomerel."

 **Beren** : [smiles a little]

"Nightingale."

 **Steward** :

"Macar."

 **Beren** : [snorts]

\-- Not any more. Kind of hard to wield an "eket" with the wrong "mat."

 **Steward** : [dispassionate correction]

" _Ma_ " -- "hand," singular. -- "Maruvan."

 **Beren** :

"They'll bide here --"

 **Steward** :

Not "they" . . .

 **Beren** :

" _I_ will --"

[looks up at him]

You're cheating.

 **Steward** :

Of course. "Harma."

[pause]

 **Beren** :

"Something valuable."

 **Steward** :

"Estel."

[pause]

 **Beren** :

"Trust."

[very deliberately:]

\-- " _Vorima_."

[The Steward looks away and does not answer, so Beren does:]

"Faithful."

 **Steward** : [successfully hiding embarrassment]

\-- " _Hekilo_."

 **Beren** :

"Exile." -- " _Vanda_."

[he wins this round too]

"Oath."

 **Steward** : [clipped tone]

"Ambar."

 **Beren** :

"Doom."

[pause - the next word is hard to pronounce]

"Na --  _Nwalme_."

 **Steward** : [brief look of exasperation]

"Torture." -- "Helca."

 **Beren** :

"Ice." -- "Nolmo"

 **Steward** :

"Wise one." -- " _Nuruhuine_."

 **Beren** :

"Threat of death."

[pause. Narrow look:]

\-- "Axor."

[the Steward closes his eyes.]

" _Axor_."

 **Steward** :

Beren --

 **Beren** : [raising an eyebrow]

"Axor" -- ?

 **Steward** : [quellingly]

\-- " _Hina_."

 **Beren** :

"Child."

[pause]

\-- Like in "Eruhini."

[hesitant]

\-- "Nosse?"

[pause]

 **Steward** : [softly]

"Nukumna" -- for I am indeed _humbled_ , that you would claim me as your kin.

[brusque again]

\-- Unless it was a different word you meant?

 **Beren** : [small grin]

"Elye."

 **Steward** : [shaking head]

Hmph. If "even you" cannot refrain from subtlety, the world's come to a sad pass. -- "Arato."

[pause]

It shouldn't be _that_ hard: the element "ar" is present in many words, and the word itself more than once in "Noldolante" . . .

 **Beren** : [losing this round]

\-- "Hero."

[rallying]

" _Elye_."

 **Steward** :

You've grown repetetive, I'm afraid. -- "Selma."

 **Beren** :

" _Intransigent_."

[pause]

\-- " _Atandil_ "

 **Steward** : [dry]

If you're going to be forward enough to, as you would say, "cobble together" your own Quenya words, then you ought as well remember that the first and last rule is the taste of the word when uttered forth. " _Atandur_ " is far more euphonious.

 **Beren** : [shrugs]

Both true. Friendship _and_ service. I'm winning, by the way. -- "Faila."

 **Steward** : [still more acerbic]

"Magnanimous." -- The arrogance that could claim victory in a spoken duel with a trained bard after less than a half-season's rough teaching quite sends the mind reeling. -- "Faire."

 **Beren** :

"Ghost." That's both of "met" though -- "t" because it's two of us. Like two hands. But the other way would be true, too -- " _me_ ," all of us.

 **Steward** :

I thought you didn't remember any of it.

 **Beren** :

Me too. It just keeps bringing more of it, like when you try to remember all the verses of a song. -- I'm still ahead. "Axor."

[The Steward flicks some water at his face]

Non-verbal response -- I win. "Axor."

 **Steward** :

"Bones" -- Holy stars, Beren, you're incorrigible.

[snorts]

\-- Well, such _cleverness_ should find "The Fall of the Noldor" no challenge at all.

 **Beren** : [caught]

Ah --

 **Steward** :

Or -- we could move to declensions instead?

 **Beren** :

That isn't any better. At least the "Noldolante" rhymes. Sort of.

 **Steward** :

Declensions "sort of" rhyme, too.

 **Beren** :

 _Nooo_.

 **Steward** :

Then "The Really Long Depressing Quenya Poem" it is. Alternating lines? Having lost the last round -- though I do not recall ever declaring a contest -- I suppose I must in forfeit lead off --

[commotion -- Huan dashes in, barking, with passengers.]

\-- At last --

 **Beren** :

"Yallume."

 **Steward** :

Indeed.

[all three skid over to where they are sitting, with emergency dismounts, to kneel on either side of the two, Huan crowding in with as much concern until the Captain draws his head over and rubs his nose. Finrod reaches out to take hold of Beren's shoulder.]

 **Finrod** :

What's wrong?

[Beren tries to answer, shakes his head]

He said you were _fading_  -- Beren, can you tell me what's the matter?

[Beren tries again to find words]

 **Beren** : [whispering]

"Rukina."

 **Finrod** : [puzzled]

\--  _Wrecked_?

[Beren nods]

 _Why_?

[No answer -- he looks to the Steward, who looks him in the eyes, challengingly]

 **Steward** :

In general? Being dead; being driven half-mad by Oath, Silmaril, torture, poison, injury and guilt; being treated as an unwelcome trespasser with no right to exist here yet again. In specific -- your brothers came by, and were less-than-civil.

 **Finrod** : [straightening, shocked]

My brothers -- ?!

 **Captain** : [shrugs]

It was mostly Angrod who did the shouting; Aegnor largely confined himself to glaring and unintelligible sounds of disgust.

 **Steward** :

You're exaggerating again -- no one actually raised voices, merely indulged in caustic reproach and derogatory comment.

 **Finrod** :

Beren -- you -- you mustn't -- It isn't any of your fault, truly.

 **Beren** : [quietly]

I understand.

 **Finrod** :

They've been rather -- protective, of me. It's unfortunate you were in the way. You really mustn't --

 **Beren** : [interrupting]

\-- No, Sir -- I _understand_. All of it. -- About the Prince, and Da's Granda's sister.

[Finrod gives his commanders stern looks]

 **Steward** : [unfazed]

It seemed rather late to be worrying about Aegnor's dignity, as it most evidently concerned Lord Aegnor not at all.

 **Captain** :

And "need-to-know" could most definitely be proven, in my judgment. Edrahil thought he deserved the truth -- and I concurred.

 **Beren** : [outraged & hurt -- it finally breaks loose]

\-- Sir, couldn't you have _told_ me? After everything?

 **Finrod** : [stricken]

I --

 **Beren** :

 _How_ could you have kept that from me?

 **Finrod** : [pleading]

It wasn't mine to tell.

[defensive]

Besides -- it -- it wouldn't have made any difference.

 **Beren** : [shaking head]

It would. It would have helped me _understand_.

[silence]

 **Finrod** : [very quiet]

I'm sorry.

[Beren nods, but does not speak]

W -- where are my siblings now?

 **Steward** :

I invoked the threat of Amarie and they made themselves scarce, though I could not say for how long it will suffice.

[Finrod winces again]

My lord, he needs _her_. She is what binds him to this world, and nothing else. You must bring the Princess here as quickly as possible, while we bend our arts to keeping Beren within this Circle. Else he'll fade, and all shall have been for naught.

 **Finrod** :

Beren -- please -- forgive me, I truly never meant to cause you distress -- I never thought --

 **Captain** : [stern]

 _Sire_. What purpose is served by troubling the Beoring with your regrets? You only make it harder for him.

[Beren starts to say something, but doesn't get the chance]

 **Steward** :

My lord -- you know what you must do, as _we_ shall hold to our task.

[Finrod, his expression of extreme distress, nods abruptly and rises, backing Huan out by his collar like a horse and mounting up without further discussion. Before they ride off, however, he looks over his shoulder at them]

 **Finrod** :

The waterfall was an excellent idea. But _music_ also worked well before. Will you add that, while I go?

[He gives the Steward a meaningful Look]

 **Steward** :

I have not played since before we left the City, my lord.

 **Finrod** :

I know. -- That's why I asked, not ordered.

[they match stares again for a moment, before the Steward bows his head. To Beren:]

 _Beor_. You _will_ _stay_ until we fetch your lady hither. That _is_ an order.

 **Beren** : [crooked grin]

Yes, Sir.

[Finrod gives him a worried smile, and Huan, impatient, barks a warning before charging forward. The Steward shakes his head a little, seeming distracted, and the Captain takes Beren from him quickly, not carelessly, with much more experience moving casualties.]

 **Beren** : [awkward]

Did you . . . have to say that to his Majesty? I . . . I could have coped.

 **Captain** :

I _am_ sorry, Beren, I _did_ _not_ mean to embarrass you. One cannot mindspeak here -- no, that isn't it --

[looks to the Steward, who has manifested a harp somewhat different in design from the King's, and is frowning abstractedly at it]

Can you explain?

 **Steward** :

 _All_ is thought here, and mind, and will, so one cannot speak otherwise. One can remain silent, refuse answer, but one cannot speak to some and not to all who are present. Nor can one conceal the truth, to most, by speaking falsely knowingly -- certainly not to the Lord and Ladies of this Hall.

[runs a simple pentatonic scale up and down the strings]

My invention is sadly worn.

[plucks a minor, unresolved chord]

I cannot think of any but sad songs lately -- I fear that would serve us little.

 **Captain** : [serious]

There's strength in grief. It's caring for _nothing_ that's truly fatal.

 **Beren** :

My lord . . . give _me_ your sorrow.

 **Steward** :

Will it not weigh your heart past enduring?

 **Beren** :

In exchange for my own. It can't be heavier.

[the Captain anxiously brushes his hair back from his eyes, and touches some water to his temples]

 **Steward** :

That seems but a poor bargain. How will it aid you?

 **Beren** :

Why did you make me tell you all about the fall of Dorthonion? Repeatedly?

[cuts him off before he can answer]

\-- And don't say it was all for my own good. You already admitted otherwise just now -- remember?

 **Steward** :

I remember also that you must always have the last word. -- You must tell me if the balance is unequal and the sum too great before the scale tips and the beam crashes.

[without further ado he starts playing -- despite his disclaiming, it would be hard for any mortal listener to tell he's out of practice and in an inventive drought. Since there's no transcription of what early bardic performance actually consisted of, I'm conceiving it in the manner of extant English settings of poetry from the 12 and 1300s -- free-flowing and varied according to the length and nature of each line.]

 

\-- Oft should I, alone each dawn,

my cares lament: now living is none

that I to him the mood of my heart

dare disclose. I know full well

that for a leader 'tis lordly strength

that he his locked counsels shall fastly bind,

hold close his coffered thought, howso other he would.

\-- No more may heartwearied Doom stand defying,

nor shall troubled musings bear with them help --

for they most earnest of others' respect, tears oft

in their breast's chamber shall bind away fast.

 

So should I oft my soul make safe --

beggared by care, bereft of my House,

far from my home -- fettering my soul

since I left him, my lord gold-joyful, generous,

in earth's dark depths -- and I unwillingly,

winterweary, was bound hither over the waves.

Where might I find, living, friend or lord now who shall in meadhall name me their own?

or my friendlessness would turn to friendship,

win me to joyfulness? -- This do we know

how cruel a comrade is sorrow to him

whose true friends have all been taken,

wandering in exile -- worthless the worked gold,

ice-cold his inmost thought, worthless the flowering fields.

 

He minds him ever how all joy is broken,

for that he knows that his joyful lord

and his dear counsel shall long be forgoing:

then sorrow and sleep ever together

pitiful, solitary, oft are binding

him in mind that he his liege-lord

clasps and kisses and on knee lays

hand and head, as he did betimes,

vassal in spear-hall, at the gift-dealing --

yet, then awakened, the joyless man

sees before him the fallow waves,

as sleet and snow and hail fall mingled.

 

Then all the heavier be heart's wounds,

sorely yearning after. Sorrow's made new again,

when comrades in mind and thought return:

he greets, joyfilled, earnestly looks on them --

yet swiftly their souls swim oft away,

floating forth, nor bring their spirits

the cheerful harpsong. Cares are made new

to him that shall send ever anew

over waves binding the wearied soul.

 

For this I may not in this world think

of aught that my heart might darken not

when I name noble lives all gone thence,

brave horsemen and vassals. So Middle-earth

and all upon it daily fades and fails.

For this a warrior may not name him wise

who has not dwelt winters in that worlds-realm.

  
\-- Such a one knows how soul-shaking shall be

when all this world's wealth stands bestrewn

as now likewise upon Middle-earth

the wind bewails where walls are standing

ice-enameled, ruined the fortresses,

fallen the wine-halls, dead the defenders,

lying by walls. Some the war took from us,

faring in faroff ways: that one fed the carrion fowl

far from harbour, to that one the ice-grey wolf

dealt out death, -- that one the faithful friend

hid in earthen grave, mourning for lord. [He stops the strings abruptly.]

Now you must give me yours, in return.

[pause]

 **Beren** : [whispering]

I can't, sir -- you've stolen it from me already, and I don't know how to get it apart from yours now.

 **Steward** :

Forgive my theft.

 **Beren** : [shakes his head]

You've repaid it and then some, given it winged words where it crawled in the weeds, or slept, earthbound.

 **Steward** : [brokenly]

. . . I thank you, my lord, for such generous praise . . .

[silence -- the Guard hesitantly puts a hand on the Steward's shoulder, endeavoring to comfort him. In the background, where a slight change in illumination reveals one of the doors, a dim figure is standing, listening, but we cannot see who it is in the shadows.]


	83. Act 4:  SCENE III.i

**Gower** :

\-- That spirit that didst hold resolve  
'neath lowering disapprobatory love  
and force of fear, and fear of force,  
imposéd of greed and by remorse  
unchecked --   
............... -- let it none astound  
that still shall hold unto her ground  
stronger far than foundation's stone  
or spell-set servitude that shall groan  
even as growl -- mightier than trees  
enwound, withstanding even  _these_  
with love that weaveth fast as roots  
deep underground --

[Elsewhere -- a circular room, much smaller than the great hall, but still quite large and with that spacious quality of certain medieval buildings, like the chapter house in Wells Cathedral. Around it between columns are hung a series of tapestries -- these are not like the ones we are used to, there being no visible stitches, and although they are very dim and dark like charcoal sketches now, there is a shimmering quality to the material that differentiates it strongly from the stone.]

[Chairs are set in a smaller circle in the middle of the room, around a light which consists of a low, glowing basin in the form of a wide shallow stone bowl filled with silver liquid. Again, understated elegance is the theme here. The chairs are radically different -- each one is unique and doesn't necessarily go with the others or the room -- except the love-seat occupied by the Lord and Lady of the Halls. There are three empty places, between Orome and Vaire's left; Aule is to Namo's right. Luthien is sitting on a footstool-sort-of-thing with her hands clasped in her lap, looking sulky and bored, between Irmo and Orome, while across from her Namo massages his temples while Vaire pats him on the knee.]

**Luthien** : [patronizing]

I've heard it all before, you know, you're not saying anything in the slightest bit new.

**Orome** :

And the source doesn't make any difference to you?

**Luthien** :

Why should it?

[in the resulting silence she hops up and begins walking around the perimeter of the chamber, looking at the tapestries, while the Powers exchange quizzical looks]

Oh -- that looks almost like --

[she touches the tapestry nearest her and the surface brightens and shimmers into motion -- she starts back]

\-- it _is_ the woods near home. And there's Mom and Dad -- and _me_  -- when I was very little . . .

[she trails off]

**Vaire** :

Yes, we thought you'd find it more comfortable here, surrounded by happier recollections and familiar images.

**Luthien** :

Honestly! If you'd paid attention, you'd realize that home is the _last_ place to have any positive associations for me right now.

**Vaire** : [edged patience]

Child, you're being a most unpleasant brat, right now.

[Luthien shrugs]

**Luthien** :

Am I? I've fought my way halfway across the known world, and to the ends of Arda. The people I should have been able to trust and rely on have betrayed me, and help has come only from where I least expected it and had no right to it. And we're at an impasse, because you're not hearing what I'm saying. I'm _beyond_ fed up at this point --

[there is a loud disturbance from the hallway beyond -- baying like a hunting pack that has caught a scent, followed almost immediately by the flying form of Huan coming in at a run with Finrod crouched over his neck, taking the ring of chairs like a steeplechaser (fitting a tight half-stride over the pool of liquid light) and bounding across the other side to where she is standing amazed. The Hound drops down into the half-crouch of a predator, not the straight halt of a horse, and Finrod leans over, ignoring the astonished Powers]

**Finrod** :

He needs you.

[her expression changes from surprise to fear: he reaches down, she catches his hand and swings up behind him. They exit in the same spectacular way as before, without any word or expression of apology]

**Orome** : [outraged]

_Huan_!!!

[brief silence -- sighs and headshaking]

**Namo** :

I will be _so_ _glad_ when this yen is up.

**Vaire** : [troubled]

Darling, have you considered the possibility that _that_ might not end it? It wasn't an either-or, if you recall, but only an ultimatum.

**Namo** : [sitting up straight and pounding his fist on the arm of their bench]

_No_. I am _not_ putting up with this until the end of the world. Nia is going to take responsibility for them one way or another. I have enough problems as it is.

**Irmo** :

Do you think they're coming back, or should somebody go fetch her? -- Little Luthien, I mean.

[Namo lifts his hands helplessly]

**Namo** :

This is even more in flux than the last crisis. Not that they're anywhere on the same scale, of course.

**Vaire** : [thoughtful frown, aside]

I wonder . . .

**Namo** :

Give it a bit. I can do with a short break.

[he manifests his teacup and leans back, shaking his head.]

**Aule** : [to Vaire]

So how's that new system working out for you? I've got some more ideas for setting markers in to make retrieval and matching easier.

**Vaire** : [brightening right up]

Oh, it's perfect! We're wasting so much less energy this way, and we haven't had a data snarl since last equinox. If you've got any ways to improve the filing process we'd be very appreciative, but that isn't really critical at present. But -- some of my helpers were wondering how that project for enhancing resolution was coming along . The Spinners who tested the prototypes were very positive about the finer quality of the energy streams.

[their colleagues can't help smiling at the focus of these two enthusiasts].

**Aule** :

Unfortunately, we're still having storage issues -- it isn't a matter of the process itself, you understand -- the difficulty lies in the fact that the raw format tends to want to bind back together again if it isn't used right away.

**Vaire** :

Oh, that's too bad. -- What a pity it can't be applied retroactively as well . . .

**Orome** : [leaning back with his cynical attitude, looks around at the empty chairs]

So, as usual, it's left to those of us with an attention span longer than a single season to take up the slack. Though I'm surprised Nia isn't here yet.

**Irmo** : [frowning]

Yes, so am I. You don't think Vana's coming back, then?

**Orome** :

Considering that she said her sister had the right idea, even if she didn't have the same reasons for it, and that if she had to hear one more round of this she was going to be "screaming and breaking things too," I really hope she doesn't. You know her forte's making things, not dealing with the messes afterwards.

**Namo** : [over his mug]

You have to be fair, though -- the only reason Yavanna's not here is that she's too personally involved with the situation.

**Aule** : [startled]

What? Did you say my wife's back?

**Orome** :

Calm down -- we said she _isn't_ here.

[the patron of Craftsmanship looks extremely relieved]

**Namo** : [frowning to himself]

_Who_ does he remind me of?

[to his spouse]

Vaire sweetheart, doesn't that kid remind you of someone we've seen before? -- Her consort, not Finarfin's boy.

**Vaire** : [frowning in turn]

Now that you mention it, dear, _yes_. -- Not recently, though. Something about the personality . .


	84. Act 4: SCENE III.ii

[The Hall]

[Beside the waterfall, Luthien is now holding Beren, kneeling with him half-sitting against her, her arms folded over his, resting her cheek against his head. He seems calmer now but very worn out. Huan is lying stretched beside him with his head on Beren's knees. Finrod has taken over the harp-playing, and the Ten are kneeling in a close ring around the four of them. There is a somber and tense air to the scene]

**Ranger** : [to the Warrior, who keeps looking at the spill-pool distractedly]

What's wrong?

**Warrior** : [quietly]

I was thinking some light would be good. Remember those little floating lamps in the summer? Wouldn't flames look nice reflecting off the water?

**Ranger** : [frowning]

How would you go about doing it? You're not going to actually try burning something, are you?

**Warrior** :

No, I thought the way we did it for the Battle. Just an illusion.

**Ranger** :

Oh, all right.

[encouraging]

\-- You should do it. That could be quite lovely.

[they set about creating tall intense-white candle-like flames on the surface of the calmer, shallow end of the spill-pool]

**Beren** : [still vague and a bit slurred]

So then . . . what did they say?

**Luthien** : [ragged]

Nothing -- nothing much. Stupid things. -- The same old rotten nonsense.

**Beren** :

Sorry . . .

[he gives her left hand a little shake where it is entwined with his]

Just doesn't stop, does it?

**Luthien** : [shaking her head]

I still can't believe they'd be so horrible -- I wouldn't ever have thought it of Angrod especially, not after being so forgiving to House Feanor. Oh but I'm going to have _words_ for him when I see him! And Aegnor too!

[there is a discordant chord and break in the background music]

**Finrod** :

I'm sorry -- I didn't mean to fail you again. I thought it would be safe enough, or I'd not have left him here.

**Steward** : [heavily]

The blame is mine, for failing to send them away promptly enough.

**Luthien** : [snorting]

How could you have stopped them, my lord? I don't see any gates to close against them. And you're not my Mom, so you couldn't have made a maze to keep them out.

**Steward** :

Nevertheless a task was entrusted, and I the senior-most --

**Finrod** :

Edrahil, I'm not blaming any of you. I should have thought through the possibilities before dashing off and foreseen something of the like --

**Beren** : [urgent]

Please --  _don't_. Don't fight about me.

[shivers suddenly]

**Luthien** :

Are you cold again?

**Beren** :

No.

[he smiles a little]

Between you and Huan -- couldn't go anywhere if I wanted to.

[very quietly, as if they were alone, singing:]

\-- Black is the color......of my true love's hair --... Her face is something.........wondrous fair . . .

[as he trails in and out, Luthien joins him on the last lines, her voice almost as unsteady:]

**Luthien** :

\-- The purest eyes......and the bravest hands --...I love the ground.........whereon he stands --

[muffled, into his hair]

Don't leave -- don't _leave_ me, Beren.

[to the side, the enhancements are about finished.]

**Warrior** :

How does that look now?

**Ranger** :

Hmm . . . I think it's too busy.

[gesturing]

Instead of having them bobbing about, why don't you anchor them as if they were resting on stands coming just up under the surface. There's already so much motion because of the reflections in the water, having the lights moving as well looks choppy.

[as they tweak it, the five Powers, having given up waiting, appear in front of the group and stand contemplating them with a critical gaze]

**Namo** :

No, it doesn't seem like they're planning on coming back. I'm still --

[snorts]

\-- not sure about the mad prank part.

[throughout the following exchanges he stands with folded arms looking hard at Beren, saying nothing -- Luthien glares tearfully back at him, while the Ten look a bit overwhelmed at being confronted by so many not-terribly happy deities at one go. Finrod just keeps on playing as though he were a bard at a gathering and there were nothing unusual about any of this.]

**Orome** : [sternly]

Huan.

[the Hound gives him an alert Look but doesn't move]

Huan! _Come_ _here_.

**Huan** :

[sharp distressed bark]

**Orome** : [louder]

Bad dog! Come!

**Huan** :

[repeated sharp barks]

[the racket is what you would expect of a large dog in a large echoing area. Everyone winces, and Orome tries to outshout Huan.]

**Vaire** :

Tav, please! Not now.

**Irmo** : [disapprovingly]

What a heathen and barbaric-looking spectacle.

[one has to admit he has a point -- there's a definite Viking-funeral aspect to the scene, what with the honor-guard, the flames, the horse-sized Hound, the harper and the dead Man's wife all clustered about beside the water]

**Vaire** : [deceptively mild]

Would anyone like to explain this?

**Captain** :

It's my project. -- Please don't break anything, milady --

[she rolls her eyes]

\-- it's purely to help our friend, the Princess's husband.

[Vaire looks back across to the hill and then towards the waterfall again.]

**Vaire** : [warningly]

I'm _not_ cleaning all this up. -- Can you people manage not to flood the hallways this time?

**Captain** :

That was an accident, I assure you, no one real ized the conduit was there --

**Vaire** : [forced patience]

Yes. I know. That's why I'm asking in advance. I don't know what will happen if you get the Loom wet. And I _don't_ want to find out, and if you have _any_ sense whatsoever, child, you don't either.

[to her husband]

I'm going to look for that reference, darling.

[she goes over to the Loom and starts fiddling with it in a very competent and rapid way]

**Orome** : [low commanding tone]

Huan, _come_ _here_.

**Huan** :

[menacing growls]

**Namo** :

Huan. Tavros. Finrod. -- Quiet.

[the music and snarling stop, leaving only the sound of the waterfall]

**Luthien** : [aggressively pleading]

My Lord --

[Namo holds up his hand for silence]

**Namo** : [to Beren]

Why are you trying to leave?

**Beren** :

I'm not exactly _trying_ to leave, Sir.

**Namo** :

_Please_ don't do this. I don't have patience for word games. -- What is the problem?

**Beren** : [very simply and quietly]

I found out about something terrible that happened in the past. I felt as if I'd been betrayed. I don't feel as though I belong _here_ any more.

**Namo** : [ignoring Finrod's flinch at Beren's words and expression of grief]

Then why are you still here?

**Beren** :

Because Tinuviel told me to stay.

**Namo** :

Is that the only reason?

[pause]

**Beren** :

No.

**Namo** :

Do you _want_ to leave?

**Beren** : [wretchedly]

_I_ _don't_ _know_.

**Namo** : [ignoring Luthien's distressed noise]

If you happen to figure it out, let us know, would you? So that we don't have to waste any more time on this discussion.

**Beren** :

Yessir.

**Namo** : [snorts]

Honestly. You people.

[to Vaire]

I've remembered why he seems familiar, darling: you don't need to try to find the piece. Do you recall that fellow who kept shouting at us because he seemed to think it was our fault that he'd believed Morgoth's emissary and not Finarfinion the Elder here?

**Vaire** :

Oh dear. Yes.

[she stares keenly across at Beren]

You're right. -- How long did it take you to convince him that he needed to take his complaints elsewhere since you never had any control over the King's brother, or over his servants, let alone over any mortals, and that it was pointless for him to keep railing at you for not having somehow prevented him from making mistakes?

**Namo** :

Way too long. I should have recognized that blockheadedness from the beginning.

[Beren and Finrod exchange a brief troubled look -- Finrod touches his shoulder reassuringly]

**Luthien** : [terse]

Beren, what's he talking about?

**Beren** : [glum]

One of my relatives. -- My way-back uncle Bereg, who took a bunch of the tribe back east again . . . after Sauron-in-disguise convinced him that it was a bad idea to stay and get killed fighting in the Leaguer . . . . Sounds like it didn't work out too well for them.

**Finrod** : [urgently]

Sir, this is Ber _EN_ , not Ber _EG_. He's a very different person, both in the actuality and in the ideal.

**Namo** :

Can you manage for once not to talk down to me, Finrod? -- Not that I hold out much hope of it. I _know_ that he's not the same one again. I said he's got the same family stubbornness.

[shaking his head]

At least he isn't blaming any of his troubles on us. So far.

**Luthien** : [suppressed fury]

And why _shouldn't_ he, when you're tricking me into leaving him so that you can banish him without my knowing?

**Namo** :

Why do you think _I'm_ doing it?

**Luthien** :

Because you want him to go, and you're in charge here.

**Finrod** : [simultaneous with her words]

You're not? -- My Lord.

**Namo** : [patiently, to Luthien]

I don't have jurisdiction over mortals. The only one who seems to have any control over this young Man is _you_. And to a lesser extent your cousin here. Somehow he's staying _here_ , in defiance of the Laws of the universe, because you told him to. And I would guess that, if it's not outright tearing him apart, that's only because he possesses inordinate obduracy and resilience. -- Either that or he's so crazy that there's no way to tell. But the strain on him has got to be tremendous.

**Luthien** :

Why can't you _do_ _something_ to stop it?

**Namo** :

Wrong question.

[pause]

The proper question is "Why can _you_ do something to stop it?" -- and the answer lies with him.

[the Lord of Dreams moves closer and kneels down on the other side of Beren from where Huan is guarding him -- the Elven-shades react with defensive tension, but the Hound, lacking any such inhibitions, just bares his teeth and growls]

**Irmo** : [calm voice]

I'm not going to hurt him.

[to Beren]

Let me see, please.

[he touches his forehead like someone checking a child for fever -- over his shoulder, to his brother:]

\-- It's as you thought: the binding is mutual; he doesn't truly want to let go.

[to Beren, warningly]

The strain will only get worse, the longer you stay here, you do understand.

**Beren** : [quick sardonic smile]

I can stand a lot.

[bewildered frown]

I _know_ you . . . somehow.

**Irmo** : [nods]

Yes.

[he rises and returns to his companions]

The efforts of these equally-focussed souls to entrap him here, and the beneficial impact of such surroundings as they have created, can't be dismissed; but if he were not willing -- or rather, _set_ _upon_ _it_  -- all the therapeutic effects of water, light, music and love would be useless.

[sighing deeply]

As we have learned to our lasting sorrow. -- It's the strength of his desire for her, as much as hers for him, that withstands the frailty of his own inherent nature, and the call of his proper Fate . . . . . Rationally one should deplore such a rebellious intransigence -- but one can't help admiring such gallant determination.

**Aule** : [dry]

So you're saying he's more obsessive than Feanor, Tilion and Eol combined? And this is supposed to be a recommendation?

**Vaire** : [still messing with the Loom]

I've just noticed something that might be useful. Excuse me --

[she vanishes]

**Namo** : [to Luthien]

Does that answer your questions? I have no idea how he's managing to hold on here. However he's doing it, it's his lookout, and his responsibility -- though whether he'll remember that when it gets to the yelling and the recriminations is anyone's guess. I doubt you will either, given your attitude, but we'll see how it goes. Can we finish our discussion now? Without any more abrupt exits?

**Luthien** :

I'm not going to leave him alone again!

**Orome** : [acidly]

He's hardly _alone_.

[several of the Ten are doing their best to avoid his Look, particularly the Captain, the Noldor Ranger and the Warrior. Huan makes a preliminary-bark noise, but the Steward shushes him.]

**Luthien** :

Besides, what's the point? Nobody was saying anything purposeful.

**Beren** : [hesitantly defensive]

I haven't yelled at anyone, Sir.

**Namo** :

\-- Yet. -- Because, Luthien, this is an insupportable situation, for you, for him, and as a result for _us_.

[without looking around]

And look who's mysteriously appeared -- though that's hardly surprising, given his earlier mysterious disappearance.

[as his sister's student walks in looking preoccupied -- then takes in the crowd and stops short, dismayed]

Where have you been?

**Apprentice** :

I had an errand I was supposed to run for my Lady.

[he looks around guiltily, trying not to make it obvious that he's wondering where Amarie went]

**Namo** :

You said you didn't have anything else to do.

**Apprentice** :

I -- I know. I forgot, Sir.

**Namo** : [intense exasperation]

How could you forget? I asked you directly, you said "No."

**Apprentice** : [shrugs]

I was wrong.

**Namo** :

Why didn't you say something? Nobody could find you. You just walked off and left no one else in charge! Do you really think that's the right way to go about things?

**Apprentice** :

I didn't think it would take long enough to make it worth bothering anyone about.

[pause]

I gather I was wrong about that, too.

**Namo** :

What if security had tried to contact me with information about the rogue?

**Apprentice** :

But they didn't.

**Namo** :

How do you know?

[The Apprentice takes out what looks like a marble and shows it to him]

**Apprentice** :

I set up a sympathetic link, so that if the stone went off I'd hear it and know.

[pause]

So it was all right, Sir --

**Namo** :

No it wasn't, because first of all it's the principal of the thing, that you don't just walk away from your work and forget to tell someone about it, and secondly we needed you to run an errand and you weren't there. How long is it going to take before you stop and think _before_ haring off on some new project or whim while the other ones are still unfinished?

**Apprentice** :

Erm, is that real, or rhetorical, my Lord? Because I'm afraid nobody knows the answer, not even the King -- that's why he asked my Master to take me on -- but I've made a chart of my progress so far if you want to try to work out a projected date --

**Namo** : [holding up his hand]

Stop. Just _stop_.

[looks from Finrod to Nienna's Apprentice]

I don't know which of you two is more annoying.

[the recipients of his disapproval share disgruntled Looks]

**Apprentice** :

Well -- what _should_ I be doing, then, Sir? Do you want me to run the errand now?

**Aule** :

No. We gave it to someone more responsible.

**Apprentice** : [crestfallen]

Oh.

**Namo** :

Would you just ask my wife and then do what it is she tells you to do? She'll probably just want you to keep any eye on the usual troublemakers and make sure they're not killing each other again.

**Apprentice** :

Oh joy.

[he makes no move to go]

**Namo** : [to Luthien]

Could we be getting back to our discussion now?

**Luthien** :

No, I want to talk to my husband first.

[pause]

_In_ _private_. I'll come along when we're done.

[pause]

You needn't wait, my Lord.

**Namo** : [looking around]

You call this _private_?

[pause]

**Luthien** :

I meant without any divine critiquing going on.

**Namo** :

Then why didn't you say so?

[to Nienna's Apprentice]

You may not be at the top of my list for long. By the way, what are you still doing here?

**Apprentice** :

You said to keep the usual troublemakers from killing each other. About half of them are here.

**Namo** :

And?

**Apprentice** :

And this is far more interesting. And yes, Sir, that was a very free interpretation of what you said. And I think I'll be going to verify that with Lady Vaire first.

[he bows and exits hastily, yet still reluctantly, looking back at the scene of the confrontation]

**Orome** :

He _really_ gets on my nerves.

**Irmo** :

Is there anyone's that he doesn't?

**Aule** :

It's the wasted potential that's the worst.

[pointed silence. Finrod sighs and drums his fingers on the harp-frame, looking at the ceiling]

**Luthien** :

Making snide remarks about my cousin isn't going to speed things along --  _or_ make me feel particularly more well-disposed to you.

[pause]

**Orome** : [defensive]

We weren't talking about --

**Namo** : [interrupting]

No, in fact, that's exactly what we were doing.

[to Luthien]

Call us when you're ready -- we're waiting for you.

[the Powers vanish. The room is left a bit less empty-seeming this time, due to the presence of a dozen other shades, a small waterfall, torches and one of those ghosts being a giant Hound. Beren sits up the rest of the way, supported on either side by his wife and her cousin.]

**Luthien** :

Beren -- do you really want to leave?

[he looks at her sadly, but doesn't answer]

Don't tell me what you think I -- what I _want_ to hear.

[he still doesn't say anything]

Are -- are you angry -- at me?

[still no reply]

Please answer me -- even if it's _yes_  --

[he puts his arm around her neck and kisses her, patting her head and smoothing her face as they pull away after]

**Beren** : [wryly]

How's that?

[she gives him a watery smile, and the rest of his friends finally relax]

**Captain** :

I'd say that's a "no" on both counts.

[Beren looks at the flames on the reflecting pool]

**Beren** :

That -- looks spectacular. Thanks.

**Warrior** : [shrugging]

Wasn't much, really.

**Ranger** :

Gave us something to do besides worry.

**Beren** : [sighing]

Have you ever heard of anyone fading out of sheer embarrassment?

**Luthien** : [stressed]

Why on earth would you want to do that, love?

**Beren** : [looking down, shoulders hunched]

All this trouble over nothing -- so many people being dragged into it -- the gods -- because I can't seem to figure out this business of being dead.

**Finrod** :

Beren, it wasn't _nothing_. You were in a very bad way, it was _real_ , and what _we_ did was real and necessary, and worked as it would have if we had been alive and you Eldar. You don't need to apologize.

[he tips Beren's chin up as if talking to a child]

Right? -- Unless you thinkyou can possibly out-apologize me. Do you want to try?

[groans from the Ten -- Beren gives a small smile and shakes his head]

**Beren** :

Nope.

[Finrod tousles his hair and pulls him closer]

**Finrod** : [quietly]

Can you forgive me?

**Beren** :

Already did -- cousin.

[he hugs Finrod hard, as the other tries not to come completely undone. While Finrod discreetly wipes his eyes on his sleeve:]

I didn't want to ask -- him -- but . . . who's Eol?

**Finrod** :

Living -- well, _proof_ , at any rate -- that not _all_ the craziness is on my side of the family.

**Luthien** :

Is he _here_?

**Finrod** : [deep sigh]

Oh yes. App --

**Luthien** : [interrupting]

\-- Did he really marry what's-her-name, your uncle's daughter -- Aredhel? That's what Curufin said.

**Finrod** :

And accidentally murdered her. We have very interesting family reunions around here.

**Beren** : [disbelieving]

How can you _accidentally_ _murder_ someone?

**Steward** :

He was, so the story goes, endeavoring to murder their son, but she intervened. Pursuant to which her brother had him thrown off a precipice. Not before -- or so he brags -- managing to put a curse on their son, however.

**Beren** :

Oh.

[pause]

Am I not following very well, or was that weird even for Elves?

**Finrod** :

Yes. -- To the second question, not the first. Apparently he turned up here demanding that she be sent back to Middle-earth so that they could start over again together. For any number of reasons that's simply not going to happen, so now they're both here giving the Powers chronic headaches.

[Beren looks serious]

And _no_ , your situation is nothing at all like that, you _didn't_ kill Luthien, and she's the one who came here after you, not vice versa --

**Luthien** : [nodding]

So if anyone ought to be compared to those three it should be _me_.

**Beren** :

But -- I -- hadn't even thought that yet.

**Finrod** :

You were about to. Right?

[Beren looks down]

**Youngest Ranger:** [stammering worse than Beren]

Y -- your Highness . . . it's an honour . . .

[he's too overwhelmed to go on; Luthien is puzzled]

**Finrod** :

He's one of those who imagined you as "twelve feet tall with a perpetual battle aura."

**Youngest Ranger** :

That's not true!

[in response to the other's Look]

Well, all right, _rather_  --

[Luthien shakes her head]

**Luthien** :

It wasn't like that -- Huan did most of it, I just played bait until we got the one worth interrogating.

**Finrod** : [raising his eyebrows]

And who did the interrogating? I'm _guessing_ that it wasn't Huan.

**Luthien** :

Yes, but Huan had a choke-hold on his jugular, which makes for a great deal of distraction as well as incentive to cooperate.

**Captain** :

I've seen your father angry. _I_ wouldn't place any bets on which one of you was the scariest.

**Luthien** :

It really, _really_ wasn't that way at all. I was _terrified_  -- I was shaking so hard I could hardly get back up again.

[Beren's jaw clenches]

**Finrod** :

And you don't think Elu's frightened going into battle?

**Luthien** : [disbelieving]

_Dad_? Frightened?

**Steward** :

Of what should follow on his losing, if of nothing else.

[She frowns at this -- an alien concept, Thingol afraid -- and shrugs]

**Luthien** :

I only did what I had to do, with lots of help.

[she looks around at them all, ending with Beren]

And so far it hasn't been enough.

[Huan gets up and shoves his head into her face and throat, wagging his tail and being a very good dog, until she stops sniffling and shakes her head with a defiant lift of her chin.]

I'm not giving up. -- I'm _not_.

[Huan looks over his shoulder and gives a happy bark, just before the Rangers snap to attention -- Nienna's Apprentice comes into the hall again, very diffident and apologetic in his bearing. He comes up and bows to the group, addressing Luthien:]

**Apprentice** : [nervously]

Excuse me, but could you please come along now? Or else --

**Luthien** : [savage]

\-- Or else _what_?

**Apprentice** :

Ah, he's going to yell at me again.

[pause]

It's even worse than when _you_ yell at me.

**Luthien** : [shrewd Look]

You're trying to make me feel sorry for you.

[pause -- the Apprentice nods]

I should warn you that I'm not very cooperative any more when people try to guilt me into doing what they want.

**Apprentice** : [downcast]

I'm awfully sorry.

[to Finrod]

Erm . . . you don't happen to know where the Lady Amarie is, do you?

[Finrod shakes his head, his smile looking rather definitely edged]

**Luthien** :

You're still _doing_ it!

**Apprentice** :

Is it working?

**Luthien** : [trying not to smile, not entirely successful]

A bit. It's also making me want to throw something at you.

**Finrod** : [innocent]

Really? I've had this idea that one could probably pull water up and make it hold together long enough for it to stay airborne, rather like snow, but I've been saving it for some really tedious stint to experiment with it. Would you like to try it out now?

[the Apprentice glares at him, trying to look far too dignified to be a target for a water fight. Luthien raises an eyebrow]

**Luthien** :

Actually, I was thinking -- more like a chair.

[the Apprentice sighs]

**Apprentice** : [to the air at large]

Master, I'm afraid this isn't having the result you intended. -- At least, I certainly hope this isn't what you intended, my Lady! My temper seems to be getting shorter and shorter, not the other way 'round!

[to Luthien, pleading]

Your Highness, _please_ don't make me go back and fetch the Lord of the Halls. He'll be very put out with all of us. -- And he'll treat me like a fool. And you don't really care one way or another about that -- not that I really blame you -- but still I --

**Huan** : [interrupting]

[sharp bark]

[pause]

**Apprentice** :

Sorry.

[Luthien gives an exaggerated sigh and looks at Beren]

**Beren** : [low voice]

You should. -- At least we can show willing.

**Luthien** :

But I'm _not_. Not if it means giving you up.

[pause -- Finrod reaches across Beren and rubs her shoulders]

**Beren** :

I'm okay. I'll -- I'll be all right.

[she moves around to kneel in front of him, putting her hands on either side of his face and staring fixedly into his eyes]

**Luthien** : [adamantine clarity]

Beren. I told you to wait for me. I _haven't_ told you to stop. If you _dare_ fade out of Arda I will find some way to follow you, and let the One help anyone who tries to stop me -- !

[she waits until he nods, solemnly, in reply and then kisses him hard before getting up to accompany Nienna's student -- who is preoccupied now with the additions to the fountain.]

**Apprentice** :

How did you make those? I can't see any sort of fuel or wick or anything.

**Warrior** :

They're illusions. Nothing's really burning.

**Ranger** :

I mean, really -- what would we burn, after all? Stone?

**Warrior** : [seriously]

Stone will burn if you get it hot enough, if it's the right kind.

**Ranger** : [dismissive]

I know, I know -- but you'd need some fuel to raise it to that temperature, and that brings us right back to where we started from.

**Apprentice** :

Oh, that explains why the reflections are all wrong.

**Warrior** :

No, they aren't.

**Apprentice** : [pointing]

Yes, they are, they're too long: your "flames" aren't tall enough to cast so much of a reflection.

**Warrior** :

It's a work of art. Haven't you ever heard of artistic license?

**Apprentice** :

But it looks wrong that way! They should only be about like so --

[he changes them, so that there is far less reflected light on the water]

**Ranger** :

But that doesn't look anywhere near as pretty.

**Apprentice** :

Yes, but that's reality --

[Luthien clears her throat: he looks around guilty and sees her standing there tapping her foot.]

**Luthien** :

First you nag me to come, now you're dawdling. I really don't have any patience for this right now.

**Apprentice** :

Erm . . .

[she gives him a narrow Look]

\-- Sorry?

**Luthien** :

I damn' well hope so!

[he hastily moves to escort her out -- at the doorway she pauses and turns back to give the company an intense stare]

Beren, remember --  _stay_.

**Beren** : [wide-eyed innocence]

\-- Woof!

[Huan gives him a startled look at his imitation; Luthien's earnest look turns into an embarrassed smile and she goes, on the edge between laughing and crying. As soon as Nienna's Apprentice is gone the Warrior brings back his illusions to the way they were.]

**Warrior** : [disgruntled]

What does _he_ know about it anyway? Has he studied the subject?

[rather stiffly, Beren gets up, leaning on Huan's back and head for leverage, and patting the Hound once he is on his feet -- Huan licks his hand and gives him a sad-eyed look; Beren pats him again and goes over to the quieter shallow end of the pool, moving with bone-deep weariness. He kneels down and splashes water on his face, before settling down to look at the reflections of the lights, trailing his fingers in the basin with a look of bemused wonder. Anxiously Finrod comes over and crouches by him, very definitely hovering. Behind them Huan makes unscrupulous use of doggish charm to ensure that the Ten devote themselves to giving him scratches and nose-rubs.]

**Finrod** : [timidly]

Do you want me to tell you all about it?

[silence]

**Beren** :

Not right now. I just -- need time to think. I can't -- it's all been too much. Not just -- all of it.

[Finrod nods sadly]

Can you keep playing?

**Finrod** : [nodding again and picking up the harp]

Anything in particular?

**Beren** : [shaking his head]

Just _that_  --

[makes a sort of back-and-forth gesture with his hand]

\-- like you were doing, to sort of go along with the water. I know that's really a technical description there . . .

**Finrod** :

Like this?

[he plays a simple arpeggio, very mellow and slow, not at all "agitare", and Beren nods.]

I'll just keep doing that then, until you tire of it.

**Beren** : [as if struck by a sudden thought]

Do _you_ want to talk about it?

[Finrod nods in return]

I -- I guess that would be all right then. Can you talk and play at the same time? It -- isn't like singing, I guess.

**Finrod** :

That isn't the problem. Such simple music is no bar to speech at all. I -- I don't know what to say, exactly, or how.

**Beren** :

Oh.

[long pause]

**Finrod** : [softly]

She was the star that awakened his heart -- she truly was his one true love, the morning arising for him upon the world -- and he Saw the coming of twilight even in the hour of her ascendance, in his fear, and fled to the outer darkness himself, before her Sun could fall to shadow. And she loved him in turn, and --

[he cannot go on]

**Beren** :

And you didn't think it was a good idea then, either.

**Finrod** :

I -- I agreed with him, and with his arguments, and did not force him to go back to her, and the risk of that confrontation, and whatever might have followed on that argument -- whether of wrath -- or of reconciliation. And he has never forgiven me for yielding to him, and giving him his head in this, and very likely he never will. He has sworn himself to eternal celibacy, and eternal mourning, because she was his soulmate, and she has left the Circles of the World, and so he will take no more joy in Arda, because she does not.

**Beren** : [quiet]

You Saw that happening to Luthien, too, didn't you?

**Finrod** : [shaking his head]

Not in the sense you mean. But I -- I feared it might. But more -- I bethought of your own folk --

[he stops playing without even realizing it]

\-- of Balan, the first Beor, who followed me so brief a time, until sight and bone and heart failed -- though never spirit! -- of all those who came after, to our halls, to ride and sing and dance among us, and then vanish like breath on a wintery morning -- but first to grow brittle as ice, as fragile as a frozen leaf, and weary as a snow-laden bough under the burden of suffering and shame.

[earnest & pleading]

It was not _all_ selfishness for my own kin.

**Beren** :

You don't have to go into all this if you really don't want, Sir.

[the flatness of his words is belied by the accompanying gesture -- he puts his hand over Finrod's on the frame of the harp, looking at him without flinching]

**Finrod** : [sad]

I don't want you hating my brother -- either one of them -- even if they insist on being difficult.

**Beren** :

I wouldn't anyway.

**Finrod** :

I know, because you still can't stop blaming yourself for my death. But that really has no connection with what happened between our kin before you were born. Not logically, at least.

**Beren** :

Yeah, but it still feels like it does somehow.

**Finrod** : [frowns]

That reminds me: if they come back -- and given the way this place is, there isn't really any doubt about it -- to remonstrate with me, or to reproach you directly or indirectly again, I want _you_ to stay out of it and to let me manage everything. _Don't_ let them entangle you in another exchange of hostilities. Leave the talking to me -- I know how to deal with them.

[Beren just looks at him, with his head a bit to the side]

Would you stop giving me that look, please? This isn't like the last time.

[On the far side of the room Amarie enters, with an air of assumed nonchalance and self-confidence. The Ten notice and look dismayed -- neither of the other two does, however.]

**Beren** :

What if it isn't your brothers? What if it's House Feanor again?

[the Steward clears his throat loudly]

**Finrod** : [oblivious]

Again, I'm far better equipped to deal with any of my relatives than you are -- even if you're no more likely to be afflicted with scruples towards the following of Feanor than I am. Trust me on this, and leave all the unnecessary worries to me.

**Beren** :

What if it's one of the gods again? Or all of 'em? It sounds like they're a lot more fed up with you than they are with me. After all, I haven't got centuries of history between us to keep hauling up and slamming around like rocks at each other.

**Finrod** : [lecturing mode]

Beren, no one here is going to behave like Sauron. Yes, we have our differences, and grievances over the past -- and yes, before you say anything, we have our present differences and grievances as well -- but those are all minor -- or mostly minor -- and the big ones are for the most part resolved. If the Powers that are in charge of this place were going to punish me it would already have happened over the business of the ceilings and the aqueduct. A few more comments, sarcastic or otherwise, isn't going to make a difference one way or the other at this point.

**Beren** :

I dunno -- you can be awfully obnoxious when you put your mind to it, Sir.

**Finrod** :

And you _can't_? I don't want you drawing negative attention upon yourself from any other persons, divine or not, even if it's in my interest, because you still feel obscurely guilty and don't know how to accept help gracefully --

[the Captain reaches over and taps Beren rather urgently on the shoulder, him being the closer of the two -- Beren looks over, sees, and bites his lip]

**Beren** :

What if it's Amarie again?

**Finrod** : [indulgently]

Wouldn't she fall into the category of "other persons, divine or not" -- ?

**Beren** :

Um, Sir -- that wasn't a rhetorical question.

[long pause]

**Finrod** : [desperate bravado]

I think the word you want is "hypothetical."

**Beren** :

No, I think the word _we_ want is --  _help_.

[Amarie stands there looking down on the scene, with folded arms and a pleasant fixed smile]

**Finrod** :

I think we've used up our quota of divine interventions for the day. Besides, given how peevish they're being, I wouldn't want to count on it being particularly helpful.

**Amarie** : [sinister gentleness -- to the Ten:]

Milords -- what curse or device hath laden withal my steps, that I might not find my way upon a straight path save only to return whence ever I didst go, howsoever I go?

[nervous silence]

Whichever hast done this -- or whosoever kennest aught -- might answer: I care not which, so that I learn the truth.

**Finrod** :

Personally, I think that's a completely irrelevant question. I'd ask -- how is it done, and how would you change it? Those seem much more useful questions than worrying about which guilty party deserves punishment. -- Particularly since no one did such a thing.

**Amarie** : [same patient tone]

If yon ringleader of runagates had troubled his insubstantial self to list to the words I did e'en now speak, he might _perchance_ to have noted that such, in most pointed fact, was the selfsame word I asked of ye.

**Finrod** : [to Beren]

You did hear me say that you can't just walk from point to point here as though it were a field, or even a city, because somehow your will and unconscious intent determines where you end up. -- Interesting confirmation that it works that way regardless of corporeal status -- it must be like the Labyrinth. Makes mapmaking no end of a challenge, that's for certain.

**Beren** :

Yep. -- Only not that extra speculation. But you did warn her.

[Amarie closes her eyes in an exasperated expression]

Hey, does that mean you're saying she keeps coming back here because she really wants to be here?

**Finrod** :

No, but that is the logical implication of it, one's forced to conclude.

**Amarie** :

Is there none about of sense or civility to serve as guide, then?

**Finrod** :

Does anyone wish to explain to the noble lady that the Halls are very understaffed at present and the management has been called away to deal with more pressing matters than her ability to hold a grudge?

**Amarie** : [lightly]

One expects _naught_ of present company, saving one's self, but surely there cannot be _none_ of sense remaining in this place. What of the rest, that art held within? Hath not many repaired here over the Age, in accordance with the stated Doom? And yet it hath emptier thoroughfares than either Tirion or Alqualonde ere Tilion's embarkation. _Nothing_ of company, saving mine own shadow, and footfalls' echoes, have I met -- though worse companions there may be surely found within.

[pause]

**Captain** :

It's like when there's going to be an earthquake or a hurricane -- everyone and everything with any sense has already gone to ground long since as soon as they sensed the coming of disaster.

**Steward** :

Don't -- make things worse.

**Captain** :

You're ascribing far too much to my competence.

**Amarie** : [ice]

I have naught else to say to ye miscreants.

**Captain** : [fervent]

Thank you, most kind Nienna!

**Amarie** [sharply]

\-- Dost ken, then where the Lady shall be?

**Captain** : [shaking his head regretfully]

Knew it was too good to be true.

**Amarie** : [caustic]

Ay, well then, where the shepherd leads, the flock shall follow -- yet might expect to find greater part of wisdom in shepherd than sheep? But howso, indeed, if the leader doth follow his foolish charges, nor stay them from their folly, nor cease when they will to run past cliff's edge unto the Sea? For mad lieges, how else but a maddest of lords to be fitting?

**Youngest Ranger** : [bewildered, trying to whisper, but not being nearly quiet enough, to the Warrior]

I thought the Vanyar were supposed to be holy . . . ?

[Amarie shoots him a fire-arrow Look and he quails]

**Amarie** :

And what kennest _thou_ of holiness, that never didst behold the Light?

**Youngest Ranger** : [abashed]

\-- Sorry.

**Amarie** : [cutting]

Shall a Turned One chide _me_ , that was bred and born in Valmar, of the depths of his benighted ignorance? No more unfitting, I guess, than _mortal_ shall the same!

[Huan makes a grumbling unhappy noise, looking up from under his eyebrows at them in turn]

**Steward** :

My lady, restrain thy hostility towards those that in some wise merit it, nor set it against those who have shown far more of virtue than you yourself in steadfastness of affection.

[they match stares in a fierce contest]

**Youngest Ranger** : [dismayed aside]

How can she _tell_?

**Beren** : [scooting over to him]

Probably the way _we_ could when we met the King. Couldn't your people tell when they first came back that they weren't the same as you either? And it's even more obvious -- the way we are now. -- Don't ask me how.

[he puts an arm around the other's shoulders]

Does it matter? That you're not Noldor? So you guys' ancestors didn't make it all the way on time. You're still fighting the fight, hm?

[the Youngest Ranger gives him an uncertain look]

Me, I'd rather hear "Sindar" or even "Nandor" any day of the week than "Kinslayer" -- being "Light-Elven" didn't help Curufin much, did it? -- Or "mortal."

[pause]

If you don't look down on _me_ , how come you think it's okay to look down on _you_?

[the Sindarin Ranger smiles a little at this. The staring contest between Amarie and the Steward breaks off: he does not give way, and she tosses her head in dismissal]

**Amarie** :

_If_ thou hast not lost all semblance of civility in yon rustic wilderness, _Your_ _Majesty_ , perhaps thou'lt deign to rise and greet me nor affect this foolish feignéd deafness --

[raising her voice abruptly]

\-- Put aside that gaming music and stand and _brave_ me, villain, or I swear that all the Ages of the world will pass ere thou'lt darken door of mine! Art too grand now, is't, to speak with such a lowly Elf as she who waits upon thy notice, being no Queen nor Princess of the Eldar? Fie!

[with an indulgent sigh Finrod puts down the harp once again and rises, making an extravagant and far-too-ornate bow; the Ten, and Beren, get up awkwardly, while Huan only sits up and pays attention with cocked ears and quizzical look. The ex-couple are far too preoccupied to notice the distress of their audience, or to care if they did.]

**Finrod** : [mildly]

I'm listening.

[pause]

Now that you've commanded my attention -- did you actually have anything you wanted to say?

**Amarie** : [earnestly, shaking her head]

\-- Why dost thou _stay_ here, in this abysmal place, this mean estate, and tatterdemalion attendance, when thou shouldst walk free and fare abroad, held by naught, save by thine own choosing? All Aman doth hold thee _mad_ for it -- none that hath thine acquaintance, still more thy former fellowship in bygone Day, doth comprehend it, and all alike do judge thy loss hath reft thy mind withal.

**Finrod** :

I don't know why. It's very peaceful here -- most of the time, at least. I'd rather spend the next hundred-odd years of existence _here_ , than being given reproachful looks and edged remarks and forbidden to answer them under the Sun.

[Amarie spins around and begins walking quickly towards the door while Finrod stands with folded arms, looking after her and smiling sarcastically]

**Finrod** : [loudly]

Here we go again. -- I wonder how many times we're going to repeat this little charade before the jester who started it comes and rescues us. I _greatly_ _doubt_ that there's any limit to her ability to walk off and leave me in shambles, all the while maintaining a perfect and impenetrable shield of pride, trailing my heart's blood through the wreckage from her dripping sword of hate!

[the Ten -- and Beren -- wince in excruciation at having to witness this -- Huan gives a particularly ear-piercing keen and a reproachful look at Finrod. Amarie stops short in the archway as though an invisible door had been slammed in her face and stands perfectly still for a second -- then turns around and strides back, fast and furious, her draperies billowing behind her like sails of a galleon]

**Amarie** : [as she is bearing down upon them, not stopping or slowing in speed or speech]

Thou insolent, arrogant, amiable, thankless, flightsome, winsome, devious, treacherous, smiling _fiend_!!! _How_ canst thou stand and say to me, withouten shred of compuntiliousness, that -- that --  _any_ _such_ _of_ _thing_?!?

[she is literally glowing with rage, though the soft ambient light somewhat dulls her aura]

Thou -- thou -- thou Spider's get! --  _I_ made mock of thee? I left _thee_ in tears and tatters? I ask ye -- all of ye, that stand unfriends to me --

[she pauses to whirl and look at all the Ten in quick turn]

\-- all ye many that did stand upon that day, and sit to table at the Opening Hour, and sing our names and drink our joys, and eat the gift-bread that my hands did make -- which of us twain it was did _go_ , and which it was, left standing lonely at the broken Feast, to follow like to a shadow 'midst shadows unto the sorrowing streets?

[they are silent -- she gestures dramatically with her hand, waving them aside]

Stay me not -- hinder me nor seek to, that did not hinder _him_ , but led him to his fate and folly, that would not lose _ye_ to the Dark, but had liefer lose me without backward look --

[she can't keep going for the moment]

**Finrod** : [very softly]

Oh, I _did_ look back --

**Amarie** :

\-- and let _him_ face me and flout me unto my very face, if he will call me _foe_ , this mad japester --

[she starts towards him again, the Ten moving aside helplessly before her indignation]

\-- that didst leave me half-bound, half-bride, to lie at thy feet as a forgotten bauble cast aside by careless child -- I that had gone counter to my kindred's hopes and deep desirings, and set aside their wish and every will, to be his lady and his love, and all for naught, that he should go from me and me a-weeping in my festal raiment 'neath our wedding garlands in the mournful hall!

[by this point she is crying as she speaks without it interfering with her words or her anger -- tears run down her cheeks as she stares furiously at him -- they look like a pair of duellists, despite lack of weapons]

**Finrod** : [patiently (far too patiently, in fact)]

Obviously no one in his right mind would keep on celebrating -- Acclamation or not -- when the Trees had just gone out. You're being utterly irrational -- again. Should I have said, "Keep playing, keep singing, keep feasting, I'm sure it's nothing much?" No. _Everyone_ _in_ _Tirion_ went to see what the matter was. Quite sensibly. -- Even you, as you've just said.

[Amarie just stands there, totally speechless, listening to him in amazement]

Why do you insist on bringing your family's long-standing disapproval of me into it, as if that had anything to do with the slaughter of the Trees, or any relevance to the events of that Night? You keep trying to fit it all together backwards, somehow. And I was perfectly willing to change the date --  _you_ were the one who made your parents choose between attending our Acclamation and participating in the concert -- after we found out about the scheduling conflict. And afterwards when I came back --  _as_ _I'd_ _promised_  -- to conclude the ceremony -- you hit me.

**Amarie** : [snapping]

Aye, and I'll so again, and gladly, till thou dost weep e'en as I -- if thou'lt not for very shame at putting me to shame.

**Finrod** : [offhand]

I've given up expecting rational behaviour from someone whose response to getting what she asked for is violent rejection. -- You keep changing modes and pronouns in your address, too.

[she moves for him as he is speaking]

**Beren** : [in the process of stepping between them, gives Finrod a shocked look]

\-- You did _what_?!?

[they both freeze, staring at him, as he stands half-turned from Amarie to Finrod]

I didn't really hear you say that, did I? You really walked out on her halfway through the wedding and expected she'd welcome you back after with open arms?

[Finrod is speechless]

Don't tell me you did _that_ and then said, "Okay, honey, let's go to bed and in the morning we'll become fugitives" -- !

**Finrod** : [reflexive defensiveness]

There wasn't going to be a morning at that point.

**Beren** : [shaking his head in astonishment]

No wonder she punched you halfway across the dinner table!

**Finrod** : [dismayed]

Beren, not you too!

**Beren** : [grabbing his shoulder]

But you can't _do_ that to someone! Don't you understand? We had wars over people doing that. You never said you jilted her!

**Finrod** :

Wars?

**Amarie** :

"Jilted?"

**Finrod** :

_Wars_?!

**Beren** :

Six or seven people got killed and five barns were burnt and a fishing weir pulled down and the cattle raids didn't stop until your brothers showed up and four generations later there were still families not speaking to each other --

[getting quieter]

\-- and I guess that's really pretty lame of a war -- but still.

**Finrod** : [still skeptical]

_I_ never heard about that.

**Beren** :

You think anyone was going to want to explain it?

**Finrod** : [to the Captain]

Did _you_ know about this?

**Captain** : [shrugs]

I do recall thinking that the stories about the Summer with Five Direct Lightning Strikes and a Flash Flood seemed a bit implausible and that your brothers seemed rather blasé about so many unlucky coincidences, which _would_ seem to indicate stepped-up Enemy activity -- but everything seemed under control and everyone very anxious not to get into it, and since you hadn't given us orders to investigate it, we presumed it was something better left unsaid, given their usual level of caution and alertness regarding the War.

**Finrod** : [switching from disbelief to indignation]

Why didn't they tell _me_?

**Captain** : [utterly bland]

I would have to ask _them_ to find out, Sire.

**Steward** :

\-- However, at a reasonable guess, they might well have felt awkward in mentioning such a -- sensitive topic, quite apart from the embarrassment of having lost order and control in territories still technically under their authority, though no longer under the Princes' direct control.

[Finrod bites his lip, looking away]

**Beren** :

See, there was this one time when there was supposed to be a wedding, and everyone was there, and she never showed up, and people got worried because there was a lot of snow that winter --

**Finrod** : [interrupting]

\--  _You_ never celebrated Acclamations in winter --

**Beren** : [patiently]

No, this was spring, but there was a lot of runoff because of the snow that winter. And because the bride's party never showed up, they thought maybe there was a landslide or a flash flood or something, or maybe a bridge was down and they couldn't make it, or maybe even an Enemy raid had slipped through the eastern pass again, and there were search parties getting ready, and then someone brought the word that she'd gone off with someone else and married him instead, and since there was already everybody armed up and ready to go, it just -- went on from there. And my great-great-grandfather had to try to break it up, and he did, and we even contributed to the damages fund so that there wouldn't be any excuse for fighting over bride-price and dowry, but it kept breaking out again because everyone was so insulted.

[to Amarie, who is listening with fascinated horror]

\-- When I say "we" I mean my family, because I wasn't born yet then. I remember Ma saying that it was really stupid that she let it get that far, because obviously it wasn't going to work and they should have known that before the bridal ale was laid down, because you don't go and marry someone else at the last minute who's a random stranger -- she shouldn't ever have said yes if she really didn't want to go through with it, let alone if there was anybody else who was in the running -- but the humiliation factor of leaving your intended standing at the hall-door couldn't be an accident. That's why it went to a war. That, and the fact that her whole family's cooperation was involved, obviously.

[silence]

**Amarie** :

Must e'en thou deride me, mortal killer?!

**Beren** : [confused]

Ah, no -- that's just the way it happened.

**Amarie** :

. . .

**Captain** :

Milady, if the Lord of Dorthonion were mocking you -- there would be no mistaking it for anything else.

**Amarie** : [through her teeth]

I will not be made _sport_ of by houseless _rebels_!

[she starts to stride towards the archway again]

**Finrod** : [calling after her in a reasonable tone]

I'm sure that if you chose to consider it null and marry someone else, no one could possibly criticize you, seeing that --

[Amarie whirls and stalks towards him -- simultaneously Finrod backs up and Beren starts to move in between them again]

**Amarie** : [shouting]

\-- But I did not _want_ to wed any other consort!

[pause]

**Finrod** : [very quietly]

I'm sorry.

**Amarie** :

_Hold_ , thou prating _wretch_!!!

[she resumes her trajectory and sweeps out again. There is a long, awkward silence -- the Ten try obviously not to be obviously present.]

**Finrod** : [brightly, to Beren]

So now _you've_ taken her side too.

**Beren** : [shaking his head]

There's no sides in this.

**Finrod** :

But you think I'm _wrong_.

**Beren** :

You thought you were wrong too, that's what you used to say.

[pause]

**Finrod** :

Why is it any different now -- or why does it _appear_ differently now -- than at the beginning of the conversation?

**Beren** : [shrugs]

It -- it's just different. It isn't like any other kind of breaking up or contract-ending or anything. You just have to take my word for it.

[sudden inspiration]

What you did to her -- that kind of a cut -- it was the same as Nargothrond.

[long pause]

**Finrod** :

_Nargothrond_ , eh?

[pause -- deceptively light tone]

So you're saying it's hopeless.

**Beren** : [shaking head]

No. She's talking to you. Even at second-hand -- that's a good sign. If it was really hopeless she wouldn't have come to tell you it was hopeless. Means there's room for negotiations.

**Finrod** :

Negotiations don't always end satisfactorily -- for anyone.

**Beren** : [nods]

I know. I'm just saying, there's a chance. You could end up the same, or you could make it worse even. You can't -- I can't believe I'm telling you how to deal with people -- but you're taking this very superior, very haughty tone, putting all the distance to cross on her, and you _don't have_ that high ground. I mean -- Sir, you betrayed her and publicly humiliated her after she had already taken grief for marrying beneath her, and declared for you regardless, and now you're asking her to risk it again for a pardoned rebel.

**Finrod** : [stiffly]

I'm not asking _anything_.

**Beren** :

I know. That's what I'm trying to say, only it's confusing and I'm muddling it worse. I know it seems like she's being unreasonable right now, but you've put her in an unreasonable situation. No wonder you're both stuck -- you're making her come and bend the knee without giving anything in return.

**Finrod** : [more haughty]

I apologized.

**Beren** :

You ripped her heart out and threw it in the mud! And stomped on it a couple times. You don't just say, "Sorry about that, I'm willing to forget about it if you are" -- !

[someone quickly stifles a nervous laugh; long pause]

**Finrod** :

So you're saying that I ought to abase myself thoroughly, grovel even, spare no opportunity to castigate myself before her . . . ?

**Beren** :

No, Sir. That would just be doing the same thing another way. If you aren't sincere -- don't you think she'll be able to tell? If you're just acting like she's being cruel but you're willing to suffer and put up with it, that's just claiming you're in the right as much as the other. Only you'll make it worse, because you'll make it look like _she's_ being unjust.

**Finrod** :

_What_ _else_ could I have done? You remember the stories about that insanity, the outcry, the chaos, even before Feanor showed up to throw flames into spilt oil -- how should I have acted? _What_ _should_ _I_ _have_ _done_?

**Beren** : [bluntly]

Something that wasn't what you did.

[Finrod glares at him]

I -- I'm sorry, I -- it's beyond arrogant for me to lecture you about your own folk. I really -- don't know that any of this is true for anyone besides Men . . .

[long pause]

**Finrod** :

Your people have _a word for it_. The wise listen to experience.

[sighing]

\-- Cut off, pinned down, and no high ground -- can you get me out of this Fen, Beor?

[Beren looks dismayed]

If you can break us free of the trap we've driven ourselves into, you'll render me a greater service than did your father.

**Beren** :

Uh --

**Finrod** :

Because I _can't_. I keep saying the same damned things -- or thinking them -- and we just repeat the measure again and again. Even when it's only in my imagining -- and then it plays out exactly as I've Seen it, right up to the point when you jump in between and change it all.

[pause]

**Beren** :

Sir -- my own relationship has _not_ been the smoothest, to put it bluntly.

**Finrod** : [mildly]

You two are still speaking to each other, last time I checked. -- I'm not asking you to do the impossible, Beren -- no, I am rather, at that -- Only to _try_.

[Beren laughs helplessly, shaking his head]

**Beren** :

Of course. If you're sure. -- You know what happens to my projects.

**Finrod** :

\-- Expansion of scope far beyond any reasonable assessment, followed by utter chaos, culminating in divine intervention? -- I'm counting on it.

[sighing]

New plan. You do whatever you want. I'm not going to tell you what to do or what not to do. Save this -- if you need help, summon me. If you think you _might_ need help -- summon me. If you're not sure -- likewise.

[He turns back to the fountain and washes his face before picking up the harp again. Sitting down on one of the boulders along the margin he begins to play quietly again, ignoring -- apparently -- everything else. Beren looks after him, worried]

**Beren** :

Is he going to be okay?

**Captain** :

He needs time alone. It's been a difficult thing to come by, these past ten years.

[pause]

That was impressive, you getting in between them like that.

**Beren** : [shaking his head]

Dumb, you mean. It didn't even occur to me that -- well, that we're just ghosts and she couldn't've done anything to him.

**Captain** :

Then that only makes it more courageous.

**Beren** :

But she couldn't really touch us, right? That's what she told Tinuviel.

**Captain** :

In theory, no. It's never been put to the test, though.

**Fourth Guard** :

\-- So far as anyone knows. Not here. And no one's asked the houseless in Beleriand what it's like to have someone walk through you. It -- it just wasn't the sort of thing one asked.

**Steward** :

\-- Not to mention the fact that on such rare occasions the mind was occupied in fighting or trying to free them.

**Captain** :

\-- Yes, but wouldn't it have seemed crass in any case?

**Steward** : [nodding agreement]

One assumes there could be no contact at all, but it doesn't seem as though it could be anything but disturbing.

**Soldier** :

\-- And we're not really sure what might happen if the soul of someone living collided with someone discorporate. There's speculation that it might be like getting hit by lightning, only without the subsequent discorporation --

**Steward** :

\-- obviously --

**Ranger** :

\-- When did you get hit by lightning?

**Soldier** :

Stop it --

**Ranger** :

No, really, how else would one know it was like getting hit by lightning, if one hadn't experienced that?

**Captain** :

There's also speculation that it wouldn't have _any_ result if the corporate didn't believe in the discorporate's, hm, _presence_? --  _reality_?

**Beren** :

But how can you be trying to hit someone if you don't think they're really there?

**Captain** : [shrugs]

That's probably not the best description. I'm not sure that you've got the concepts to understand the terminology, sorry. -- Mind you, I'm not sure that I've got them, myself.

**Warrior** :

And then there is also the corollary, which is that if someone believed that one was, er, _real_ , or _enough_ , then the reverse would be true.

**Beren** :

So what you're saying is that if someone alive _didn't_ have doubts like Amarie said about it being possible, maybe they _would_  . . . um . . . stop, at the . . . edges? "Mental boundaries" maybe?

[reaches over and taps the Warrior's arm]

\-- Like we do?

[nods all round]

But it could be that having someone living walk through you or bust your jaw for that matter -- might be like having a pail of ice water thrown at you or something.

**Captain** : [shrugs]

It might only be like a mild breeze.

**Steward** :

Under the circumstances one can but fervently hope so.

**Beren** :

But nobody knows because you haven't tested it.

[deadpan]

\-- Wow, I'm surprised.

**Third Guard** :

Well, how would we?

**Captain** :

The staff already think we're lunatics as it is. Can you really see asking Lord Namo or his Lady to _not_ walk around us because we want to see what an intersection experience is like?

**Steward** :

Lady Nia might oblige.

**Captain** :

Do _you_ want to ask her? I'd be embarrassed.

**Warrior** :

Besides, it might not mean anything anyway. The gods already walk in this plane, so it probably wouldn't be a valid test.

**Fourth Guard** :

What about that kid who's working for her?

**Captain** :

_You_ ask.

**Youngest Ranger** :

Same problem, anyway.

**Soldier** : [aside]

We think, at any rate.

**Beren** :

So we're just going to have to wonder, since it hasn't happened yet, when two spirits -- intersect? -- what happens then.

**Ranger** :

But it's possible --

[breaks off]

**Beren** :

What?

**Captain** :

_Don't_  -- he'll come undone again.

**Beren** :

_What_?

[pause]

**Captain** : [reluctantly]

It's possible you already have. We don't know if they drift aside like a leaf in front of a boat's prow, or -- or _not_. The ones who won't come out of hiding at all. We don't even know how diffuse their consciousness is. Since we can't ask them -- we're left to speculate.

**Youngest Ranger** :

That's not true, Sir, the King's asked them, they just won't answer.

**Captain** :

That's what I just said, isn't it? "The ones who won't come out of hiding at all."

**Beren** : [distressed]

Please -- don't snap at each other.

**Youngest Ranger** :

We're all on edge because we're worried for you.

**Captain** :

And the ones who have left off moping don't want to talk about being dissipated either. Or they don't remember. Even Himself isn't sure if he really stayed in the corner all that time, or if it's an imagining and not a memory of being in a haze of grief.

**Beren** : [bluntly]

So what you're saying is I could have walked through who knows how many other ghosts already.

**Youngest Ranger** :

\-- Please don't get upset again.

[pause]

**Beren** : [half-smiles at them]

Okay.

[he sighs, shakes his head, and looks away.]

**Second Guard** : [helpfully]

Do you want to try working on your combat skills? We can help you with the retraining.

**Beren** : [bitter]

Waste of time, if I'm just going to be kicked out of the world.

**Captain** :

You don't know that it will work out that way. We're hoping for the best.

**Soldier** : [encouragingly]

It'll be great to have you on our side for the next one. There's been talk about doing the First Battle, and it's starting to sound like it might happen finally.

**Second Guard** :

Besides, it'll make the time pass quicker.

**Steward** : [ironic]

\-- That is to say, it may make it _seem_ to do so.

**Beren** : [tearful frustration]

_No_. I've _tried_. I can't do it.

[He looks down, thoroughly embarrassed, while they look at him helplessly -- long pause]

**Fourth Guard** : [intensely]

_Okay_.

[he touches Beren's shoulder.]

\-- It's _okay_.

[Beren nods, still not able to speak]

**Youngest Ranger** :

Do you want to play chess?

**Beren** : [after a moment]

Okay.

**Youngest Ranger** :

Do you care what we use?

**Beren** :

No. Why?

**Youngest Ranger** :

I was just wondering . . . pebbles sometimes roll off their places. You don't mind if I make a set, do you?

**Beren** :

That's fine -- go ahead and do it the way you want.

[he watches in bemusement as the other manifests a tafl board and pieces, setting them down on the floor by the edge of the pool on a convenient bit of the "ledges" that now make up the vicinity, and picks up one with a wondering smile]

It even feels heavy.

**Youngest Ranger** :

That's because you know how heavy stone's supposed to be. You can't fool yourself here.

**Beren** : [speculatively]

Other people, though.

**Youngest Ranger** : [nods]

Sometimes. It depends. You want to go first?

**Soldier** : [to the Youngest Ranger]

You know, I'm not trying to denigrate your work -- it's very fine and naturalistic, but it really doesn't _fit_ just jammed up there against the flat wall like that. It looks strange.

**Youngest Ranger** :

It wasn't done for looks. Go ahead and fix it if you think you can come up with something better. It'll have to be taken down eventually anyway.

**Soldier** :

What about some kind of surround or framing device to gradually bring it to the level of the facing?

**Youngest Ranger** :

I'm playing chess. I don't _care_. Just remember that you'll find out what _your_ fate is that's worse than death if another pipe gets broken. And I won't take the blame for that.

**Soldier** :

Spoilsport.

**Youngest Ranger** :

Who was it vanished when the sconce broke?

**Soldier** :

Yes, but I came right back. You only noticed because you were trying to hide behind me anyway. -- You know that only makes it more obvious that you're trying not to be noticed.

**Ranger** : [to his colleague]

You want to make a bet on whether he breaks something?

**Youngest Ranger** : [patiently]

No, I want to play mortal chess with Beren. I think I've got a workable strategy I want to try.

**Ranger** : [to the Soldier]

Why don't you make a frieze around it, really low-relief, that has a scene of a forest, and then it wouldn't look like rocks coming out of nowhere?

**Soldier** : I thought a semi-naturalistic surround, like a doorway, myself.

**Ranger** :

Won't that just look as though you've got _three_ incompatible things grafted together?

**Soldier** :

No, see, if I do _this_  --

[they go over & start sketching on the wall surface in the background, while the others settle down to watch them (and give more advice) or to watch the chess game, all very carefully not intruding on Finrod's privacy.]

**Beren** : [thoughtfully]

You know, you could have some of you . . .  _vanish_ , and see what happens if somebody walks through you, and then compare observations after. Couldn't you?

[pause]

**Youngest Ranger** :

I don't think any of us is really that curious. Not even _him_. -- Your move.


	85. Act 4: SCENE III.iii

[Elsewhere: the council chamber]

[Luthien is sitting down again, but on the edge of her seat as though at any moment she's going to be up again, glaring furiously at a new Elven-shade, a distinguished and serious looking fellow who was one of the many bystanders in Act I at the court of Doriath. He could be played by Anthony Stewart Head, (courtesy of Mutant Enemy Productions) and at the moment he's looking extremely distressed.]

 **Ambassador** :

I cannot begin to express how grieved I am, Princess, to discover that after all our efforts to keep you safe, and all the improbable escapes and scrapes you managed to get out of, you have ended up here all the same.

 **Luthien** : [shortly]

Well, I'm not particularly happy to see you either.

 **Ambassador** :

That's a terribly harsh thing to say after I got killed trying to secure help and justice on your behalf.

[shaking his head sadly]

I would never have expected such callousness and lack of nobility from that sweet child you used to be. It's got to be the influence of that repulsive Man corrupting you.

[Luthien's eyes blaze. Slowly and deliberately and ominously she gets up and paces over towards him -- as he leans back nervously we get a glimpse of what Sauron might have seen coming for him on the Bridge -- and stands in front of him with an icy look of righteous indignation]

 **Luthien** :

 _You_ told Dad to lock me up in Hirilorn.

 **Ambassador** :

I wasn't the only one!

 **Luthien** : [grim]

Oh, believe me, I know.

 **Vaire** : [to Namo]

You know, darling, I'm not sure this was such a good idea. Even if it _was_ mine.


	86. Act 4: SCENE III.iv

[The Hall.]

[The scene has not changed much from before -- there is now a complicated and ever-changing tracery of light on the back wall as various people contribute ideas and erase bits from the sketch, but otherwise the subdued, yet casual ambience remains the same, another chessboard has been set up, Huan is being happily used as a backrest, and Finrod is still seated off a short ways from everyone else, so quietly that he would almost seem in a sleep-trance, if he weren't playing steadily in a very wistful, almost Mixolydian-mode progression of runs and bell-like changes. ("The Last Rose of Summer" and "Scotland the Brave" are both Mixolydian, combining what we think of as _major_ and _minor_.) His lieges, for all their relaxation, are also very carefully maintaining a perimeter around Beren -- so that when the Princes return, still looking for their brother (now having had time to work up a proper righteous huff about Beren's presence) the alert and defense are instant.]

**Third Guard** : [warning tone]

Sire --

[the rest of the Ten, and Huan, tense -- all attention goes between Finrod and Beren, as the King gives him a serious questioning Look. Beren, meeting his stare directly, shakes his head, and after a moment Finrod nods in acceptance. Everyone stays "at ease" (on the surface, that is) as the other two sons of Finarfin -- after doing a severe double take at the changes, reorient themselves and come over to the waterfall.]

**Angrod** : [acridly]

I don't want to know.

**Aegnor** : [with a sarcastic smile -- he seems to have gotten hold of himself for the present]

Unfortunately I doubt very much that will be possible for very long. -- Finrod, _what_ the bloody blazes is this nonsense? I thought you weren't allowed to do this kind of thing any more.

[Finrod doesn't answer, apparently not aware of them -- Aegnor snorts in disgust.]

Again -- what in Morgoth's name is all this madness about?

[no answer still]

\-- Are you having a relapse, or what?

[they start to approach his refuge -- the Steward gets up and blocks them.]

**Steward** :

I am afraid I must inform you that King Felagund is not admitting visitors at the present moment. I am certain, however, that as soon as he is no longer preoccupied he will be most willing to meet with you.

**Aegnor** :

But we're his brothers!

**Steward** : [bowing slightly]

I believe that I am as aware of that fact as he, or you twain.

**Aegnor** :

You've never blocked us from seeing him in the past!

**Steward** :

It has never been necessary to protect him from you in the past.

**Aegnor** :

You don't --

**Angrod** : [interrupting]

What do you mean, _protect_ _him_ _from_ _us_?

**Steward** : [cold]

Your wrath precedes you like the smell of burning and wraps you like a cloud of smoke. I won't have you harassing him with any of you in your present tempers. There's been enough distressing him tod -- lately.

**Angrod** : [nodding towards Beren, whom they have been ignoring]

And the reason for it's squatting on the floor right there. We're not the problem --  _that_ _one_ is.

**Steward** : [adamant]

Leave The Beoring alone.

**Aegnor** :

You're _still_ protecting _him_! Do you know how _perverse_ that is?

**Steward** :

Your Highnesses -- I have warned you. Follow this path and the consequences be upon your own head.

[they check briefly, looking somewhat worried at the vague prediction.]

**Angrod** :

What consequences?

**Steward** : [shrugging]

That remains -- to be seen.

**Angrod** : [disgusted snort]

You're just being cryptic to make us think you actually know something.

**Steward** :

That is a possibility.

[the Princes circle around to where Beren is still engaged in his match, though everyone else -- with the exception of Finrod -- has left off even pretense of their pastimes and is watching closely]

**Aegnor** :

If it were in point of fact possible to speak one false here, I'd think you made up that story about Amarie. I've not seen anyone who oughtn't be here -- except for _that_ one.

**Beren** : [conversationally]

You missed her. She's been and gone again.

[at this escalation they stop in their stalking and halt a little ways off. The Youngest Ranger ducks down almost to his knees, staring at the kingstone pieces as if they might hold a rescue in them. Beren reaches over and pokes his hand]

You forgot to take the other piece.

[distractedly his companion collects the pawn from the board]

**Aegnor** : [pleasantly]

I really did expect something a bit more prepossessing, after all the stories and so forth. Not this pathetic collection of rags-and-tatters incapable of buckling his own belt..

[there is a long hair-raising growl from Huan and some metallic noises as blades are drawn, or half-drawn around them]

**Third Guard** : [iron]

_Don't_ make fun of that.

[there is a very uncomfortable pause -- the Princes only now noticing Beren's disability, and being somewhat abashed at their faux pas]

**Fourth Guard** : [choked]

You should apologize . . . Your Highness.

**Beren** : [cool, but commanding]

'Sokay. -- Actually, _that_ I can manage by myself. There's a lot of things I can't do one-handed, but I don't need my wife to do everything for me.

**Aegnor** :

What . . . befell your sword-hand?

**Beren** :

Long story. You missed that one too. If you want to actually sit down and listen I'm sure someone would be happy to fill you in, but I'm kind of beat right now and I don't really want to go through it all over again. Also, I admit that it's kind of embarrassing that the only time in the last nine years I've had clean clothes that actually fit was after I was dead, but you know, I never planned on having my homeland overrun and everything I owned destroyed or lost or stolen -- "hunted outlaw" was not my first career choice, so far as I had my life planned.

[long pause]

**Angrod** :

Aren't you ashamed to sit amidst this present company and smirk and speak thus presumptuously?

**Beren** :

Nope.

[pause]

I'm not ashamed of any of my friends.

**Angrod** :

It is simply _grotesque_  -- that all of you together should enjoy his favour.

[looks challengingly over at Finrod, who continues as if oblivious to their presence]

**Captain** : [easily]

One consequence might be to make me reconsider my resolution against challenging you, my lord.

**Angrod** :

_Why_ are you still protecting him?

**Captain** : [shrugging]

Why stop now?

**Beren** :

Just to be perfectly clear -- I didn't ask anyone to stick up for me.

**Aegnor** : [nodding towards his oldest sibling]

I'm surprised _he_ isn't leaping in to defend you again.

**Beren** : [moving a piece]

I told him not to.

[to his opponent]

\-- Path.

[silence]

**Angrod** :

You -- told him not to -- ?!?

**Beren** :

Yep.

[to the Youngest Ranger]

Your move. -- Don't let 'em rattle you.

[as the other looks up nervously again and then hunkers down]

**Angrod** :

Shouldn't that be --  _asked_ , at the very least?

[Beren shakes his head, still studying the board]

**Beren** :

No, he asked me if he should and I told him no. -- Not in so many words.

**Angrod** :

Aren't you ashamed to share the same Circle with him? Far less to continue sponging off his good will and sympathies?

[Beren doesn't say anything, only making a move now it's his turn]

\-- If you really claim lordship of Dorthonion, then you ought to remember that part of _that_ is submission in the chain of command to Aegnor and myself.

[Beren sighs and looks up at him]

**Beren** :

Look, I'm sorry you guys got killed at the Bragollach. And I'm sorry you --

[to Aegnor]

\-- ditched my aunt An' and never made it up with her and it's too late now. But you know, I didn't have anything to do with all that, and -- guess what, he's right, they're _not_ my problems, really. And I don't feel guilty about them.

[silence]

**Angrod** :

\-- What about our brother?

[pause]

**Beren** :

Yeah.

[pause]

But it's not like anything could ever stop him from helping me.

**Angrod** :

You could have _not_ _gone_ _to_ _him_ in the first place. Is that not the truth, --  _Beor_?

**Beren** : [nods]

\--  _If_ there was anyone else I could have gone to. But everyone else who owes me favors is either dead and long gone, or long gone and maybe dead.

**Aegnor** : [fiercely]

You were still free _not_ to involve him.

[pause]

**Beren** :

Maybe so. Maybe I should've just walked away from Tinuviel and left her in Neldoreth and disappeared out of her life. But _I_ couldn't do that. Maybe it _was_ mortal weakness.

[shrugs]

I'm not _you_. -- I'm not even Noldor, which could be part of it, as my wife has pointed out, since she --

[after the first sentence Aegnor, after a second for this to sink in, starts to lunge for him. The Youngest Ranger, still looking apprehensive and conflicted, stands up and blocks him. As they stand confronted, the others close in a tight cordon and wall between the Princes and Beren. Huan follows them, to stand leaning over Beren's shoulder, panting -- and showing an awful lot of teeth.]

**Angrod** :

You disgusting parasite. -- What have you done to trap so many of your betters into serving you?

[this being unanswerable, Beren just looks at him through the rank of defenders, not giving any ground]

**Captain** :

Milords. We've heard this song, and it's getting very boring. If you keep insisting on afflicting us with this tune, we may be compelled to give your thirsty invention some fresh inspiration.

**Aegnor** :

What are you _talking_ about?

**Captain** :

\-- Or cool your fiery humours, as the case may be.

**Aegnor** :

Talk sense, or don't talk at all!

**Captain** : [nods towards the waterfall's pool]

I mean, my lords, we'll pitch you in at the deep end.

[pause]

**Aegnor** :

There isn't a deep end in these little fishless fishponds.

**Soldier** :

There is now, milord. From erosion caused by the force of water.

**Angrod** :

It hasn't been _that_ long -- !

**Ranger** :

\--  _Verisimilitude_.

**Aegnor** : [nodding towards their eldest brother]

You're all as daft as he is.

**Captain** : [offhand]

Quite so -- and a lot more of _us_ than there are of you.

[The Princes look at the intervening rank and think about it]

**Angrod** : [to Finrod]

Are you going to stand by and allow this?

**Finrod** : [sets down the harp, lifting his hands] 

What makes you think I have any control over it? This is not Beleriand. _Father's_ King over the Noldor now, and if Grandfather hadn't refused to interact with anyone, _he_ , not I, would be possessed of such shadowy authority as our Lord and Lady are gracious to permit within these halls -- and since Feanor's so crazy that not even his own people here can deal with him, that falls instead to the High King, so far as he cares to exercise it.

**Angrod** : [biting]

You're lecturing us like little kids, --  _Ingold_.

[Finrod shrugs again]

**Finrod** :

I might not be king, but I _am_ still your older brother.

[pause -- his siblings give him disgruntled glares]

**Aegnor** : [suddenly]

You _died_ because of him!

**Finrod** :

And _with_ him.

**Aegnor** :

And that should make any difference?

**Finrod** : [meaningfully]

You ought to be able to answer that as well as I.

[edged tolerant tone]

\-- Why don't you two run along now and find something harmless to amuse yourselves with? Go pick fights with the Formenos lot or play some chess with our uncle, if you can't think of anything constructive to do.

[he picks up with the music again -- this time it's a lot quicker and brighter: closer to "The Minstrel Boy" instead of "Last Rose of Summer."]

**Angrod** :

Stop treating us like children!

**Finrod** :

Stop acting like them, then. I expect better of you than this.

[there is a brief staring contest, before the younger Finarfinions break off and turn to leave, still indignant]

**Angrod** : [parting shot mode]

Are you sure he really _is_ a Beoring? He doesn't _look_ much like one.

[Finrod scowls, but shakes his head when several of the Ten silently offer to go after the Princes for that. There is a general sigh of relief and nervous humour, once they are gone, and everyone settles back down.]

**Captain** : [sitting down on Beren's other side, scratching Huan behind the foreleg]

You were very restrained when he insulted your mother. Most mortals I've known wouldn't have been so detatched.

**Beren** : [sighing]

He wasn't really.

[to the Youngest Ranger, who is frowning hard at the board now]

Did you go yet?

**Youngest Ranger** :

Er -- they rattled me. Sorry.

**Beren** :

Me too. Take your time.

[to the Captain]

Verbal attacking when you feel guilty doesn't seem to be just a human trait, huh?

[he sighs again]

That's why they never visited Dorthonion in my lifetime, isn't it? It wasn't just that it didn't seem like a long time between visits to them.

**Captain** :

Ah . . .

**Beren** :

I take it that's a yes.

**Captain** :

Yes.

[he grimaces, shaking his head a little, looking off into the distance]

**Beren** :

Would it make you feel better if I yelled at you some?

[the Captain raises his eyebrows, and Beren gives him a quizzical look back for a moment, then shakes his head]

Sorry, I just can't make myself do it.

**Captain** : [quietly]

I'll try to forgive you.

[Beren holds out his hand]

**Beren** :

Don't joggle me this time, okay?

[the Captain opens and passes him the flask. Deliberately, with a wicked glint:]

\-- To your very good health, my lord.

[he drinks and hands it back]

**Captain** :

And to your own, my lord.

[he toasts Beren in turn, laughing gently at them both.]

Shall we be singing comic songs, next?

**Beren** : [shrugs]

Maybe later. If we feel like it then. -- You know, I didn't realize that wasn't just wine until I finally had some in Menegroth. Then I remembered what wine was _supposed_ to taste like, and I figured out that what he'd given me must have been the magic cordial of the Elves.

**Captain** : [snorting]

You and "magic" -- !

[Beren grins]

\-- Are you . . . all right, now?

**Beren** :

Yeah. -- Mostly.

[pause]

Yourself?

**Captain** : [equal honesty]

Mostly.

**Beren** : [nodding toward Finrod]

Why did he call him Ingold?

[brief pause]

**Captain** :

Because it's one of his names.

**Beren** :

Yes, but he said it like it meant something. -- Particular.

[pause -- the Captain looks over his shoulder to Finrod]

**Captain** :

Do you want to explain it yourself, Sire, or shall I?

[Finrod nods towards him, without breaking his play, but with a look of barely concealed amusement]

"Ingold" is an after-name 

\-- you know about those.

**Beren** : [nodding in turn]

Like _Tinuviel_. Or me calling myself "Empty-handed." -- Or _Felagund_.

**Captain** :

Yes, but Ingold is different from those examples. It -- it's the name Lady Earwen gave to him.

**Beren** : [frowning]

There's something about mother-names, isn't there? They're supposed to say something about you, or something, right?

**Steward** :

Put with admirably-vague conciseness.

[he is amused by all this too]

**Captain** : [nodding]

Such as their mother's oft-repeated remark in answer to congratulations on a daughter at last, that no, really she had five sons, only one of them happened to be female. Of course, you can never be quite sure if things like that only reflect the future, or shape it, what with people's expectations.

**Beren** :

So what's it mean? His nickname, I mean.

[Finrod's chief counsellors exchange a sly look, and the Steward starts to speak, but then Beren interrupts]

\-- Wait, wait, I think I figured it out.

[he looks rather smug]

It's the same as the word "ingole," isn't it? -- that means _lore_ , right?

**Steward** : [gravely]

"Ingole" means lore, yes.

**Beren** :

But am I right about how it's the same?

**Steward** :

Mainly. They are close akin. _Ingole_ is more general, _ingold_ more specific.

[at Beren's frown]

It's a personal form, but it's essentially the same as the singular of "Noldor."

[Beren nods in satisfaction]

**Beren** : [sudden direct look to Finrod]

She called you the same thing _we_ did. -- Basically.

[Finrod nods again, with a rueful smile.]

No wonder you said it freaked you out when we called you "Wisdom." I bet you weren't expecting that.

**Finrod** :

Be fair -- I was still rather unsettled from having been told, somewhat insistently, that I was a god --  as if I might be mistaken about it, somehow.

**Beren** : [deadpan]

Are you sure about that, Sir?

[there is a loud jangling discord, and Beren grins, if a bit shyly still]

**Youngest Ranger** :

Um -- "Field," -- I think. -- Sorry.

**Beren** : [after looking at the board]

Hey, that's good. Set 'em up again?

**Youngest Ranger** :

Okay.

[behind them all Finrod carries on his music, looking over his band of loyallists with an expression that is at once proud and considering, calm but very serious in his composure. Yes, he is still very much the King, whether he likes it or not.]


	87. Act 4: SCENE III.v

[Elsewhere: the council chamber]

[Luthien is sitting on the floor next to her chair with her back against it and her arms wrapped around her knees, not looking at all happy, cooperative or diplomatic. Everyone else looks equally frustrated at this point]

 **Vaire** : [to her husband]

I hope _your_ idea works better than mine.

 **Namo** : [nursing his teacup and looking moodily into its depths]

Me too.

 **Luthien** : [exclaiming loudly to the ceiling]

This is so _tiresome_! Why can't you even let Beren be here to speak for himself?

 **Irmo** :

You'd only fight with him, don't you think? After all, that's what you two have been doing ever since you rescued him. That alone should make it clear that you're not really intended for each other, I should say.

[three of the four other Powers present nod in agreement; Aule looks distinctly uncomfortable.]

 **Luthien** :

That's just because of the way things were happening. It didn't really mean anything.

 **Orome** :

You could have fooled us.

[she gives him a disgruntled look and tosses her head]

 **Ambassador** :

Besides, you must see that he's responsible for all of your unhappiness, no matter how much you'd like to pretend otherwise, my dear.

[aside]

And everyone else's as well.

 **Luthien** : [hotly]

That's not true! Not even Mablung blamed him for any of it, not even about Carcharoth.

[the Ambassador flinches visibly at the mention of the Wolf.]

 **Ambassador** :

How -- is -- Captain Mablung doing? -- When you last saw him, of course.

 **Luthien** : [shrugging]

Weakened by his wounds, sick with werewolf venom, and heartsick over the fact that he failed three times at his job.

 **Ambassador** :

Failed -- ? I'm afraid I don't understand what you're referring to, Princess.

 **Luthien** :

Not keeping me safe, not keeping you safe, and not keeping Dad safe. The last time I saw him he was terribly upset that Beren got killed doing his work for him.

[silence]

 **Ambassador** :

Surely -- I've misunderstood. You didn't say --

 **Luthien** :

\-- that Beren got killed guarding my father from Carcharoth. Yes.

 **Ambassador** :

But Elu -- that is to say -- everyone _knows_ that --

 **Luthien** : [caustic]

\-- that Dad wanted Beren dead. I know. So did he.

 **Ambassador** :

Then . . . why . . . ?

 **Luthien** : [slow emphasis]

Because _that's_ the kind of person he is. Things beginning to make more sense now?

 **Ambassador** :

No. Less, rather, I'm afraid.

[shaking his head]

I'm not entirely used to this changed state yet.

 **Luthien** : [snorts]

Give me a break. I've been dead less time than you have, and _I'm_ not making a fuss about it.

 **Namo** :

Yes, but you're Melian's daughter. Your divine side doesn't require a material presence, so it doesn't trouble you the way it would most people. -- Such as your husband.

[she rolls her eyes, while the Doriathrin Lord twitches at that last word "husband."]


	88. Act 4: SCENE III.vi

[The Hall]

[Beren is about to start a new game, when one of the royal Guard comes over and interrupts them:]

 **Second Guard** :

Hey, what's this about someone actually beating Barahirion at mortal chess? That's a joke, right?

 **Beren** : [nodding towards the Sindarin Ranger]

Nope, he took the field last match.

 **Second Guard** :

Then it has to be some kind of weird anomaly. Nobody beats you at kingstone.

 **Youngest Ranger** :

It wasn't a random occurrence. I've got a strategy.

 **Second Guard** : [tapping Beren on the shoulder]

Here -- let me play this one, will you? I want to see this new set of tactics.

 **Beren** : [obligingly]

Okay.

[he moves over and lets the other take his place. To the Warrior, who is next to him, having been watching the last game:]

It sure is a lot easier when you actually have something in front of you, instead of just trying to keep it all straight in your head.

 **Warrior** :

Indeed.

 **Beren** : [wry smile]

Even if it isn't real.

 **Warrior** : [shrugs]

It seems real enough, for the present, and that's all that matters.

 **Beren** :

You want your coat back?

[he reaches up to work off the other's cape, which he has still kept]

 **Warrior** :

Not necessary --

[there is a flicker over his appearance as when Luthien first arrived, and he is wearing his again]

 **Beren** : [blinking]

I'm _not_ going to get used to that. Even if nothing should surprise me after I was -- you'd think I'd get over all these mortal reactions.

[shaking his head]

So your weapons seem just as real as this --

[rubbing at the hem of the cloak]

\-- even when they hit, I take it?

 **Warrior** : [wincing]

Oh, very much _yes_. Especially then.

 **Beren** :

So, how does it work? Or when you get -- killed, here? -- Commander wasn't joking about cutting people's hands off for hitting the King, was he?

[the cavalry officer shakes his head]

But it doesn't --  _stay_ that way, does it?

 **Warrior** :

It stays until you let yourself disperse, and reappear again. That was the problem at first, why we had to make so many rules and do so many practices before we could try the Sudden Flame -- people couldn't grasp that it wasn't fair to just reappear and start fighting again after getting run through or decapitated. Or losing something. But finally everyone admitted that it really was more fun to do it the real way.

 **Beren** :

So you don't have to -- vanish, then, if you've been hit?

 **Warrior** :

No. That's why people who've actually been injured and recovered in Beleriand have a huge advantage over the chaps who just got killed outright. We know what it feels like, and how to keep going. Once you leave the field, though, you're off until the battle's over.

 **Beren** :

So how . . . ?

 **Warrior** :

It's a matter of remembering how it should go, not what just happened to you. Just the same as this --

[he reaches over and pins the brooch on Beren's copy of his cape correctly]

 **Beren** : [not offended]

Thanks.

 **Warrior** :

You know . . . I should tend to think that it would be possible for you as well. It -- it isn't as if you were --

[grimacing involuntarily]

\--  _born_ that way --

[he very lightly brushes Beren's wrist -- the other pulls back, gripping his stump tightly with his left hand.]

 **Beren** :

 _No_.

[less harsh-sounding]

I wouldn't begin to know how.

 **Fourth Guard** :

Know what? I wasn't paying attention.

 **Warrior** :

Restore himself, so that he doesn't have to do without his hand.

 **Fourth Guard** : [interested and hopeful]

Could you?

 **Beren** : [shaking his head]

If I . . . let myself go . . . I might not be able to come back. Or stay here.

 **Fourth Guard** :

But why not? It isn't hard --

 **Beren** : [slowly]

I'm not like you. If I were able to do that -- I wouldn't be _human_ any more.

[pause]

We're not supposed to be having new bodies like you. What happens to us in this world _happens_ , and that's just the way it is.

[he gets to his feet -- his companions give him anxious looks]

 **Warrior** : [urgent]

Please don't be thrown by all this -- we're just talking. I didn't mean to distress you.

 **Beren** :

I'm not.

 **Fourth Guard** : [very worried]

You're not upset again? Really?

 **Beren** : [patting him on the shoulder]

No. -- Really.

[he goes over to Finrod's side and sits down next to him, a little away from where the Captain and the Steward are watching the light effects and passing the flask back and forth at intervals.

 **Captain** : [pointing to the flames]

Will we get in trouble, do you think, if we were to put these over all the fountains in the place?

 **Finrod** :

Yes.

 **Steward** :

I could have told you that.

 **Finrod** : [to Beren]

Did you want to talk about anything?

 **Beren** : [noncommittal nod]

I want to ask you something -- if it's all right.

 **Finrod** :

Ask away, -- kinsman.

 **Beren** : [smiling]

All right. So . . . are there any more crazy relatives I have to watch out for?

[Finrod frowns in thought]

They told me about the High King's long-lost daughter being here, and how I probably don't have to worry about Feanor, but how your cousin the Princess isn't too keen on hearing anything bad about Celegorm or even Curufin.

 **Finrod** : [mildly]

That sounds like a fairly comprehensive briefing.

[to his officers, a touch sternly]

\-- Why, then, were my younger siblings omitted from the list?

 **Captain** : [unfazed]

Sorry, Sir. We've just taken to ignoring those two and their rudeness for so long that we forgot all about them --

[Finrod winces]

\-- but nobody's used to the idea of Ar-Feiniel being here, I'm afraid.

 **Steward** :

The fact that all were aware of the Princes' presence here -- and none of the White Lady's -- no doubt contributed to the taking-for-granted of the former.

 **Captain** : [rueful]

Being slapped hard enough to knock one into a pillar does tend to work against any taking-for-granted, too.

 **Finrod** : [aside]

he did regret it after, though -- particularly because you retaliated before you'd the chance to see who it was.

 **Captain** :

\-- I once asked my sister how she -- and her Lady -- could put up with Cousin Aredhel. The answer wasn't very flattering.

 **Beren** : [a bit agog]

And -- ?

 **Captain** : [looking up at the ceiling]

She said that the Lady was like a hot-tempered horse who didn't hold a grudge, great fun when she was in a good mood, and her bad ones didn't last long, even if she _was_ easily vexed.

[to Finrod:]

Sorry about that, Sire.

 **Finrod** : [dryly]

You could say that my family was full of thieves and murderers and I wouldn't be able to gainsay you.

 **Beren** :

What about the High King? Is he going to want me -- well, that is -- um, going to be mad at me for -- everything?

 **Finrod** :

My uncle isn't likely to, no. He was troubled, yes, but he looks at fate much more reasonably than certain other persons of our mutual acquaintance. He's been rather downcast and melancholy and doesn't get about much anyway, though I try to draw him out of himself as much as possible. The breaking of the Leaguer -- and the news I had to give him about the consequences of it so far -- combined with the Kinslaying have rather depressed him, I'm afraid.

[pause]

\-- He hates being hailed as a legendary hero, as well.

 **Beren** : [digging right back]

They said he was kind of threatened by you getting all kinds of things going here, too.

 **Finrod** : [a bit snide]

It doesn't seem as though they've left much for me to say.

 **Steward** : [sighing]

My lord -- you're beginning to sound like _me_.

 **Finrod** :

. . .

[Beren & the Captain hide their expressions, and the nearest artists on the joint mural project look suspiciously blank.]

 **Beren** :

It's okay, Sir, we won't hold it against you.

 **Finrod** :

It's all or nothing, isn't it? Either you treat me like a demi-god, or you give me as much grief as these two.

 **Beren** :

Um, do you mean, as much grief as I give them, or as much as they give you?

 **Finrod** :

Yes.

 **Beren** :

I don't think I can deny that, right?

[he glances at the Elf-lords]

 **Steward** : [shrugging]

It would be an interesting experiment, to discover if a mortal can knowingly speak falsehood in the Halls.

 **Captain** :

But he already did, when he said he didn't have any idea what I was talking about.

 **Steward** :

No, a statement contrary to fact made with full knowledge that all present _know_ that it is counter to the truth is _not_ an untruth but merely a jest.

 **Captain** :

Well, then, this would be the same thing --

[as they are debating this issue -- ]

 **Beren** : [his expression darkening]

They did have a point, though.

 **Finrod** :

Who did, concerning what?

 **Beren** :

That I might as well have killed myself before getting you involved.

[Finrod's hand tightens on the harp frame]

 **Finrod** :

I should have let them get soaked.

 **Beren** :

'Cause it's not like anything I ever did made a real difference -- for the better, at least. Not even my War. I'm not even worth making an example of.

 **Finrod** : [exasperated sigh]

You're not _still_ glooming about _that_ , are you? -- You don't think he was telling the truth, surely?

[Beren shrugs]

Beren, let me impart, if you'll allow, a brief word of advice: anyone who likes going by the aftername of "The Terrible" is _not_ likely to say, "I'm sorry, but I'm not going to publicly execute you because I don't want anyone to know how much trouble you've managed to cause and if you simply disappear my enemies will be less likely to make a martyr of you." -- Wouldn't you agree, eh?

 **Captain** : [putting his head down on his knees in despair]

Oh dear Lady, they're at it _again_! What is it this time? I don't recognize this one.

 **Steward** : [shaking his head]

I know about this. It's all right.

 **Captain** :

How come I don't?

 **Steward** :

Because you have such a hard time staying still and not speaking, if you're not out-of-doors stalking something. It was very difficult for him to talk about the End. And even after we knew about the rescue -- it was still nothing either of us wished to recollect. -- Better, perhaps, that he's willing to speak of it now to The Beoring.

[anxiously]

\-- I wasn't trying to keep things from you in some sort of petty triumph.

 **Captain** :

I didn't think that, actually.

[pause]

 **Steward** :

Do you want to play chess?

 **Captain** :

\-- Do you want to try scaling the rockface the lads have built?

[the Steward snorts at that. Still looking at the water:]

You did cheat, didn't you?

[silence]

Why?

 **Steward** : [distantly]

I remember a foolish young Herald who refused to listen to a mere field officer telling him that the Enemy didn't honor the rules of battle that all civilized peoples in Middle-earth obeyed, saying instead, "They can't shoot me -- haven't you ever heard of diplomatic immunity?"

 **Captain** :

He only said that _once_ , as I recall.

 **Steward** :

Being shot at rather tends to make it a hard position to maintain.

 **Captain** :

He did a fair job at not panicking and getting the mission out of range without any further casualties, as I also seem to recall, if only in bits and pieces.

 **Steward** : [shrugging]

I couldn't let your last words to me be: "Told you, you fool --"

 **Captain** :

I thought you apologized quite enough to last out forever and then some, four hundred thirty-odd years ago. That's a long time to still be worrying about it.

[pause]

And -- I notice you still haven't answered the question --  _Why_? Surely it wasn't still guilt over one stupid mistake and a misplaced instance of verbal superiority. I'd really hate to have your conscience, if that's the case.

 **Steward** :

Surely if I were going to concede any such thing, I should have done it long since.

 **Captain** : [ignoring this]

The _how_ of it's easy -- obviously you simply foresaw which character I'd choose and named the next tengwa. But I'm not sure of the rationale, since it wouldn't make any difference in the end -- and if anyone had any optimistic hope that Orodreth might discover some courage somewhere and mount a rescue before the end, it wouldn't under any circumstances have been _you_.

 **Steward** :

Why do you insist on knowing this now?

 **Captain** : [completely serious]

Because things are about to _change_ , as they haven't before -- I can sense it without benefit of Foresight, like the coming of rain from beyond the hills, or the scent of snow in the air -- and I _think_ for the better, though you'll say that's to be expected -- and I don't know that I'll be able to ask you again, Outside, under broad starlight. -- Why did you let me go before you?

[pause]

 **Steward** : [quietly]

It was almost as hard on you as upon him --

[nodding towards Beren]

\-- you could never bear being under a roof so long, even when the fortress was ours, and the freedom of it likewise . . . . Besides, it was not all unselfishness: I did not See then this meeting, and so I had a little longer while his company for it.

[pause]

I also knew which words _he_ would choose.

[the Captain glances briefly towards Finrod, and then looks back at the water/fire in silence]

What is it you are thinking?

[pause]

 **Captain** :

Wondering what caused the Song to bless me from the beginning of Time with a friend willing to live in my place. I could never have earned that or deserved it.

 **Steward** : [very dry]

\-- And yet you still won't give me the grace of a chess-match.

 **Captain** : [easily]

There's that problem of staying still in one place indoors for long stretches of time at a go.

 **Steward** :

You're willing to sit still for long periods of time and watch, and offer astute criticisms of the plays, which would indicate that you don't find it quite so boring as all that, would it not?

 **Captain** : [grinning]

\-- Yes, but that's _fun_. It drives everyone insane when I do that, in such different ways, and I get to see so many unguarded reactions. And if I were actually playing I couldn't pay attention to everyone else and keep close eye on the bystanders.

 **Steward** : [sighs]

If you've not noticed, we're _not_ in Nargothrond keeping track of the movements of Feanorian partisans and possible supporters any longer.

 **Captain** :

No, we're in Mandos, keeping track of the movements of Feanorian partisans, hadn't you realized that yet?

[this gets him a small but well-aimed splash from the spill-pool]

 **Beren** : [extremely troubled]

\-- But what I still don't know, is -- did any of it _mean_ anything? Not just our War --  _The_ War, and Luthien saving me, and us getting the jewel, and Huan killing Carcharoth -- since we just lost anyway. So what if we hurt Morgoth doing it? He just comes back and stomps us again, harder this time, kills more people, and things are worse after for resisting! What _good_ are the inspiring songs, if nobody's left to sing them?

[he looks at Finrod unhappily but with hope that somehow the King will be able to make it all right, while Finrod meets his stare quite soberly.]

 **Finrod** :

I'm working on that problem. I still don't have enough information for a complete answer, I'm sorry to have to tell you.

[he startles, looking up as though he has heard something that no one else has yet perceived, and turns to Beren with a stricken expression.]

 **Finrod** :

Change of plan again. Just follow orders -- no questions, no interpretation --  _please_.

 **Beren** : [seeing how serious he is]

Okay. -- What orders?

 **Finrod** : [visibly coming undone, for him]

Stay out of sight -- stay behind Huan, don't -- don't get up, don't -- just -- lie low. Keep -- keep playing chess, act normal, whatever happens -- I -- I'm not sure how I could disguise you as we are and -- just --  _please_  -- obey.

 **Beren** :

What is it? --  _Who_  -- is it?

 **Finrod** :

My father.

 **Beren** :

? ! ?

[Finrod reaches out and grips his shoulder in attempted reassurance]

 **Finrod** :

Don't panic. Everything will be all right.

 **Beren** :

No it won't.

 **Finrod** : [sadly agreeing]

Probably not. -- But leave it all to me. _Please_.

[Beren nods, and getting up goes quickly over to the further side of the pool where the games are ongoing, hastily explaining to a resulting general consternation and gestures of alarm equal to his news of Amarie, while the two chief counsellors answer their unofficial liege lord's summons for a hasty briefing and consultation.]

[By the time a Messenger of the Halls' resident staff enters, looking far more vague and brilliant than anyone we have yet seen (rather like a personification of the Northern Lights), and ushering in Finarfin, King of the Noldor in Aman (he might be played by Peter Davison, in _All Creatures Great And Small_ , _Dr. Who_ days) -- everyone has settled down into very preoccupied harmless pursuits again, and Beren is completely screened behind giant Hound and friends. Finrod does not leave his nook beside the falls, doing an excellent imitation of someone completely oblivious, and the Captain has taken point, as shall be seen in a moment, at the closest edge of the spill-pool towards the door,leaning on his elbow and ostensibly taking it quite easy.]

 **Messenger** :

If it please you wait a moment, while I admit your Majesty's companion -- I'm afraid we're very short of people available right now. -- Not entirely coincidentally, I've heard.

 **Finarfin** :

I shall wait, then, gentle spirit.

[the Messenger vanishes. Finarfin looks around with a controlled awe and restrained apprehension -- and as perception adjusts he sees the ghostly grouping, and his face changes from wonder to dismay to equally-controlled anger -- the last especially as Finrod continues to disregard him. After a brief hesitation he walks slowly over towards the waterfall, and stops to look down at the Captain with a particularly disgusted expression. The Captain gets up and bows with a pleasant smile.]

 **Finarfin** :

\--  _Thou_.

 **Captain** : [tone matching his smile]

Good day, my lord -- meaning _day_ in the most general sense, for we haven't any way of telling the time here.

[Finarfin glares at him]

 **Finarfin** : [bluntly]

Thy former post I have given to another -- nor shalt thou have it again, when thou dost depart these halls.

 **Captain** : [unfazed]

Of course not -- I wouldn't expect you to take it from my replacement and give it to a rebel. Who's chief huntsman now?

[long pause]

 **Finarfin** :

I did award it unto thy sister.

 **Captain** : [genuine cheerfulness]

Well, that's good -- keeping it in the family, what? At least the job's in competent hands.

[pause]

 **Finarfin** :

I'll not have thee hanging about the place like wasp to fallen fruit, seeking for undeservéd bounty.

 **Captain** :

I beg your pardon, my lord?

 **Finarfin** :

Nay, is't not the very trouble, that thou dost _not_? -- I mean thou shalt have no welcome within my doors, nor admittance within my gates, nor _any_ admit thee within the walls of mine own house. Thou hast chosen thine own way in the world: do thou make it, then.

[this sinks in]

 **Captain** :

And what of my kin?

 **Finarfin** :

Do they choose to see thee, let arrangements be made -- but not upon the lands of my holding, nor upon the hours of their employ; an they'll the hours of their idleness squander on thy ingratitude, let them do so elsewise and in other venue.

[silence]

What wouldst thou say, sir?

[the Captain is clearly hurt and troubled by this proclamation]

 **Captain** :

That you are within your power, and have every lawful right to bar whomsoever you wish from your property.

 **Finarfin** : [baiting him]

Thou dost not say I am unjust, then, else cruel?

 **Captain** : [shortly]

Freedom answers all complaints, my lord.

[before this can escalate further the Steward comes over in a preemptory way and addresses his colleague equally abruptly]

 **Steward** :

Go attend upon our sovereign lord: he shall have question and request for you. -- At once.

[the Captain snaps to attention and bows before leaving with the same alacrity; the Steward gives Finarfin a cool half-bow, as between near-equals, and turns to go without speaking -- but Finarfin calls him back.]

 **Finarfin** :

Enedrion.

 **Steward** : [wary]

Sir.

[watchful pause]

 **Finarfin** :

I encountered thy father at court not long since.

 **Steward** : [politely formal]

Indeed?

[pause -- when it is apparent Finarfin is not going to be more forthcoming:]

\-- And how fares Lord Enedir?

 **Finarfin** :

Uncertain as to whom he should most direct his wrath -- thyself, myself, or mine eldest son.

[pause]

This is nothing new, we often speak of our children who have lost them.

[longer pause]

 **Steward** :

Indeed.

[uncomfortable silence]

 **Finarfin** :

Is there any message, that thou'dst have me bear unto thy parents?

 **Steward** : [diffident]

I should not wish to put any burden upon my lord's father.

 **Finarfin** : [iron]

Young sir, were I not willing, I should not have asked. -- What message wouldst thou give them?

 **Steward** : [resigned]

Then, if you will, -- convey to my family my condolences upon their loss.

 **Finarfin** : [startled]

Art mad, or dost thou jest?

 **Steward** :

Neither, sir, or so I do believe.

 **Finarfin** :

 _Condolences_? What reply, thinkst thou, thy father'll make to that?

 **Steward** : [shrugs]

I will not speak untruth. My heraldic office forbids it, even if my conscience were not sufficiently strong, to say there's aught that I regret, or would do other, when it is not so -- and yet to say as much were a far crueller thing, I think, than nothing at all. Moreover -- would not any conciliatory phrase be manifestly not of my making? At least they'll have no doubt this comes of me.

[Finarfin sighs]

 **Finarfin** :

\-- Indeed. -- Who else should answer with such insolence in such courteous form?

 **Steward** : [tired]

It is not insolence -- though no doubt they'll see it so as well.

 **Finarfin** :

And I must bear the brunt of it.

 **Steward** :

If you will recollect, my lord, that follows but upon your insistence. I wished no such trouble -- for you -- or them.

 **Finarfin** :

And sparest not to mind me of't.

 **Steward** :

Not oft -- I shall say it but this once, in fairness.

 **Finarfin** :

To whom? Thyself or myself?

 **Steward** :

Why, to whom does justice belong, my lord?

 **Finarfin** : [dry chuckle]

\-- Thy _wits_ , perhaps, -- but not thy _wit_. As edged as ever, I do perceive.

 **Steward** : [nodding]

The extremes of ice and fire set a keen temper.

 **Finarfin** : [as one stating a fact]

Thou hast not forgiven Araman.

 **Steward** : [deliberate emphasis]

Said I so, my lord?

[brief silence]

 **Finarfin** :

Dost deny thou dost accept me not as king?

 **Steward** :

Are we in Tirion?

[looks around exaggeratedly]

We are not. Till then 

\-- I have a lord already.

 **Finarfin** :

Thou kennst he doth lay claim to no such title now?

 **Steward** : [nodding]

We allow him to maintain that fiction, the more so since all know full well it is just that.

 **Finarfin** : [startled again]

Thou _dost_ _allow_  -- ?!

[Finrod comes up to them, and with a polite but brief nod to his father sets a hand on the Steward's shoulder.]

 **Finrod** :

\-- Edrahil. Would you be so good as to see if my gentle kinsfolk are done with their chess-game yet? Do _not_ let my uncle draw you into another round.

 **Steward** :

Of course, your Majesty.

[bows to Finarfin]

I rest my case, my lord.

[he goes away into the shadows. Finarfin gives his son the raised eyebrow]

 **Finrod** : [coolly]

A rescue seemed in order. Again.

 **Finarfin** :

And of whom, pray?

 **Finrod** :

Whichever most needed it. -- One ought not begin an endeavor which one has not the will to finish.

 **Finarfin** :

Aye . . . As, for example, -- to wed.

[touché]

 **Finrod** : [folding his arms]

So. -- Why have you come here? I assure you I have not nor shall not change my mind, and this cannot do either of us any good.

 **Finarfin** :

And art thou the heavens' center, that all must turn about thee? It is not on thy behalf that I am come.

 **Finrod** : [bowing his head slightly]

My mistake.

 **Finarfin** : [shaking his head]

Such presumption sovereignty hath bred in thee, since thou didst wrest from me full half our House and alliegiance thereof. And yet . . . it seemeth that _hence_ all kings must come at last.

 **Finrod** : [shrugging]

Here I am but one among many bound here by our folly. My time as lord beneath the Sun is ended with my days in Middle-earth, and never shall I reign again, for good or evil. -- You need not fear that I shall usurp your authority again.

[Finarfin looks away, tight-lipped, as though trying to bite back some really caustic retort. Shrewdly:]

\-- If you've hope of getting some affirmation from Grandfather, I'm afraid you've come in vain. He will neither see nor speak with any of us. Not even your brothers.

[Finarfin stares at him -- this has hit home in turn. Before he can recover, another pair of newcomers enters: the Assistant of the divine Smith we met previously, and a woman whose dark, plain and practical clothes contrast strikingly with her flaming hair. (Zoe Caldwell, _Medea_ , might represent her.) Her posture expresses extreme unease and apprehension, and she looks around without any pretense of being unimpressed, pulling her cloak around her as if chilled. Aule's Assistant bows to her and vanishes, which does not seem to surprise her in the least.]

 **Nerdanel** : [to Finarfin]

\-- Brother.

[she crosses quickly and embraces him, with a quick kiss on either cheek, and they clasp hands tightly, letting go with reluctance like worried relatives in a hospital ward.]

Thy mother is much troubled over all this ado, I confess.

 **Finarfin** : [smiling despite the stress]

Didst assure her, then, by thy coming, to give me wisest counsels?

 **Nerdanel** : [managing a brief smile]

I did.

[she gives a very brief, anxious glance towards Finrod -- it's clear from her manner that she would rather pretend that he is not there, if he'd be civilized enough to allow it]

She tasked me to restrain thy more impetuous urges, and _thee_ to give me heart.

[Finarfin pats her arm in gesture of reassurance]

 **Finrod** : [bowing very politely]

Aunt 'Danel.

 **Nerdanel**. [sighing]

Nephew.

[pause]

\-- 'Twould be indiscreet, so I am given to know, to enquire of thee the news I'd have most willingly.

 **Finrod** : [without resentment]

When last I saw them, or had news of them, their stars were in the ascendant, or at the least maintaining above the tide of War.

 **Nerdanel** : [sharply]

All of them, sayest thou?

 **Finrod** :

All that I have seen.

[gently]

I have not yet seen any of them _here_. -- Though that does not mean as much as it might: I haven't seen their father, either, though some few others have of your former household.

 **Nerdanel** :

Thou seest too much. -- E'en as thou dost deny it.

 **Finrod** :

I am truly sorry to have no better comfort to offer.

 **Nerdanel** :

Thou dost speak as comfort might be given, that's no more to be had, saving the past be undone. -- Nor shall that be. Shatter the alabaster, then mend it as thou canst -- still it doth remain _cracked_ and withal flawed for ever and aye.

[pause]

 **Finrod** :

Then one might do better to carve another, and make the work over anew.

 **Nerdanel** :

And that new-fashioned one is not the first, nor shalt ever be the same.

[pause]

 **Finrod** : [meaningfully]

It might be _better_.

 **Nerdanel** : [dismissive]

Thou and thy mad follies. Is't not enough to leave Valinor atilt with thy departing, that must unbalance more upon thy coming home? Must shake Taniquetil with this heresy of thine, and set all Valmar's tongues to ringing e'en as their bells, as the clamor on the hill of Tun' doth blow stormwise through the White Tree's leaves, for the tale of thy mortal Doom?

[Finrod looks both intensely embarrassed and unshakably stubborn]

 **Finrod** :

Of course I could be wrong.

[this sounds like formal politeness]

 **Nerdanel** : [coolly]

Well, thou'lt learn the truth of't for thyself in little while, shalt thou not? When thou hast thy flesh again, must tell us all, of whether this second sculpting be equal to the first.

[nonplused, he can think of nothing to say to that -- while he is still silenced Finarfin rallies]

 **Finarfin** :

When shalt rejoin us, son? Thy mother cannot fathom wherefore _thou_ dost abide here, when thy rooms stand empty in Tirion for thy reclaiming.

 **Finrod** : [shrugging]

That's up to Amarie, Father. There's no way I can avoid running into her -- or friends of hers -- Outside and out-of-doors, and I'm not going to come home and skulk around the house. You've already got enough problems as it is, without the neighbors deluging you with sympathy for _another_ insane relative.

 **Finarfin** :

Mad or otherwise, we would yet have thee to home again.

 **Finrod** :

I'm sorry.

[somewhat hesitant]

Would you please tell Mother for me --

 **Finarfin** : [cutting him off]

Thy mother shalt yet hear no apology of thine, save thou dost give it her thyself, and in the flesh.

[pause]

 **Finrod** : [conversationally]

You know, I'm not the only one in the family who can "outstubborn stubborn."

 **Finarfin** :

Indeed, far other -- I find it most amusing, that Earwen doth aver it cometh of my parentage, this obduracy and headstrong will of our offspring.

 **Finrod** : [same offhand, and patently-false, tone]

Oh, I've met Mother's relatives overseas. We haven't an inch of vantage on them.

 **Finarfin** :

So I am adviséd. Thou didst ask wherefore I am come hither. 'Tis thus: Lord Namo has requested that I might lend my authority as chief of our folk to convince the daughter of her uncle Elwe -- with whom I believe thou art in some small wise acquainted -- to see reason and to release withal her Second- born spouse -- whose acquaintance I believe thou also hast -- from his mortal toils within this world, speaking haply more in tune with her own mind and nature that are akin to our own, than the great Powers, that are stranger to her -- and that have eke known both the joys of Aman, and --

[nodding sympathetically to Nerdanel]

\-- the sorrows of wedlock and husband's love that cools upon longsome time.

[Aule's Assistant manifests again and joins them, ignoring Finrod completely]

 **Aule's Assistant** : [very deferential to the King of the Noldor and Mahtan's daughter]

\-- Gentles, if you'd please to come . . .

 **Finrod** : [raising an eyebrow]

So they expect that you and Aunt 'Danel will be able to talk Luthien into staying here alone in Aman.

[snorts]

 **Finarfin** : [dry]

Indeed. -- I cannot begin to fathom why.

[with this parting shot he follows the waiting messenger and his sister-in-law, as Finrod winces again.]


	89. Act 4: SCENE III.vii

[Elsewhere: the Conference chamber]

[Luthien is leaning against one of the columns, her arms folded, frowning, while the Powers look gloomily at her or at the light-dish; the Ambassador, apparently having given up, is wandering slowly along the circumference looking at the scenes of Doriath while the argument goes on.]

 **Aule** : [gesturing for emphasis]

You keep saying that we are not listening to you, but you don't seem to be aware that you yourself are not aware of what we are telling you. Clearly you've already made up your mind to ignore everything that my colleagues, and I, have to say.

 **Luthien** :

That's because it's irrelevant. Some situations are not negotiable.

[the Ambassador gives her a startled look -- deja-vu]

Everything about Beren being unworthy of me is simply wrong. So _that's_ irrelevant.

 **Namo** : [patiently]

No one has said that,Luthien. You're projecting your arguments with your parents on this situation.

 **Luthien** : [pointing to her father's counsellor]

 _He_ did.

 **Namo** : [dispassionate]

Correction. None of _us_ has said that. -- Or that you don't really love him, or that he doesn't really love you. Or that he hasn't done heroic service in the cause of Arda, or that he isn't real, or any of the other things you keep on insisting we have. What we are saying is simply the truth: you can't keep him here indefinitely discorporate. It isn't fair to him to deny him the Gift of Men.

 **Orome** : [speaking up finally, still scowling darkly]

We want to help you _both_.

 **Luthien** : [fretfully]

I just want to go home. --  _With_ Beren.

 **Namo** :

And then what? Do we do this all over again in fifty or sixty years? He isn't _made_ for this.

[Luthien bursts into tears, turning to hide her face against the pillar; Vaire gives her husband a reproachful look]

 **Vaire** : [getting up]

That wasn't a very sensitive thing to say, darling.

 **Namo** :

The truth usually isn't.

 **Vaire** :

I know, but still --

[she goes over to where Irmo is already trying to comfort her]

 **Irmo** :

Child, child, _please_ don't cry --

 **Luthien** : [through her teeth]

I want to go _home_.

 **Vaire** : [hugging her]

But this _is_ your home. You were meant to come here, and be safe, that's why Tav went to find your people in the first place. If you'd been born _here_ you'd never have had all these troubles.

 **Orome** : [ironic aside]

\-- Other troubles, but not _these_ troubles.

 **Luthien** : [pulling away, sniffling]

But if my father had come back with everyone else, then he wouldn't have met my mother, because she was already in Middle-earth then, and so I wouldn't have been born. Here or anywhere else. -- Or I'd have been someone else. So there wouldn't _be_ a Luthien for you to talk to.

 **Ambassador** : [resigned]

It's just like arguing with the King her father. Neither one of them knows how to stop.

 **Aule** : [snorting]

\-- If this is what Melian puts up with on a daily basis, I'm surprised she was born at all.

 **Irmo** :

Este and I would be _so_ happy to have you come live with us. And for your own sake, not just becausewe loved your mother so much: the Gardens would be made inexpressibly more delightful for your presence --

 **Luthien** : [raising her voice]

I am _not_ a collectible!!! -- Do I look like a garden statue, I ask?!?

[stunned silence -- into which Aule's Assistant and escorted company arrive, all three with postures indicative of wary reluctance]

 **Luthien** : [not _quite_ so loudly]

I hope you're not more "old friends of my mother's."

 **Nerdanel** : [wry]

That would be most difficult, forasmuch as I never met thy mother. I am Nerdanel, of Lord Aule's Following, and presently attached to Queen Indis her household -- though most known for another familial connection, I confess.

 **Luthien** : [narrowing her eyes]

You're Feanor's wife, right?

[pause]

I have to say, you didn't do a very good job raising your children.

[collective cringe -- Nerdanel sighs, and Finarfin looks over at the Lord of the Halls.]

 **Namo** : [before he can say anything]

Yes, it's been like this all along.

 **Aule** : [cynical smile]

Have a chair, welcome to the party.

[he gestures toward the vacant seats]

It's the most excitement there's been since we launched the Sun -- you wouldn't want to miss any of it, now?

 **Finarfin** : [warily]

As I do recall, my Lord -- much of _that_ ado was was born from lack of certainty as to the durance of the vessel and risks therewith.

 **Aule** :

This isn't too different, as you'll find. Waiting for something to blow up, crash, burn or otherwise wreak havoc --

[to Orome]

I'm almost willing to concede that Tulkas has the right idea -- I could use a drink right now myself.


	90. Act 4: SCENE III.viii

[the Hall]

[Finrod goes back to his seat, picks up the harp, looks at it, smiles ironically and sets it down again, shaking his head. Despite his apparent nonchalance he's quite aware that everyone is watching to see what he will do, all along; what he does is beckon the Captain over to him, not urgently, but with a resolute air.]

**Captain** :

Sir?

**Finrod** :

I've been waiting for things to happen, and now they are, and happening too fast and variously for me to manage singly. I can't wait for my uncle to make up his mind about acting, and I need good intelligence to make intelligent decisions.

**Captain** : [seriously]

Of course. We don't want any more of the sort of systemic failures and oversights that helped land us here happening again.

[Finrod gives him a Look]

\-- Why, Sire, surely if you can blame yourself for circumstances far past your control, you'll not begrudge me the same?

**Finrod** : [deep sigh]

Consider the point taken. What we need is _inside_ access to the debates, from someone who's well-disposed to Beren, or at the least not hostile to _us_ , and keen-witted enough to be able to sort out the meat from the shells, so to speak. Can you crack me this nut, then?

**Captain** :

Ah, this must be Edrahil's request.

[Finrod gives him another Look]

He said you'd have both a question and a request for me when he saved me from your dad's incipient harangue, and you already asked me what in the name of the Void was going on, then.

[Finrod sighs]

There's one individual that springs to mind immediately. I mean, it would be a little inappropriate to appeal to my Lady --  _yet_. -- But. And then again --  _but_. It's that competitiveness that's going to be trouble.

[he raises an eyebrow -- Finrod nods.]

**Finrod** : [meaningfully]

_Yes_. That's what I was thinking. The trouble is, I can't afford the traditional methods -- they take too long, for one -- and besides, those usually don't give the best results. I need full, free and proactive cooperation, not devious answers begrudgingly given, even if it's just for the joy of it and not real malice. I don't want to be worrying about whether I've phrased one wrong and wasted it, so that I hardly dare use the other two until it's too late.

**Captain** :

So. No riddles, no boardgames.

[he frowns thoughtfully]

Got it. I think I can manage this without actually having to fight His Majesty. And if not -- at least he doesn't have it in for me.

**Finrod** : [wincing]

Do I want to hear about this plan of yours?

**Captain** :

Probably not, Sir.

**Finrod** :

\-- Ought I regardless?

[pause]

**Captain** :

I don't think you need to.

**Finrod** :

Good. Take as many people as you require.

**Captain** :

Oh, I think my backup's already there.

**Finrod** :

Of course. -- Try to pry him loose from that damnéd game of my uncle's when you're finished.

**Captain** :

I don't know if I can promise _that_ , Sire. Getting between chess sots and their board is --

**Finrod** :

\-- See if you can inveigle my cousin into taking his place. Tell her you'll thrash her husband for her or something. -- You did not hear me say that, by the by.

**Captain** :

Hear what, my lord?

**Finrod** : [sighing]

I should never have introduced either version of it to Eithel Sirion.

**Captain** :

If not you, someone else should have soon enough.

[departing, over his shoulder:]

You know she'd rather do it herself, though. -- Actually, that gives me a better idea.

**Finrod** :

I await your results with equal parts eagerness and trepidation. Good luck.

[as the Captain leaves Finrod whistles loudly and Huan comes to him, followed by a curious Beren.]

**Finrod** :

Stay and look after Beren until I return. If there's any trouble of any sort, please come and fetch me immediately.

**Beren** :

Sir, should you really be going off by yourself? I heard about all that, and I think they're right to be worried. How your wearing this --

[reaches up and flicks at Finrod's hair and collar]

\-- is as in-your-face as you can get to the Kinslayers without actually calling them that, and how they're fed up with you six ways from Couplesday already.

**Finrod** :

Didn't they tell you about the latest attempt, then?

**Beren** :

I know, but you can't do that with the walls -- or the floor -- any more because you promised, right? And even if they don't know that yet it'll be obvious when you don't.

[pause]

**Finrod** :

They put you up to this, didn't they?

**Beren** :

No, I just kept adding things up. Two and two and two is six, after all, Sir.

**Finrod** : [wistful]

Surely you wouldn't be addressing me so formally still, if I were one of your mortal kinsmen.

**Beren** :

You're changing the subject, Sir, and yes I would, if you were one of my senior cousins on Ma's side visiting which is how I can almost make it work by pretending, and I did call them "Sir" and "Ma'am," and if one of them was going to do something dumb like go hiking in an area they didn't know very well by themselves without a guide I did tell them that even if I was just a kid.

[pause]

I did it politely, like I did at first, though, I didn't tell them it was dumb -- but if that didn't work I would go ask Ma or Uncle Brego for help if they didn't listen on account of me being a kid.

[Finrod just looks at him]

Only there's no one Ican go to at this point since you don't listen to them and I don't know your uncle and somehow I don't think you'd listen to him anyway. Or you'd listen but then you'd do it anyway. If I was really unscrupulous I would say something like how if you get beat up by a squad of bandits you won't be helping me and it will make it harder for you to do that, but that would be unfair.

[Finrod sighs, looks away, and then tries very hard to persuade Beren he's overreacting]

**Finrod** :

Beren, please try to understand. Throughout the entirety of the Return I was obliged to be responsible and level-headed and mediate between all my hot- tempered, justly-or-unjustly-outraged, easily-offended kin and compatriots, and every other free People in Beleriand as well. That gets tiresome after almost half-a-millenium, you know. And I _don't_ _have_ _to_ _do_ _it_ any more. I'm not the King of Nargothrond now.

**Beren** : [nods]

I can see why you'd want to take risks and have some fun after being serious and in charge all that while, but if you won't consider us -- how _we_ feel worrying about you and not being able to do anything to protect you -- then I will have to guilt you about it.

**Finrod** : [jauntily]

I don't _need_ to move the walls, though -- the Powers don't bother preventing us from administering lessons in civility and prudence to each other, and I assure you I am quite as much the equal of any here with sword or lance as I am with any form of power.

[he gestures, for an instant brandishing a dangerous looking blade, before letting it vanish]

**Beren** : [unmoved]

And there's still just one of you. At least take Huan.

**Huan** :

[agreeable tail-wagging]

[Finrod looks around, then leans closer and says very quietly]

**Finrod** :

Beren, I _don't_ need to move the walls to deal with them. I could make them think they were trapped behind walls, if I chose. I could make them believe _far worse_. If they truly threaten me, they _will_ wish they had turned back at Araman, if not for remorse then for the sake of fear, since the end result is that they're here in my company.

[pause]

**Beren** :

You'll get in trouble.

**Finrod** :

Very likely. It won't matter because they'd never dare risk my anger again.

[pause]

Do you believe me?

**Beren** :

They said that people can't lie here -- that what you think is what you say here.

**Finrod** :

I can't lie to you anyway. -- Only deceive you with silence.

**Beren** :

Sir -- everyone has their secrets. And yeah, that was not a good one to keep from me, and I think you know that now, so I don't see that you need to bring it up every other minute any more.

**Finrod** : [mild]

Sharply put.

**Beren** : [not giving ground]

Yep.

**Finrod** : [rueful]

\-- "Sharp as salt," isn't that how the saying goes? Such a diet I get of it from my counsellors -- not even _you_ will give me honeyed words. I am blessed far beyond my deserts to be so served!

[earnestly]

I will be careful, and avoid trouble. I promise.

[he starts to leave again -- Beren calls after him:]

**Beren** :

What'll you do to them, if they're not?

**Finrod** : [grimly]

You don't want to know.

[pause]

**Beren** :

\-- You _wouldn't_.

**Finrod** : [edged smile]

You know me better than that.

[he runs a hand through his braids]

I do wear this guise as a reminder that I haven't forgotten Alqualonde. I will forgive them -- when they repent. Until then -- let them be wary, or else find themselves sorry regardless.

[pause]

Are you regretting your claiming of kinship as rashness yet?

**Beren** :

I know about avenging family -- and guilt.

[he closes the distance between them]

**Finrod** : [blurting it out]

Please don't kneel to me again --

**Beren** :

Wasn't going to.

[he grabs Finrod's arm and pulls him to lean down]

Be careful, _Ingold_.

[with that he slaps him firmly on the shoulder and strolls back to Huan, while Finrod struggles to stop grinning as he leaves]


	91. Act 4: SCENE III.ix

[Elsewhere: the conference chamber.]

[Luthien is standing in the middle of the circle, halfway turned in the middle of a bout of pacing around the hearth-bowl, holding out her arms to her interlocutors in an indignant gesture.]

 **Luthien** :

. . . So now do you think, do you _really_ think, I'm going to walk away from him after _that_? The Silmaril is _meaningless_. It's just complicating things in your minds. _Forget_ about the Silmaril.

[long silence. No one seems to know where to look. Finarfin is looking as close to a shade as is possible for a living Elf.]

 **Vaire** :

Your Majesty, are you ill?

[the King of the Noldor cannot answer at first]

 **Finarfin** :

My Lady -- I am.

[he closes his eyes, his right hand flat on the table, the left clenched.]

 **Vaire** :

Would you like us to adjourn for a while, Sire?

[pause. All are looking at Finarfin, or trying politely not to -- Luthien appears a bit guilty]

 **Finarfin** :

This -- this matter is not news to thee, my Lady.

 **Vaire** : [compassionately]

No, Your Majesty.

 **Finarfin** : [shaking his head at himself]

But of course . . . of a certain, _not_.

[looks down]

I think I shall betake myself to walk but a whiles, gentles, if ye shall excuse mine absence. I'll return anon.

 **Vaire** :

Don't trouble yourself about us, dear -- we'll manage quite adequately in your absence.

[Finarfin rises, with a distracted acknowledgment of her words, and turns towards the arched door]

 **Irmo** :

Shall I come with you? If Este were here . . . but she isn't, so . . .

 **Finarfin** : [a touch of sternness]

I will walk alone, I thank you.

 **Luthien** : [worried]

\-- Will you be all right?

 **Finarfin** : [distantly]

I misdoubt.

[he walks out into the shadows, very straight-backed, head held high, as though on his way to the block]


	92. Act 4:SCENE III.x

[Elsewhere: a wide tapestried hallway with pillars down the length of it, lit by silver-white light from discreet sconces.]

[Two ghostly figures are duelling down it, with speed and agility impossible for mere mortals, neither giving any quarter, -- but neither managing to get any hits in, either. When one of the fighters -- female -- seems close to gaining the upper hand, her opponent manages to block her, darts behind a pillar, and from the other side flings a short spear. The swordswoman (who ought to be played by Carrie Ann Moss of _Matrix_ fame) deflects it with her blade, catches it in her left hand and throws it back at him -- he raises his hand and it vanishes. She puts a hand on her hip and jeers at him:]

Hah! I told you you couldn't keep yourself from cheating. If you'd come to Aman you'd have learned some _honor_ there, instead of how to shoot from the safety of the trees, Dark-elf.

[He moves out -- Gabriel Byrne might be cast in this part -- and they circle each other, watching for an opening]

 **Eol** :

Oh yes, that famous Noldor honor. Which somehow doesn't stop you from killing unarmed kinsfolk.

 **Aredhel** :

As if _you_ have any ground to stand on!

 **Eol** : [bitterly]

Marrying you was the biggest mistake I ever made. I should never have let you lure me from my peace and quiet!

 **Aredhel** :

 _You_ should have stayed single? -- I'd still be _alive_ if it weren't for you, you wretch!

 **Eol** :

So would I, if not for you, you seductress!

 **Aredhel** :

Assassin!

 **Eol** :

Traitor!

 **Aredhel** :

Traitor _yourself_!

[They clash again in a bout lasting several exchanges and fall back, frustrated, without lodging any hits]

 **Eol** :

I should have _known_ you'd be a thankless ingrate and a rebel -- just look at the rest of your family!

 **Aredhel** :

Stuck without using any secret weapons, hm? Sure you don't want to cheat now? Or are you going to try to down me with poisoned _words_ this time?

[Enraged, he lunges forward again and they go up and down the pillar footings like a small whirlwind until this gets boring again. Before either of them comes up with a new insult, the Captain saunters in and stands there watching with a contemptuous expression]

 **Captain** :

Do you only fight women and children, old chap?

 **Eol** :

Be off, Kinslayer!

 **Captain** : [shaking his head pityingly]

Don't insult Her Highness -- it was an honest, if tragic, misunderstanding. -- Unless you're talking to yourself . . .  _again_.

[Both of them shoot him dirty looks; Aredhel's glare turns to a smirk]

Of course, if you're fighting the White Lady --  _she_ really ought to be handicapped to make it fair, unless you plan to manifest a few illegal weapons along the way.

[Eol snarls; Aredhel snickers]

What, you've _already_ cheated? And you've not even been nicked once in this match yet? Seems like you're backsliding, Master Smith -- you're supposed to be learning _calm_ , and patience, and tranquility and such.

 **Aredhel** : [aside]

\-- What are you up to, I wonder?

 **Eol** :

Don't you dare to lecture me, you insolent, immature, Noldor delinquent!

 **Captain** : [as if neither of them has spoken]

And you with that amazing galvorn stuff, too -- I notice that your wife hasn't even bothered with a reinforced jerkin, so obviously in spite of your cheating she still outclasses you. I suppose you're used to sparring against employees scared you'd sack them if they actually showed you up? Or perhaps you _always_ just ambushed your adversaries in the midst of peaceful counsels. Rather like my lord's cousin and the emissaries of Morgoth, both planning to get the jump on each other, eh?

[Eol lunges at him without warning -- before he gets there the Captain has drawn his sword and blocked him, hard]

 **Aredhel** : [wickedly amused]

Bad mistake.

[Surprise assault foiled, Eol breaks off and starts stalking -- they circle, facing each other. Eol's stalk is more dramatic, but because the Captain is only pivoting, Eol's using a lot more energy and has more distance to cover when he makes his move]

 **Captain** : [musing tone]

You do realize that I used to do this sort of thing for a living? _Not_ just as a hobby. -- Never used any of my own folk for target practice, though --

[That does it -- Eol charges him with a furious yell and they set to in earnest. The difference between this and the earlier fight is not so much strength or even skill, but style -- earlier the couple were duelling, but the Captain fights combat-fashion: no dramatics, just the combination of rapid reflexes and brute force that one sees in predators fighting for survival, not for display. It includes tactics like stomping ankles and following a thrust with a driven shoulder or using the hilt as a bludgeon, for offense, and drop-slide-and-roll for defense, though there is a sort of horrible elegance to it nonetheless.]

 **Aredhel** :

 _Yes_!

[the Captain has feinted and used the mistaken block on Eol's part to get in a gladius-style short thrust up under two overlapping plates of his armor. As the Dark-elf falls he succeeds in landing a hard counter-stroke on the Captain's shoulder, but the latter has plainly counted on this and does not appear surprised.]

 **Captain** : [holding his collarbone]

\-- And once again, the combination of practice and training demonstrates its manifest superiority to beserk rage and dilettantism.

 **Eol** : [from the floor]

Faugh. Make much of _your_ blow and belittle mine. Typical invader arrogance.

 **Captain** :

Yes, but you'd be _dead_  -- if you weren't already dead -- and _I_ wouldn't be -- if I weren't, again, already dead.

 **Aredhel** :

Are you all right, my lord?

 **Captain** : [matter-of-factly]

Not yet.

[to Eol, lecturing mode:]

You should have taken that on your vambrace and ridden it out: trying not to get hurt at all will inevitably get you killed. If you're down to your last adversary, a clavicle's an acceptable exchange.

[to Aredhel]

\-- But _not_ , however, if you still have more to go.

 **Aredhel** : [cheerful exasperation]

 _I_ know that. -- And don't start on the "that's why you always wear armour, even if you're not planning on fighting and it's uncomfortable and others think it's paranoid, because being good isn't good enough" lecture. -- So what are you up to? Simple boredom, or did someone finally get you to take that bet?

 **Captain** : [gingerly testing his arm]

Which bet is that?

 **Aredhel** :

The one that you could take my --  _consort_  -- without turning a hair. So to speak.

 **Captain** :

\-- Damn! If I'd known about that, I could have made a nice haul.

 **Eol** : [sitting up slowly, hunched over]

You're all _mad_ , vying for non-existent trifles!

 **Captain** :

Right, like destroying what you -- ahem --  _love_ , makes any sense at all.

 **Aredhel** : [suspicious]

If it wasn't _that_ , then what was --

[she breaks off and rolls her eyes as Nienna's Apprentice makes his appearance in the hallway and gives them all meaningful Looks]

 **Apprentice** : [patronizingly-superior tone]

Lady Vaire sent me to discover what the disturbance was about and to make it stop. I ought to have guessed you'd be part of this.

 **Captain** :

Upon my honor, sir, I --

 **Apprentice** :

\-- did not draw until drawn upon, I'm quite sure.

[sighs]

Don't you people have anything better to do than engage in senseless violence?

 **Captain** : [leadingly]

Now then, now then -- I've been given to understand that you consider _yourself_ no mean hand at swordplay, either.

 **Apprentice** : [challenging]

And why do you say that?

 **Captain** :

I . . . have my sources, and mean to keep them thus. -- So it isn't true? You don't, in fact know more than hilt from point?

 **Apprentice** : [nettled]

I didn't say that.

 **Captain** :

I suppose it must be a guilty secret rather, not quite as bad as having done in your relatives, but with something of the same taint about it.

 **Apprentice** :

What are you talking about?

 **Captain** :

Though perhaps things have changed while we've been gone, though I confess it doesn't sound that way from the rumours I've heard.

 **Apprentice** :

Do you think it's funny to be annoying, or can you not help it? -- Ah --

[checks]

 _Threnody_ , but that's what _he's_ always asking _me_.

[sighs]

 **Captain** :

As a matter of fact, I _can_ help it --

 **Aredhel** :

\-- he just thinks it's amusing to be cryptic and insolent. My cousin collects the strangest people.

 **Captain** :

You don't know the half of us. -- I meant, young sir, that your kin must look quite askance on such a violent hobby, unless the Vanyar have changed far more in the years since the Rebellion than even we.

[long pause]

 **Apprentice** :

Oh. I see.

 **Captain** :

So do you meet in secret to make weapons and train like we did? Or are they simply resigned to their unruly offspring and hope that by ignoring it you'll get bored of it and grow up?

 **Apprentice** :

Erm . . .

 **Captain** :

I suppose you were just trying to show off, then, when you made all those careless remarks to the Princes' lads about being a fair hand at it. -- That's how I know, by-the-by. _That_ was a deliberate careless remark, intended to edify, not an actual accidental careless remark let slip. -- You see how easy it is to mean to keep secrets and give them away all the same? At least to anyone who is paying close attention to the things you're saying -- or _not_ saying.

 **Aredhel** : [shaking her head]

This is why people want to see mincemeat made of you, you know.

 **Captain** :

Because I'm right all the time?

 **Eol** : [who has gotten up at last, standing rather painfully and still holding his chest]

Because you're an arrogant whelp of an interloper, lording it over your betters and elders.

 **Captain** :

What, are you still hanging about where you're not wanted? Why don't you go and vent your ill-temper on the following of Feanor, who actually deserve it? Oh -- that's right, there are a lot of them and they'd probably go out of their way to hurt you, like kicking you in the face once you were down.

[Eol spits towards him -- the Captain ignores him]

\-- Which _I_ would never do because it's petty and trivial and lacking in nobility and besides that, it's stupid to give your enemy the chance of hamstringing you for such juvenile satisfaction. Well, stay around, then -- sooner or later milady's father will turn up and fillet you again, but far be it from me to deny you the satisfaction of being annoying.

[the Dark-Elf draws himself up and sneers at them before stalking off]

 **Eol** :

I'll be avenged upon the lot of you, I swear it!

 **Captain** : [shaking his head]

\--  _Git_.

 **Aredhel** : [sharply]

That's my husband you're talking about.

 **Captain** :

And you call him much worse than that.

 **Aredhel** :

Yes, but he's _my_ husband. When _you_ insult him you call _my_ judgment into question.

 **Captain** :

? ? ?

[while he is still speechless the Apprentice murmurs something like "Who would do such a thing?" causing Aredhel to whirl and flare at him:]

 **Aredhel** :

 _Shut up_. You haven't any right to tell me what I ought to do _or_ have done.

 **Fingolfin** :

 _Daughter_.

[she turns around guiltily. The High King is there, looking grave and a bit disappointed; he could be played by Roger Rees of _Nicholas Nickelby_. With him is the Steward, appearing somewhere between mildly interested and almost bored.]

What is all this turbulence that fills these Halls of grief and reconciliation? Ar-Feiniel, it is ill-becoming to berate the household, as well I have taught you.

[impatiently she drops him a quick bow and one towards the Apprentice]

Your heart is much troubled still, I perceive, from this dispute.

[frowning at the Apprentice]

Must I complain to your Master yet again regarding your lack of solemnity and dignity, then? I consider your internship here -- never yet having been interred -- to be a most improper experiment, and do not doubt that I shall say so again to the Lady.

 **Apprentice** :

I -- but -- I --

 **Captain** :

Ah, Your Majesty --

[he bows deeply]

\-- I must confess the fault in part is mine: we were baiting the young Elf, in truth, though it was but meant in humourous fashion. I merely wished to teach him the unwisdom of boasting, especially on a certain subject.

 **Apprentice** :

I wasn't boasting!

 **Fingolfin** :

Indeed? And what matter might that be, gentles?

 **Captain** :

Oh, the lad considers himself a master of the sword, one hears.

 **Fingolfin** :

You don't say.

 **Steward** :

Indeed, Your Majesty, one has heard this rumour as well -- though where and whence he has his training, one confesses one's self greatly curious. But since it's past testing, there seems little purpose in pursuing this . . . diversion.

[he manages to look disapproving and amused at once]

 **Aredhel** :

What do you mean, "past testing" -- ?

 **Steward** : [shrugging]

Surely one cannot think it's possible to put it to the proof? When all that have such skills in truth are ghosts, and held here, and so there's none to challenge in the world without, or to judge, that truly might make test of such a brag.

 **Apprentice** :

Are you so sure of that? -- What about Lord Tavros?

 **Fingolfin** :

I would never disrespect the Hunter or his might -- but neither he, nor any of his following, have spent such years in such bitter wars as we, matched against enemies that tried our skill but to try to better it, and to outmatch us withal in numbers, if not in main strength.

 **Apprentice** :

Hmph.

[pause]

 **Captain** :

If you could fight one of _us_ , we'd be more inclined to believe your claims. Or at least the general nature of them, since you can't possibly be as good as you think you are. But obviously that isn't going to happen -- at least not anytime soon.

 **Apprentice** : [slyly]

And why not?

 **Captain** : [snorting]

You don't think it's possible, surely, to engage in affray -- us being dead and you being not?

 **Apprentice** :

You needn't make it sound as though -- discorporation -- were some mark of achievement. It is -- at least for you Noldor -- a sign of disgrace.

[pause]

Besides, are you so sure? I've watched you at your games, and I think I could manage to conjure up the _form_ of a sword as well as any of you.

[pause]

Unless of course, you're afraid to try.

[the Captain gives him a scornful look]

 **Captain** :

 _Afraid_? As a friend of mine from the Old Country would say -- give me a break. No untried recruit would stand a chance against me.

 **Apprentice** : [raising an eyebrow]

Then let's put it to the test, shall we? Don't you chaps favour metaphysical experiments?

[the Captain sighs, shaking his his head, half-smiling]

 **Aredhel** : [knowingly]

 _Aha_.

[to the Steward]

So how much have you got riding on this?

[he only shakes his head, looking surprisingly serious]

 **Captain** :

Battlefield rules, or this ritual combat nonsense?

 **Apprentice** :

What do you mean, "battlefield rules"?

 **Captain** :

Nothing one couldn't do in the flesh. No manifesting pits beneath your adversaries' feet, or boulders between, or previously-absent weapons, steeds, or abilities. A true contest of strength and skill according to one's respective limits, and _no_ _others_  -- real life has no such "rules of combat."

 **Apprentice** : [petulantly]

You talk to me as though I were a child -- !

 **Captain** :

Because you are one, by comparison.

[the Apprentice hides a flicker of expression at this]

 **Apprentice** :

So, shall we have the great and noble Fingolfin confirm the sameness of our equpment?

 **Aredhel** : [sharply]

Are you mocking my father?

 **Apprentice** : [surprised]

No. Why should I be? None of us has managed what he accomplished, to withstand and cripple the Enemy, let alone single-handed!

[she looks suspicious; he asks, with another gracious nod to Fingolfin:]

Shoudln't we have His Majesty determine the exactness of our swords?

 **Captain** :

Why? That isn't how it would happen in the field. Work with what you're used to and comfortable with, and I'll the same. You don't think that an Orc-chief is going to set down his axe and take a sword because that's what you've got, do you? Or, better yet, measure and weigh both your blades before you set to?

[the Apprentice smiles ironically and draws a sword out of thin air, flourishing it rather impressively before falling into a "guard" position]

What, no exchange of names and titles and so forth?

 **Apprentice** : [innocent]

What, do you do _that_ in combat, then?

 **Captain** : [grinning]

Well, no, -- but I didn't expect you to --

[without missing a beat or cuing his intent he lunges forward and comes within a few inches of ending the match right then and there -- except that the other with equal agility has sidestepped and brought up his blade in a parry]

\-- be --

[clang]

\-- quite --

[clang]

\-- so --

[clang]

\--  _good_.

 **Apprentice** : [smugly]

Flattery will get you --

[he has to make a rather undignified duck to avoid unexpected decapitation and backs away, rattled]

 **Captain** : [stalking him down]

\-- a distracted adversary, lad --

[he leaps at his oppponent with a lightning-strike attack. The Apprentice manages to deflect and riposte, catching him in the wrist just before the edge of his vambrace starts -- and backs off, with a pleased expression]

 **Apprentice** :

A hit, to me.

 **Captain** : [grimacing]

Only an idiot does that in a real fight.

[he switches hands and moves in again, with a more cautious approach -- they circle and feint several times, before the Apprentice breaks first and closes, with a vigorous set-to in the classic 30's swashbuckler mode. With a particularly dextrous parry the Apprentice manages to disarm his opponent and the backstroke takes him hard across the leg halfway between knee and hip, bringing him down full length]

 **Apprentice** :

Hah!

[the Captain rolls out of range and comes up to a sprawl, braced on his right elbow -- with a dagger in his left hand that leaves it almost before anyone has realized what he has. It should take the Apprentice squarely in the eye -- except that it dissolves into a trail of glowing embers that vanish before they hit the ground. The Apprentice backs off and puts up his sword, waiting for his opponent to retrieve his own weapon and resume the match. The Captain, however, does not get up, only raises his good hand for attention.]

 **Captain** :

Your Majesty, gentles all -- I call you to witness. Unfair advantage of abilities has been used.

 **Apprentice** :

But _you_ manifested "previously-absent weapons"!!!

 **Captain** :

Not so. I've _always_ carried bootknives. Hundreds of witnesses, many of them hostile, in here, if you won't take my word for it. Your lack of observation skills is not my fault.

 **Apprentice** :

But --

 **Captain** :

\-- But turning them to harmless sparks is _not_ something one ought to be able to do in the real world. Not even King Felagund could do that using the combined heritage of all three Kindreds. -- Certainly not some young stay-at-home Vanyar twit who's never seen combat sorcery in action.

[to the onlookers]

\-- Was he, or was he not cheating there?

 **Steward** : [offhand]

Who can say? Perhaps he _can_ do that Outside as well.

 **Captain** : [mock concern]

Shh! You'll blow his cover.

[the High King shakes his head, consideringly]

 **Fingolfin** :

Oh, I very much doubt that's the case, regardless. If Morgoth had possessed the ability to obliterate weapons from a distance he'd surely have disarmed me before I managed to mark him. _Clearly_ unfair advantage has been employed here.

 **Apprentice** : [starts to object further, then sighs resignedly and bows -- easily:]

M'lord, I apologize for my action -- and the rashness of my assumption in presuming dishonorable behavior on your part, which led me into such error of judgment.

 **Captain** : [nodding]

Apology accepted.

 **Apprentice** :

Shall we to it again, sir?

 **Fingolfin** :

Certainly not.

[the Apprentice looks at him, surprised]

Your apology was nobly made. -- The question of the penalty for cheating, however, is not yet settled.

 **Apprentice** :

 _Penalty_?

 **Fingolfin** :

But of course. It is well that you regret your actions, but redress must still be made. Otherwise your apology is empty breath and echo.

[the Apprentice casts a worried glance around]

I cannot of course compel you to endure the consequences of your actions -- only your own conscience, and honor, may do so.

[that decides it]

 **Apprentice** :

Your Majesty, I would not have you consider me coward, or worse yet, unfair. What forfeit must I make for my transgression?

 **Fingolfin** : [to the Steward, in a manner of casual politeness]

What say you, my lord? Over the yen my nephew entrusted many crucial matters of judgement to your discretion -- surely you have some thought as to what would be both _fitting_ and serve well as memorial against future temptations?

[the Steward puts a musing forefinger to his lips, frowning in thought, then holds up his hand as though delivering a message]

 **Steward** :

If the young -- Elf -- considers himself unworthily matched, then let him match himself against the greatest warrior of us all, and thus be satisfied in his honor even as the price of dishonor shall be paid. -- If -- no less -- such exactment should meet with your Majesty's willing approbation.

[Fingolfin raises an eyebrow]

 **Fingolfin** :

It does have a certain symmetry, I'll grant -- and I do find this enforced idleness wearying after a time.

[pause]

 **Apprentice** : [rather desperately]

Your Majesty, I am no Melkor.

 **Captain** : [aside]

No, nor _Sauron_ , neither.

[the Apprentice shoots him a piqued glare before adding:]

 **Apprentice** :

The -- the punishment could in no wise be commensurate with the offense -- whether I cheated or didn't. --  _Please_.

[pause]

 **Fingolfin** :

Well then, if your taste for combat has worn cold, perhaps the gentler contest of the chess-table would be more to your liking?

 **Steward** : [offhand]

I hear that it is wonderful practice for those who are in need of learning patience.

[the Apprentice looks absolutely, and if possible, even more horrified at the prospect]

 **Captain** :

Sire -- permission to make a suggestion?

 **Fingolfin** :

Granted, my lord.

 **Captain** :

The King your nephew has an errand he has tasked me to undertake, the which shall doubtless require much in the way of walking -- would it not be appropriate to require him to fulfill that task, seeing as how he's temporarily incapacitated me?

 **Steward** :

That has a certain justness in it, I confess.

 **Fingolfin** :

What say you, gentle sir? Is such a forfeit acceptable to your honor and your occupations?

 **Apprentice** : [a little ungraciously]

Oh, I think I can fit it in.

[he grimaces, shaking his head, and lets the blade vanish from his hand]

 **Fingolfin** :

Of course, if it be too onerous a burden, I am most ready to give you a quick drubbing on the spot and we can get it over with.

[he extends his arm, and the Steward hands him a swordbelt and scabbard. The High King draws the memory of Ringil -- and the Apprentice pales]

 **Apprentice** : [swallowing]

Sire, your judgment is more than acceptable, and more than generous. I am quite glad to make such restitution to your nephew's servant.

 **Captain** :

Good, then you can start by giving me a hand up.

[he accepts the other's help -- the Apprentice's disgruntlement changes to concern when it becomes clear that he isn't faking. The Steward looks away with a tight expression while his friend struggles to stand and put away his sword.]

 **Fingolfin** : [to Aredhel]

Well, child, now that this brief excitement has passed like all earthly things, perhaps you would be kind enough to spend a little while communing with your parent in his lonely exile and indulge him in the diversion of a quiet game of chess?

 **Aredhel** : [demurely]

Pray excuse me, Father, but I am reminded by Lord Edrahil's words that I should practice my meditations and strive to attain tranquility and detatchment of spirit.

[she bows and hastily vanishes -- the Apprentice rolls his eyes]

 **Steward** :

Oh, _deftly_ done.

 **Captain** :

She is good, isn't she?

 **Apprentice** : [darkly]

Too good for her own good. That one has -- an awful lot to learn.

 **Fingolfin** :

I would remind you that you are speaking of my daughter, young sir.

 **Apprentice** :

Why, so we were, Your Majesty. It is a shame my Master isn't here, so that she could join in this conversation with us.

[Fingolfin's expression changes to annoyance]

 **Captain** :

Well, come on -- don't dawdle about, your assignment's waiting.

[the Apprentice gives him a Look]

 **Fingolfin** : [to the Steward]

My lord, seeing that my own kin have abandoned me once again, might I for a little demand your gracious assistance in a brief round at the table?

 **Steward** :

Your pardon, but I must request your indulgence for the present: my lord requires that I spend more time in attendance on him, and less in diversions, Your Majesty.

 **Fingolfin** : [reasonably]

My nephew doesn't actually _need_ you to do anything that he can't manage perfectly well by himself. This isn't Outside, nor does he have dominion over two thirds of these Halls and the troubles thereof. He can spare you for another match. -- I understand that he wishes to embroil myself, if not my folk, in another scheme of his, is that not correct?

[pause]

 **Steward** : [to the Captain]

Would you --

 **Captain** : [nods]

-I'll make your apologies.

[he leads the Apprentice down the hall away from the others, still limping]

 **Apprentice** : [remorseful]

I hurt you.

[the Captain shrugs]

\-- I'm sorry.

 **Captain** :

Then you'd best put aside arms, and all thought of them. It comes with the territory. Get ready for it.

 **Apprentice** : [nettled]

I'm not afraid of being injured.

 **Captain** :

Then you're an idiot.

[an expression of annoyance flickers over the Apprentice's face, quickly vanishing]

 **Apprentice** :

"Surely one may regret the necessity for causing pain, even while not holding back from the deed?" -- Were those not your very words to my Master?

[the Captain gives him a sidelong glance, says nothing]

\-- How did you know I -- am not entirely what I seem?

 **Captain** :

I didn't -- until now.

[this sinks in]

His Majesty had made the conjecture first, of course, but we had no proof. Thank you for the confirmation.

 **Apprentice** : [disgusted]

Which -- ? -- Finrod. Of _course_ it would be he. -- I am still sorry I hurt you, but I confess -- not quite as much.

 **Captain** : [cheerfully]

At least I didn't have to fight the High King. _That_ would not have been fun.

 **Apprentice** :

Why? I thought he was fond of your crowd.

 **Captain** :

What's that got to do with it?

 **Apprentice** :

. . .

 **Captain** :

You don't think he'd go easier on me because I'm not part of House Feanor, do you? Aside from refraining from an extra twist once he'd nailed me -- it's not as though I'm some new recruit or beginning amateur. -- No more than you are.

[the Apprentice looks a bit sick]

Good thing for you you made the right decision, eh?

 **Apprentice** :

\-- Wait -- why should you have to fight Fingolfin?

 **Captain** :

Had to draw you in somehow -- I'd forgotten about Master Eol.

 **Apprentice** :

This wasn't accidental at all, then?

 **Captain** :

By your Lady, no! Of course not!

 **Apprentice** : [chagrinned]

I was beginning to be fairly certain there was more to you than someone who just killed things.

 **Captain** :

Still too slow, then. -- Speaking of which, you want to let Arda do as much of the work for you as possible. Don't fight your weight when you turn --  _use_ it. I know it looks impressive to jump around like that, but . . .

 **Apprentice** [interrupting]

\-- So what is this task your King has set you, which you've now arranged to pass on to me? Organizing a chorale society? Interviewing veterans of the Battle-under-Stars for his complete history of the War?

 **Captain** :

To ensure your complete and unconstrained cooperation in the matter of securing inside information regarding the Powers' deliberations concerning Melian's daughter and the Lord of Dorthonion.

[Nienna's Apprentice halts in shock]

 **Apprentice** :

You -- want me to spy on the councils of the gods for you?

 **Captain** :

Not for me --

 **Apprentice** :

For _your_ _king_ , then.

 **Captain** :

No. For the sake of Beren and Luthien.

[the Apprentice just stares at him]

There is after all nothing dishonorable in it; you've been doing it already for your own curiosity as well as to assist, have you not? And you cannot think that my sovereign lord means any harm or mischief to either Aman or the Powers, can you? We merely require that you bring the infromation you have witnessed to King Finrod in timely fashion and full measure, without reserve or deception, and without such noncooperative responses as providing _so_ _much_ information that no useful timely assessment of it can be made.

[with a narrow Look]

In other words, don't report every fiddly little detail of "and then Lady Yavanna started drumming her fingers on the table again," unless for some reason you really think that's relevant and are ready to give reasons for it.

 **Apprentice** :

Yavanna isn't there.

[hastily]

But I understand what you're getting at.

 **Captain** :

And you'll do it?

 **Apprentice** : [dawning realization]

You deliberately lost.

 **Captain** :

Oh, I didn't lose. -- Not yet. Will you pay your forfeit, then?

 **Apprentice** : [staring]

You let me strike you down. Why?

 **Captain** :

We needed some certain way to provoke you into cheating. Nothing so likely as the appearance of it, eh? But it had to look plausible, hence desperate enough.

[the Apprentice looks both horrified and awed]

Don't worry, everyone knows we're all stark staring mad.

 **Apprentice** : [slowly]

I've thought that all along too -- but recently my Master said to me, "But what if they aren't?" I haven't been liking the answers to that one very much. -- I'm liking them even less by the heartbeat.

[acridly]

That means you did cheat, though. Not technically perhaps, but in the deepest sense. It was all a setup, wasn't it?

 **Captain** :

No, I didn't have anything to do with the Endless Whirlwind -- they did that all on their own, as usual. I merely had to locate them.

 **Apprentice** :

But the High King, and your friend, and the rest of it -- that was all planned?

 **Captain** : [grins]

What, rooking you into it? Absolutely.

[with an ironic but not sneering bow, he gestures for Nienna's Apprentice to keep walking with him]


	93. Act 4: Scene IV.i

**Gower** :

Truth, bereft of mask and veil,  
doth not ever show most fair; to eyes  
deceived, or by darkness or disguise   
rare, when concealments doth fail  
the unhid that which is well may seem  
as must be, would be, but troubling dream -- [The Hall]

[Finarfin enters and leans heavily against the arch of the door, covering his face with his hands. Beren notices and gets up from the game quickly without saying "anything, before any of the others can ask him why, and hurries over to him -- two of the Ten rise and follow him at a cautious distance]

 **Beren** :

Sir . . . don't blame yourself, it really doesn't help --

[Finarfin turns, startled, and sees him, just as Beren is about to try to take him by shoulder]

Oh! I thought! -- I mistook you for _him_  -- I don't see very well here --

[the Noldor Elf stares at him, at first bewildered, then taking in the differences, and making the deductive leap]

 **Finarfin** :

\-- Thou? -- it is -- needs _must_ be --

[Beren drops instantly to one knee, bowing his head]

 **Beren** : [stammering worse]

My lord -- I --

 **Finarfin** : [tightly]

So thou also art of the party that refuses to acknowledge, and yet proff'rest respect -- and mockery -- in one.

[Beren looks up, confused]

 **Beren** :

Sorry?

[Finarfin recognizes his complete ignorance of the situation]

 **Finarfin** :

No matter. I comprehend it better now -- to my bitterest regret.

 **Beren** :

I'm sorry, Sir, but -- I don't understand.

 **Finarfin** : [as if talking to himself as much as Beren]

When word came that mine eldest sibling was slain, it did come so close upon all the other ills of the time, that it seemed but part of the same, and fitting end to such meteoric journey. And when our middle brother perished, and my sons were slain in that great War of theirs, the horror of it and the grief was made a little less impossible to bear, for the glory of Fingolfin's deed, and the great valour of their defense -- they to stand by their adopted people, _him_  -- to strike at the Dark King himself and wound him with his own hand no less, though but an Elf, as though he might have been a lesser Power, and the gods themselves did him honour for his deed, that weighed against the wrongs of his working.

[he shakes his head]

And then it came but a short whiles after, the news of mine eldest's fall, or that which I believed to be the whole and sum of it, and it seemed but pitiable and grotesque by compare, to be taken and slain but by a lesser Power, and in confusion and stealth, as a prisoner, not in open battle nor for his own name's sake -- a foolish end to a path of folly. -- Thou dost look froward at my words.

 **Beren** : [terse]

I would have died if not for him.

 **Finarfin** :

And yet thou art dead nonetheless, and what in end achieved? One year or one yen, what is either set against my son's life?

[Beren says nothing]

Thou wert with him for the whiles.

 **Beren** : [in a whisper]

Yes, my lord.

 **Finarfin** :

Thy lady -- Stand up and let me see thee plain.

[Beren obeys -- Finarfin shakes his head]

 _Thy_ _lady_  --

[he breaks off again]

\-- Where is my son, since by thy words I guess he is not here?

 **Beren** :

No idea, sir.

 **Finarfin** : [aside]

I would both converse with him, and would not ken the least what word should say to him.

[to Beren:]

\-- Thy lady spake at no small length concerning his ordeal, and theirs, and thine.

[pause]

 **Beren** :

Tinuviel -- found us. It wasn't easy for her.

 **Finarfin** :

\-- Dost say she overshoots, and thus doth miss the mark of truth?

[pause]

 **Beren** :

Probably not.

[awkward silence -- into which a snatch of a rather inappropriate mortal song and laughter is heard from the vicinity of the fountain:] 

......" . . . all over the town -- ...Our bread it is white......and our ale it is brown -- ...Our bowl it is made......of the white maple tree . . . "

**Finarfin** : [knowingly]

And hence this dull and gloomsome place doth seem small burden -- mad though that seemeth to all else -- after what hath passed, to them. 

**Beren** :

\--  _Us_. 

**Finarfin** :

Still wouldst claim place with my son?

 **Beren** :

 _Would_ or _wouldn't_ , doesn't matter. We were there.

 **Finarfin** :

And hence --  _ye_  -- will not forsake him. That much now I do comprehend.

[shaking his head]

That such things be done -- be _thought_ _of_  -- ! I had not dreamt -- that his death should be of such a fashion as to make that which transpired at the Havens seem nigh civilized, nay, --  _glorious_  --

[his lip curls at the word]

\-- never that it was not quick, nor of the _least_ dignified . . .

 **Beren** : [most definitely _not_ conciliatory tone]

Why did you think it was? Because things like that just don't happen to good folks? -- Or people you know? You think there's some kind of rule that no one you care about can get killed and eaten by monsters? -- Or because you'd rather not think about those kind of things?

[Finarfin clenches his hand, giving Beren a ferocious glare -- Beren gives it right back to him.]

 **Finarfin** :

 _Aye_.

[breathing hard]

And to my lasting shame -- I had in my grief yet some satisfaction, that being flouted and set down by him in sight of all our people, I should be proven right in end, and have some vindication, in the fulfillment of the words of Doom.

[his control breaks and he breaks down for a moment, leaning back against the pillar, sobbing, before pulling himself together a little and wiping his eyes on his hand. Beren's expression changes to reluctant sympathy.]

\-- How couldst mistake me for _him_? Is flesh so light a thing, that mattereth not to thee?

 **Beren** : [very different tone again]

Because what I see -- is mostly light, from a distance. Close to -- yeah. And you -- have a shadow.

[Finarfin wipes his eyes again, forcibly getting control over his emotions]

Sir -- would you care to -- that fountain, it's real, not just an illusion, you -- you could wash up, have a drink there -- if you wanted --

 **Finarfin** : [changing the subject]

How is it that we are comprehensible to one another? For I think thy people would not have the same speech as ours.

 **Beren** : [struggling]

Uh -- because of thoughts? Partly? Because we did speak Elvish, only it wasn't the way you speak it here. Only some of the words were close. That's what he told me.

 **Finarfin** :

 _Thoughts_?

 **Beren** : [giving up]

The King would be able to explain it better.

 **Finarfin** : [coolly]

 _Which_ king? Four kings of the Eldar are in this place.

 **Beren** :

I meant -- your son, Sir.

 **Finarfin** :

I have four sons, three of whom are here.

 **Beren** : [desperately]

\-- Finrod, my lord.

 **Finarfin** :

Thou dost babble like to an infant scarce past walking.

 **Beren** : [glum]

I'm not always this bad at it. -- Sometimes worse.

 **Finarfin** :

How old art thou?

 **Beren** :

Somewhere going on thirty. Ah, years -- the ones with four seasons, not the ones that are twelve-twelvemonths -- I don't know how long I've been dead now -- or does that even count . . . ?

[winces]

 **Finarfin** :

And yet thou'dst think to counsel my eldest child, whose years thou hast not one twenty-fourth part yet seen -- wherefore?

 **Beren** :

Because he's my friend.

 **Finarfin** :

Thou deemst self worthy to name thyself friend to my son?

 **Beren** :

I don't -- but _he_ does. And if he calls me that, how can I not call him the same back? Wouldn't make sense.

[pause. Finarfin just looks at him, bleakly]

Are -- are you sure -- you wouldn't like to -- the water, over there?

 **Finarfin** :

Such a multitude is more than my spirit can bear at this hour.

 **Beren** : [heartfelt]

I understand.

[looks away -- sudden inspiration]

The little hill over there, -- that's real, and we didn't make it, a goddess did -- if you wanted some privacy -- the roses are getting a little out of control, but that's only on the one side --

[pause]

 **Finarfin** :

And dost thou own this place, to deal as thou wert host here, and never guest uninvited?

 **Beren** :

She offered us -- Tinuviel and me -- the use of it -- Nessa, it was -- so I'm sure it's all right if I offered you my place -- unless you know she would mind you doing that for some other reason --

[he fumbles to a stop while Finarfin just looks at him again. A longish pause]

 **Finarfin** :

I shall do that, then, and sit upon the grass, and think -- upon the deaths of kings . . .

 **Beren** : [hesitant]

Sir -- what did you mean, _four_ kings? I only know -- there's Finrod, and the High King, his uncle, -- uh, your brother -- I'm sorry about that -- and . . . Oh. _Your_ father. 

[brief pause]

That's still three.

 **Finarfin** : [precisely]

In the outside world, among the living, the three tribes of the Eldar also hath each their king. There is Ingwe, who is lord over the Vanyar, and High King of us all in holy Valmar. There is Olwe, that is -- thy --  _wife's_  -- uncle, and ruleth over the Teleri in Alqualonde. And of the Noldor, the headship hath fallen by default upon -- myself. 

[Beren drops to one knee again.]

 **Beren** :

Your Majesty.

 **Finarfin** : [tired]

Do not mock me, Aftercomer.

 **Beren** : [getting more and more tongue-tied]

S -- Sire, why -- would I mock you? I -- never got -- to go to court, and learn the -- the ways of the High Elven court, but -- I was too young, and the Battle, and the invasion and you don't want to hear about that -- I always --  _we_ always, it wasn't like it was me, on my own -- honored you. 

**Finarfin** : [acerbic]

Before we met, at the least.

 **Beren** : [shaking his head]

\-- You understand about that.

[Finarfin nods, reluctantly]

It meant a tremendous deal to Da that the ring had belonged to you as well as the Ki --  _Finrod_. You were one of the good guys in our stories. We were proud to be fighting for the House of Finarfin.

 **Finarfin** :

\-- My ring? _Stories_?

 **Beren** : [desperately]

Your son gave my father his ring. To us. Our House. -- And the stories. But those were earlier. A lot.

[pause]

 **Finarfin** :

Thy thought is as the several links of a broken chain, mortal -- both disordered and impaired it seemeth.

 **Beren** :

I'm sorry, sir.

[winces]

\-- Your Majesty.

 **Finarfin** :

 _Peace_. 

[grimaces. Aside:]

What doth he see in thee, or in thy folk?

 **Beren** : [shaking his head]

I don't know.

 **Finarfin** :

I spake not to thee.

 **Beren** :

It's hard to hide the truth here, Sir. -- I know you'd like to hit me -- and I understand why.

 **Finarfin** : [abruptly]

Thou didst speak of my signet. Hast it, then?

[Beren reflexively moves as if to take it off, remembers, laughs bitterly and holds up his hand for the other's inspection. Finarfin in turn reflexively reaches forward to touch it, but their hands pass through each other as though neither had substance. The Elf-king stifles a sob.]

 **Beren** : [whispering]

You loved him best . . .

 **Finarfin** : [shaking his head]

I ever strove -- not to remake my own father's error -- and in the Song I truly believe that I neither set one child above the rest, nor each at rivalry to another . . .

[looking off in a reverie]

. . . yet did their mother from the first declare . . . that surely I gave equal of strength and spirit to his forging, no less than she . . . for ever our thought and heart were as one, so that he might finish whate'er I did begin, of hand's work or of speech, and his joy was ever my healing, when the strife of my elders was a weariness and a chill upon my soul . . . and never were we wroth with one another . . . saving once only. -- And now the hand I did close in mine to teach the shaping stroke of burin, and laughed to see grown to match mine own, is cold as the clay that devours it -- but no colder than his soul to me -- aye, as the winds off Helcaraxe . . . and _that_ is hardest hurt of all, and all of my doing, and naught of thine.

 **Beren** : [softly]

Sir, he spoke to me of that -- to regret that parting -- and to claim part of the responsibility --

[Finarfin turns a quelling stare on him and he is silent]

 **Finarfin** :

Not merely to counsel, but to _console_ , thou didst endeavor -- because he is _thy friend_.

[Beren nods, mutely]

\-- Would there were one that might serve me in such wise -- !

[he walks off towards the hill; Beren rises and turns back towards the falls. His two watchers move to meet him and put their arms over his shoulders as all three return to the group.]

 **Warrior** : [anxious]

What was that about?

 **Beren** :

He didn't _know_. Or -- he didn't understand.

 **Youngest Ranger** : [fiercely]

\-- He _can't_.

 **Beren** : [regretful]

I think he knows that now . . .

[Returning to the chess-game, he still gives a worried look over to where Finarfin is seated with his chin resting on his forearms, staring into the middle distance.]

 


	94. Act 4: SCENE IV.ii

[Elsewhere: the council chamber]

[Luthien who has again taken the floor, stands paused in mid gesture, tearful, distraught, and indomitably stubborn.]

 **Nerdanel** : [amazed]

He gave up a Silmaril for _thee_? Child, never let him go!

[Luthien stares at her, wary, not expecting anyone to be on her side any more, and thinking this has to be mockery -- the others present exchange dismayed looks: this is not working well at all.]


	95. Act 4: SCENE IV.iii

[Elsewhere: a wide columned space of indeterminate size, very dim, fading into shadows on all sides. Finrod is standing alone (apparently) in the middle of it, in a listening attitude]

**Finrod** :

I know this is an imposition, and I'm awfully sorry. But I do need help, and you do have leverage that I haven't. If you'll just let me explain, and then decide whether or not it's worth your while, I will be deeply in your debt . . . because I feel quite certain that once you hear the story, you'll be only too willing to lend your assistance.

[pause]

And I know I'm being impossibly presumptuous, but at least I'm honest about it. And you can always send me away afterwards if I'm wrong.

[silence -- the darkness starts to acquire a texture in front of him, with a very elegant, rather ornate but quite delicate carven archway in the middle of a ghostly wall, slowly becoming visible. (In the old days such an illusion would be worked with scrims and lighting, and mirrors, instead of computer effects.) Finrod bows.]

Thank you, cousin.

[he enters the gate which stands invitingly open, and which closes behind him, the entryway fading into the greyness once again.]


	96. Act 4: SCENE IV.iv

[The Hall]

[Beside the fountain-basin: Beren and the Youngest Ranger are back to playing tafl; the rest of the Ten are scattered around apparently randomly, passing the flask and talking, or working on the waterfall -- but a trained eye would recognize how easily they could pull into a defensive formation should the need arise. At the moment the frieze behind is getting a high-relief sculpture of trees as a screen in front of the geometric Noldorin-style bas-relief surround, and the two artists working on the project are arguing hotly about it.]

 **Soldier** : [defensive]

But hemlocks are bilateral. This is a _completely_ _accurate_ _depiction_ of their schema.

 **Ranger** :

But it doesn't look _real_!

[The Captain enters, Nienna's Apprentice in tow. The latter does a startled double-take on seeing what has happened to the fountain -- the Captain looks critically at the progress on it.]

 **Soldier** :

I _know_! But why?

 **Third Guard** : [breaking in]

Look -- you're not randomizing and _that's_ why they look like a line of cirth instead of a forest. You've got to vary the groupings by factors of --

 **Captain** : [to the chessplayers]

\-- What are those three going on about?

 **Beren** : [shrugs]

I _think_ they're arguing about aesthetics and symmetry in nature. It could be they're just talking about trees. "Algorithms" never used to be part of my everyday vocabulary.

 **Captain** : [innocent]

And it is now?

[they both grin]

So, nothing I need to worry about or get involved in.

 **Youngest Ranger** :

No, sir. -- Not yet at least.

 **Captain** : [to the arguing Elves, offhand]

Lady Vaire's going to have conniptions when she sees all that, you know.

 **Ranger** :

We'll put it all back the way it was after, sir.

 **Apprentice** : [still piqued]

\-- "Conniptions?" What is a _conniption_?

 **Ranger** :

Connip _tions_  -- it's always plural.

 **Apprentice** :

What sort of a word is _that_?

 **Captain** :

You'll have to ask Beren -- it's one of his.

 **Beren** :

It's Taliska, sir. It means, um, getting really annoyed and losing your temper. With a lot of noise and so forth.

 **Apprentice** :

Then why not just say so?

 **Beren** :

Dunno. "Conniptions" is shorter?

 **Apprentice** :

Not _that_ much shorter.

 **Beren** : [shrugs]

I guess we just liked the way it sounded. It's one of those old words that everybody kept using. And it's not just ordinary getting-angry. It's, you know, when you . . . say, find the little kids playing sword fights with your best skinning knives because sparks come off real metal and you don't whether to yell at them for doing something so incredibly dumb because it's dangerous or because there's three hours worth of sharpening to do now to get all the nicks out.

 **Apprentice** : [frowning]

I . . . suppose I can see what you're getting at.

 **Beren** :

Or like when you tell your brother and your younger cousin that the adults don't care if they jump on the smokehouse roof because you're angry at them for telling about the hole in the big kettle and all the hams fall down and _all_ of you get screamed at because you should have known better than to believe him any more than he shouldn't have said it.

[pause]

 **Apprentice** :

Ah.

 **Captain** :

Or, for example, _Morgoth_ , after discovering that someone's nicked a Silmaril off his crown.

 **Beren** : [straight-faced]

No, none of my elders ever set the hearth-guard on us, not even when we accidentally ruined some of the laundry testing to see if wet fabric really was fireproof.

 **Captain** :

Perhaps more like Feanor discovering that someone had invited his siblings to dinner and hadn't bothered this time to give him the opportunity to turn the invitation down? -- Though I only heard about that at second-hand, so I can't vouchsafe that it would _quite_ fit the definition.

 **Apprentice** : [dry]

I do begin to get the picture.

[to Huan]

\-- What are _you_ about?

[Huan only grins and wags his tail -- it's perfectly obvious that he's in dog Elysium, lying down having lots of different people to pet him]

 **Captain** :

Well, run along -- go find out something useful and report back here when you have.

 **Apprentice** :

You're enjoying this, aren't you?

 **Captain** : [smiling]

Clever, aren't you?

[shaking his head, Nienna's Apprentice goes off. The Captain lounges on the rocks next to where they have set up their game, watching.]

 **Ranger** :

What happened to Lord Edrahil, sir?

 **Captain** :

We lost him to chess again.

[his subordinates shake their heads knowingly. Beren gives them all questioning looks]

Fingolfin's an absolute fiend for the game and not too many are good enough to give him a decent match. Those who _are_ tend to be rather . . .  _wary_ of being conscripted, these days. Princess Aredhel saw an opening and bolted, and in the interest of winning the High King to our side he stepped into the gap. -- Not that it would take much prompting in any case. Since he's also too proud to lose quickly and get it over with, it could be quite a while.

 **Youngest Ranger** : [gesturing to the tafl setup]

Speaking of chess -- do you want to play, sir?

 **Captain** :

And see how fast _he_ can break his record for trouncing me? No, I'll just enjoy the calm until the next crisis hits. Who's winning?

 **Youngest Ranger** :

We are. Beren's won four, and I've won four.

 **Beren** : [frowning]

See, I would have said "nobody." But you're right, we're both winning. It's funny -- same situation, two totally different ways of looking at it.

 **Captain** : [bland]

You know, that's practically profound.

 **Beren** :

I thought you liked kingstone, sir.

 **Captain** :

Oh, as a _diversion_ it's all right. But it isn't my preferred diversion, if others are to be had. Like watching ice form, for one.

[pause]

 **Beren** :

Oh. -- That boring, huh?

 **Captain** :

Ice crystals are quite fascinating, the way they sheet over a pond.

 **Beren** :

Yeah, but you usually watch stuff like that when you're waiting for something to actually _happen_.

[without looking up from the board]

Run into House Feanor on your mission, sir?

[pause]

 **Captain** :

Ah -- no.

 **Beren** :

You didn't ask me why I asked that.

[silence]

You're favoring your arm, too. What happened?

 **Captain** :

. . .

 **Beren** :

All right, that means that the reason for it was something about me.

[everyone now watching with interest -- the Captain looks away, with an expression of self-directed exasperation]

But it wasn't the Feanorians. Huh. -- Was it that guy who came in with you?

 **Captain** :

Beren --

 **Beren** :

'Cause Huan likes him. He was the one who brought Amarie in here. And I _think_ he's the same one who brought us over here from wherever I was at the beginning, only I'm not sure because everything was really hazy then. If it was him, there was something besides, or else I don't think Huan would still be happy to see him, if he was trying to hurt you.

[pause]

I don't think he's really an Elf, either.

[those around him share looks]

 **Captain** :

Why would you think that, now?

 **Beren** : [shrugging]

Doesn't look the same as Amarie. Something about the -- not color, but something like that -- of the light. Like the difference between a real piece of rock-crystal and a piece of glass, kind of. I remember once there was a case my uncle had to try, where there was a foreign merchant who sold a brooch to somebody in Drun that turned out not to be real -- it was real, but not what it was supposed to be, see -- So anyway the barbarian guy claimed he'd been cheated in turn and gave back the money, but my uncle kept the brooch to keep him honest after and paid him for the price of the tin and the glass, which wasn't much. He showed it to us after they got back, and the funny thing was, it looked the same -- I mean, it looked _right_ , you'd say, oh, that's gold and gems, all right -- until my aunt put hers, that came from here --

[he stops for a second, and closes his eyes]

\-- came from Nargothrond and was actually made of gold and crystal, not just a thin --  _wash_? right? -- over the cheap metal. And then when you had the one that was solid and the fake one side by side, you'd never think that they were the same thing at all. Only this is more like the difference between a little bit of light coming from a coal, and a little bit of light coming from a candle in a lamp that's mostly closed. One of them still has _more_ _light_  -- only you can't see it.

[long silence -- the Ten look meaningfully at each other.]

 **Captain** :

Very interesting. -- As it so happens, you're right. -- But he'd be much obliged if you didn't mention it.

 **Beren** :

Okay.

[he moves a piece on the board and takes two pawns]

Your move.

[looking up]

Is that good enough?

[the Captain nods]

 **Captain** :

No more oaths. I trust you.

 **Beren** :

Thank you.

[pause]

I don't know what you guys think you're doing, let alone whether it will work, but -- thank you.

 **Second Guard** :

I wonder how it is that _you_ can tell? None of us could be quite sure.

[Beren shrugs again -- the Captain laughs not unkindly]

 **Captain** :

Perhaps any Man's ghost might, or perhaps . . . only one who's touched a Silmaril, or is married to an Elf, or has passed through Melian's labyrinth, or been healed by a deity's child, or . . . so many possibilities, and no way at all to put them to the proof. Normal rules don't seem to apply to Beren any more than to Huan here.

[Huan, hearing his name, looks over and thumps his tail]

That reminds me --

[frowning]

You kept saying something odd, but I didn't want to interrupt you any more -- you kept on saying, or seeming to say, that Huan _said_ things. Now I presumed I was misunderstanding -- surely you meant that Luthien was _with_ Huan when she berated you -- not that the two of them took you to task for running away.

 **Beren** :

That's right.

 **Captain** :

 _Beren_.

 **Beren** :

Uh, that's right, Huan was yelling at me too.

[realizing that this is getting him some very strange looks]

What? He can talk.

 **Warrior** :

Well, to _animals_ , of course. We've seen him speak with other kelvar, not just the pack, but --  _speak_? Like us?

 **Beren** :

Yeah.

[at their expressions]

I'm not joking. Or crazy. He doesn't do it very often. But you can ask Tinuviel, she was there too.

[everyone looks at Huan, who grins happily and whines for more attention, waving a forepaw where he's lying down]

 **Warrior** : [smiling uncertainly, not sure if it's a joke, still]

So . . . what does he say?

 **Beren** : [shrugging]

Different things. He told her what to do in Nargothrond, and he told me to stop being an unthinking idiot and what we had to do to get into Angband that might work. And . . .

[he gets quieter, looking into Huan's eyes]

. . . he . . . told me good-bye, that this was the fate he'd Foreseen us meeting maybe, and he was sorry he hadn't been able to save me, and that we'd meet again, and not to be afraid . . . and he called me _brother_.

[very subdued, they look at the Hound, and at Beren, and at each other.]

 **Captain** : [very softly]

You said he _sent_ the Eagles to you.

[Beren nods]

I think . . . perhaps friend Huan is lord of far more than dogs.

[into the awed, no longer doubting silence, Huan makes a short, sharp, "don't stare at me!" bark and elbows closer until he can jam his head under the Captain's arm for a hug before stretching up into a half-crouch -- then grabbing at the nearest Guard's trailing scabbard and worrying it playfully like a stick]

 **Fourth Guard** : [dragged half-sideways]

Hey!

[Beren slaps at Huan's forepaw, making him settle down]

 **Beren** :

 _Definitely_ more -- but still Lord of Dogs.

[the Captain laughs, and then suddenly freezes, shaking his head]

 **Captain** : [carefully not looking over at Finarfin on the hill]

And now _I_ win the distraction prize. I do hope you lot are aware that his Majesty's father is in the vicinity?

 **Youngest Ranger** :

It's all right, sir -- they already had it out, and Beren told him off. We didn't even have to intervene.

 **Beren** : [sighing]

For the last time -- I _didn't_ tell him off.

 **Captain** :

Oh, I doubt it.

 **Beren** :

Doubt what?

 **Captain** :

That that was the last time. So what is it? -- Damn. I really don't need _this_ right now.

 **Beren** :

I don't think he's going to hassle you again, Sir. I guess they only got the really short version in Tirion. He assumed it was different from the way it really happened and then Tinuviel told about it in more detail and he realized it was different from what he had imagined had happened to us and he's really upset. 

[pause]

He _might_ come apologize, given how much he and Finrod have in common, unless maybe he'd think it would be too rude to bring it up to you. 

[several people glance over at Finarfin in the distance]

 **Captain** : [not sounding at all enthusiastic]

Perhaps I should go over and talk to him, then . . .

 **Beren** : [shrugs]

He doesn't really want to talk to anybody right now, except maybe the K -- Finrod, but he doesn't really want to talk to him either . . . okay, I guess I did kind of tell him off. -- But I wasn't as tough on him as he was on himself.

 **Captain** : [running his hands over his face]

No, I don't imagine that you were. Oh Lady -- more complications for Himself to deal with. What'll be next, I wonder?

 **First Guard** : [looking over at the empty doorway]

Ware! 

**Beren** :

Sir, you know you're never supposed to ask that. 

[enter two Noldor shades, elegantly outfitted and armed -- James Purefoy ( _Mansfield Park_ , _A Knight's Tale_ ) and Ben Browder (as "Captain Larraq," _Farscape_ ) might portray them -- wearing expressions both sardonic and disdainful. Next to them, Finrod's people suddenly look a lot scruffier and more motley; Huan straightens up a bit and whines, but does not get up or make any other sound.]

 **Captain** : [snorting]

It would be _him_. And he's learned to bring a second. Damn, damn, _damn_. Beren --

 **Beren** :

\-- I know, stay out of the way.

 **Captain** :

Actually, I was going to say, use your discretion. That's the former Lord Seneschal of Formenos, who learned the hard way that ambushing an ambush of Balrogs is a bad idea, and making fun of King Finrod an even worse one -- and his counterpart from Aglon, who didn't make it to Nargothrond during the Bragollach. They're likely to say absolutely anything and do whatever they think they can get away with. I'm planning on letting someone else deal with any necessary violence myself right now.

 **Beren** :

Sounds like a good plan to me.

[the Feanorian lords stop a short ways off (ie, a safe distance) and address each other:]

 **Lord Seneschal of Formenos** : [loudly]

What an impossible place this is -- if it weren't enough that the facilities should be dismal and the amenities nonexistent, the service too must be a bad joke on top of it all! Things were much better managed under my control at Formenos.

 **Lord Warden of Aglon** :

Even in the barbarous circumstances of the Old Country we did better than this. -- Of course, the _company_ at Aglon was far preferable as well.

 **Seneschal of Formenos** :

 _That_  . . . would _not_ be difficult to accomplish, I think. Saving yourself, of course.

 **Warden of Aglon** : [graciously]

Likewise. -- Stars above, what have we here . . . ?

[their attempts to suddenly "notice" the others lose some of the effect as the affectation of surprise is overtaken by the real thing at the realization of the scope of the project which has taken over most of the back wall by now. The Lord Warden of Aglon rallies valiantly, though:]

I'm afraid that I can't approve of the results of such economizing efforts. Charity projects given to students _never_ equal work created by fully-trained and reimbursed professionals.

 **Seneschal of Formenos** : [sniffing disdainfully]

Do you think that's it?

 **Warden of Aglon** :

Well, I can't see anyone paying for that, can you? -- At least, I would most certainly _hope_ that they're not.

 **Seneschal of Formenos** :

Oh, I don't know -- I've had grave doubts about the aesthetic sensibilities of our lords and masters ever since I asked the Earthqueen about those bizarre little animals with the horns and she replied, and I quote, "But they're so adorable, in a homely little way." It's one thing to say that they serve a useful purpose in irrigating impacted root systems in grasslands, but to claim to find them "perfectly charming" argues a blindness born of partiality.

 **Warden of Aglon** :

Which kelvar were those? The ruel?

 **Seneschal of Formenos** :

No -- though I agree, they also seem badly-constructed and unnecessary to me. If you want a goat, why not make a goat? and if a deer, well, we already _have_ various sorts of deer. How many of these betwixt-and-between herbivores does Arda need? I was speaking of those middling grey animals, something like a cross between hounds and swine, with spiked snouts -- I've no idea what they are, since _she_ only asked me -- with what, in my opinion, was most unseemly levity -- what _I_ wanted to call them. I understand, however, that they are remarkably docile and requiring of attention, which may explain the attraction somewhat.

[various of their targets swallow grins]

Still, I find it difficult that that even the Powers would want this mess -- though equally, I can't believe they'd let anyone make such a chaotic construct in their offices were it not by design.

[Huan makes a plaintive grumble -- the Lord Warden of Aglon scowls at him, and he puts his head down on his forepaws for the moment, unhappy at the conflict, but not ashamed of his decisions.]

 **Captain** : [genial]

This is "let" as in "not worth one's time or trouble to make us desist or undo, for the present," not "let" in the sense of "certainly, do whatever you please." Rather like Lady Yavanna _letting_ Feanor make the Silmarils, as a matter of fact. We didn't ask permission to be back here, or the rest of it, any more than you've done.

 **Warden of Aglon** : [coldly]

They seem to let _you_ get away with an awful lot.

 **Captain** :

You haven't figured it out yet, have you?

[as they haven't gotten this cryptic remark either, the Feanorians ignore him -- the Lord Seneschal of Formenos scrutinizes the mural with a critical eye, while his junior associate strolls over to frown upon Beren.]

 **Warden of Aglon** :

So you really have got an illegal mortal back here as well.

 **Beren** :

Is it my move or yours?

 **Youngest Ranger** :

Er -- yours.

 **Warden of Aglon** :

Mortal!

 **Beren** : [looking up]

What? The name is _Beren_ , by the way, since you didn't ask. Seems kind of silly bothering about titles now, but there used to be a "Lord" in front and "of Dorthonion" after, too.

 **Warden of Aglon** :

Do you presume to ignore me, Usurper?

 **Beren** : [sighing]

\-- This again? What is it with you people? Were you even talking to me before? 'Cause it didn't sound like it.

 **Warden of Aglon** :

 _Stand_ _up_ when your superiors address you.

 **Beren** : [calling over]

Were _they_ ever in our chain of command?

[the Captain shakes his head]

Sorry. We're busy.

[the Lord Warden of Aglon steps forward and disarranges the pieces with his foot; the players exchange disgusted looks]

 **Warden of Aglon** : [pleasantly]

Again, I repeat my request. -- Stand up when I speak to you. 

**Fourth Guard** : [undertone]

Not what _I_ call a request. And they complain about the language changing over there! 

**Beren** : [tolerantly]

You know, I'd learned not to do stuff like that by the time I was eight. Of course, getting walloped, or extra chores, and having to apologize is a good incentive to mind your manners and actually _think_ before acting on impulse.

[the Youngest Ranger starts putting the game back together, not saying a word]

 **Warden of Aglon** : [looking down with folded arms]

You've an insolent mouth for one here but on sufferance, human lawbreaker.

 **Beren** : [nods]

Horse thief, dog thief, jewel thief, breaking and entering, infiltration, sabotage, assassination attempts, you name it. I've got kings, warlords, demigods, princes, armies and now gods upset at me, so you're going to have to wait your turn. -- Though some of those do overlap. -- Your former bosses must be pretty steamed over the fact that I succeeded where they didn't even have the nerve to try -- I imagine that must take some of the satisfaction out of his curse coming true for Celegorm. And if even half the story's gotten around by now, people have to be looking pretty strangely at Curufin for trying to kill the one person who actually succeeded in defeating Morgoth in a duel.

 **Warden of Aglon** :

You! What claim is this,braggart? _You_ , defeat the Lord of Fetters?

 **Beren** : [shaking his head]

Not me -- my wife. The King's daughter of Doriath. I just chipped off the Silmaril after she was done. -- Which is still more than any of you guys ever accomplished.

[the Warden of Aglon goes to kick Beren over where he is sitting -- which proves inadvisable, as the Sindarin Ranger quietly slams a fist -- with chessman -- into his supporting knee, knocking him painfully flat and following by leaping on him before he can recover, yanking his arm up behind his back and setting the point of a realistically-remembered dagger to the back of his neck. As his senior associate moves to assist him the Captain extends his uninjured leg, tripping him, upon which the nearest of the Ten efficiently subdue and disarm him as well, more-or-less assisted by Huan, who has bounded exuberantly in over the gameboard.]

 **Seneschal of Formenos** : [almost speechless with fury]

You -- dishonorable ruffians --

 **Captain** :

I beg your pardon? Beren wasn't doing anything to you -- to say nothing of the rest of us.

 **Seneschal of Formenos** :

Setting upon us with guile and greater numbers -- !

 **Captain** :

I don't understand.

 **Warden of Aglon** : [snarling in pain]

You outnumber us, idiot!

 **Captain** : [puzzled frown]

Er -- yes, surely you'd noticed that already? That's usually the way it is.

 **Seneschal of Formenos** :

But -- you --

 **Captain** :

Changed the rules. It happens, in war. I should think _he'd_ be aware of it, even if you didn't live long enough to learn that lesson.

[getting up, looking casual but in fact being careful, points to the door]

Bring them along, this is getting boring.

[his subordinates do so, with a little more enthusiasm than necessary.]

 **Warden of Aglon** : [shouting as they drag him along]

The Weaver will hear of this!

 **Youngest Ranger** : [patiently, still holding him up at knifepoint]

Yes, milord. I'm sure she will, if she hasn't heard you already.

[over on the hill, Finarfin is jarred out of his introspection by the ruckus, and stares over through the shadows at the fray]

 **Seneschal of Formenos** : [ice]

I will bring my complaints to the Lord of the Halls himself, and _your_ lord will be answerable for your behaviour.

 **Captain** :

Can you be sure to do it while we're around? I want to hear what his Lordship has to say after hearing you complain.

 **Warrior** :

I'll wager the buckle with lions on it that I used to have that he'll ask, "Why are you wasting my time with this?"

 **Captain** :

Hm, no, I think it'll be, "You should be grateful you got off as lightly as you did, since you won't the next time you try kicking one of their friends in the face." -- Pitch 'em out.

[the Nargothronders expel their rivals out into the corridor, where the two other Noldor shades pick themselves up and after a moment's temptation, consider the advisability and limp off, their expressions boding no good. As the victorious party returns to their companions, Finarfin catches the eye of the Captain and beckons him over to the hill; after a moment's hesitation the latter obeys the summons. As Beren's opponent kneels down and finishes restoring their match:]

 **Beren** : [undertone]

Is he going to be okay?

 **Youngest Ranger** : [whispering]

He's too _swarn_ to give in for anything that would in life heal of its own. He'd rather just put up with it until he can forget about it. Mind over mind, I guess you'd call it.

 **Beren** :

Does it hurt, to . . . disappear?

 **Youngest Ranger** :

No. A little bit disorienting, that's all. It's just a matter of honour not to give anything he isn't prepared to take.

 **Beren** :

I see.

[still worried, nodding towards where the Captain is coming to stand before the living King]

What about . . . ?

 **Youngest Ranger** : [shrugging]

 _You_ didn't have any trouble managing him.

 **Beren** :

No, but -- he wasn't my boss, ever, either. If I was his liege it would have been different.

[he sighs and frowns at the board, trying to remember what he was going to do, since nothing else is in his control. The camera's focus shifts to the hill, where the Captain bows, his expression a bit wary, to Finarfin:]

 **Finarfin** :

Dreamt I, or did in truth behold, deed of mayhem at yonder egress?

 **Captain** :

I wouldn't call it mayhem, sir -- a spot of rowdiness, perhaps. But nothing so much as mayhem.

 **Finarfin** : [disapproving]

Thou dost seem somewhat worse for wear, and yet hast not learnt lesson to avoid affray, than enter it. For I am certain thou dost go somewhat halt, nor _that_ my fancy, for all thou wouldst conceal.

 **Captain** :

Oh, that's nothing. That lot can't touch me. -- Couple of scratches from a friendly set-to with security.

 **Finarfin** :

Art not content to be rebel, and thy offense forgiven, but still must thou challenge the gods? Or dost thou jest? -- I cannot longer tell, with thee.

 **Captain** : [mischievous]

Don't worry about it, sir -- sometimes I can't either.

 **Finarfin** : [grim smile]

And were those known to me, that thy confederates did thus discharge from here in such high-spirited glee?

 **Captain** :

I'm not sure, my lord. I can't recall if they ever visited the House in the old Days, and you might have met them around the City, but I don't really know. They're followers of your eldest brother. They felt like starting some trouble, beginning with Lord Beren, so we obliged.

[pause]

 **Finarfin** :

I ken not whether I should commend, else condemn -- yet neither, I deem, will make any difference to thy deeds.

 **Captain** :

I'm afraid not, my lord.

 **Finarfin** : [dryly]

Nay, and why should it, at this late pass, that did not formerly?

[the Captain winces a little. Pause]

 **Captain** : [hopeful]

Was that all, sir? 

**Finarfin** :

Nay, thou shalt not 'scape so easily, lad.

[checks briefly, and continues with a faint grimace:]

When I did ban you from my doors, I spake in anger, not in considered judgment.

 **Captain** :

But not without justice.

 **Finarfin** :

Still 'twas of wrath, that word of mine, and so I would temper it with mercy: thou mayest of a certain come to see thy kin, when ever thou dost will, when thou departest hence.

 **Captain** :

Thank you, sir.

[he sighs]

\-- Assuming they want anything to do with me, of course.

 **Finarfin** : [dryly]

Make no doubt of that.

[aside]

And that indeed hath weight upon my clemency -- for I would not gladly face thy sister with such a decision of my making!

 **Captain** :

At least _I've_ given up slamming doors when I lose my temper.

[Finarfin gives him a sidelong look]

It doesn't do for a senior officer -- far less for a spy.

 **Finarfin** :

The singular -- openness -- of these Halls is far from convenient, and eke most disquieting to we that are little used.

 **Captain** : [sympathetic]

That it can be.

 **Finarfin** : [sternly]

Yet still thou shalt not have place nor post again, among my people, that hast deserted aught thou didst have.

[the Captain nods -- silence. Relenting:]

\-- Unless thou canst not find other station, and work betimes. There shall be place always at hearthside for thee.

 **Captain** : [gently]

I thank you, my lord. But that will not be necessary, I think. I wouldn't want to take anyone's job, not just hers, and I don't know that I'd be comfortable peeling potatoes and plucking fowl -- not that I've objection to such work as such, but I doubt that, quite frankly, anyone else would be quite easy around _me_  -- or that I could keep from trying to reorganize any situation you put me into, for efficiency as I saw it.

 **Finarfin** :

I would not have thee forwandered and wanting for want of friends.

 **Captain** :

You needn't fear for that, Sir. Aman's a big place, and I know how to live off the land: so longas I don't kill any white deer by mistake, I should be quite all right.

 **Finarfin** :

Thou wouldst live as our ancestors in the wilds, ere thou'd dwell 'neath my roof?

 **Captain** : [still more gently]

Would you make me a lord, set among your highest counsellors, and give me authority to do as I saw fit throughout the land?

[they look at each other without speaking]

I didn't expect so.

 **Finarfin** : [cool]

So it is power thou dost hunger for, more than all else.

 **Captain** : [untroubled by the accusation]

My lord, I know as well as any that you never coveted power over others, nor pride of place, nor anything saving the first love of your father. And yet -- now that you have had this task of rule, that never was wanted, and surely cannot be quite so light a burden, despite the peace of Valinor without us to trouble it, could you ever set it aside, and gladly return to the quiet of study and song and your arts, leaving it to another while you stood by powerless to correct?

[Finarfin starts to say something, and cannot.]

Interesting -- it is not only we unhoused who cannot speak counter to what is held at heart, in this place.

[the King gives him a Look of mingled exasperation and admiration]

 **Finarfin** :

Was't ever so, that thou wert so wise, and only kept thy counsel to thine own self, in former Day?

 **Captain** :

I . . . don't recall, truly, any more. I don't remember that it mattered much to me, one way or the other, what was said by you and your brothers, and your father, save that it distressed you, and Lady Earwen, and the children, and so us for your sakes, that were your people -- except to make remark upon someone else's words to amuse those near me. The arguments and rivalries didn't change the fact that I had to make sure there was meat on the table, and didn't prevent me from riding out in the wind and the light of the Trees, or wandering through the salt-marshes when it looked like the water was the sky for stars.

 **Finarfin** : [shaking his head]

How dost thou support _this_ , that wert ever restive within doors? Is't not passing heavy on thy soul?

 **Captain** : [frankly]

Yes. -- But I have friends, and we are not wanting in amusement, and it is only for a time. I can wait.

 **Finarfin** :

If mine eldest son's true-love reconcileth not with him, I think he will not go from here.

[pause]

And thou wilt bide here as well. -- Why? Why hast thou not reproach, nor for this, nor for the manner of thy -- death?

 **Captain** : [after a brief pause]

I would not, I think ever have cared for greater matters, had not the world we knew ended, and I caught by the lure of lands still more strange and distant. And then -- there was _need_ , and I understood it, and my skills as slayer of birds and deer made an obligation to protect as well as feed in time of famine, and it turned out that I could see better than most the best ways to do that. And my attentiveness, in noting this Elf's scowl or that one's smile, that had been no more than a private aside to friend on envy, or alliance, or hope -- proved matter much more serious, when we were at war. And your son led us through all of it, the Ice, and the Dark, and the bitter days when we nearly slew each other in the Old World, before the Deed of Fingon, and trusted me with the defense of his kingdom, for many a Great Year -- nor blamed me, when I failed in the end.

[silence]

 **Finarfin** :

I have wept for thee, as for all my rungate House, in anger and in soreness of heart and in bitter shame that might not save ye from that madness. And now -- but only now -- have I wept for _thee_. But though it be but little of while, think it no lesstrue than those most selfish tears. I shall yet fear for thee, though thou dost urge other.

 **Captain** :

My lord, please don't. I'm sure you have troubles enough with your family and Tirion and all. There are possibilities, prospects, that may come to pass. And if not -- there are worse things than to be known as "the lunatic who set out to map the entire continent on foot," after all.

 **Finarfin** :

And if it cometh to worse pass than that?

[silence]

Thou dost not speak thy thought, then.

 **Captain** :

I do not need to -- and I would rather not distress you further. -- But it's true.

[Finarfin discreetly rubs at the corner of his eye. Glancing over towards the waterfall:]

Sir, will you kindly excuse me? My friends are growing concerned, and the Beoring most of all.

[the Noldor King nods without speaking -- as he turns to go:]

Er -- should I pack a lunch, my lord?

 **Finarfin** :

Thy pardon?

 **Captain** :

When I come to see my family. You said you didn't want me scrounging off the House, and so I thought maybe I should arrange to bring my own meals along. 

[he looks perfectly serious -- Finarfin is not fooled by this apparent innocence]

 **Finarfin** :

Nay, I had forgotten how much we shall have missed thy freakish jests as well. An thou didst come and partake of none but thine own provender, and such insult to the House revealed as mine own insult unto thee, I had ne'er heard end of it from thy mother nor my son's mother. -- But --

[forestalling with a raised hand]

\-- an thou wouldst bring, as guest-gift, such kill as thou might, brace of partridge or other thou hast taken, nor should we take amiss, nor seek to find insult where none be meant. My son hath given thee discretion in great matters -- I will not doubt you in such lesser ones. Go, join thy friends, I'll not trouble thee, nor they need send rescue -- not that I deem thou truly needest such, that hast held command over many, and come back from the War far changed from the youth that left us, though no more, verily, than Enedrion, that hath learned to serve without argument nor haughty look, though stranger yet that he should cast himself willingly against me for thy sake, that formerly had never a care for any whose art was not noble nor enduring.

[at the Captain's surprised glance -- faint smile]

\-- Nay, didst thou think I perceivéd not? Peace -- go to thy companions.

 **Captain** :

Will you stay here, alone, my lord?

[he looks meaningfully over to the falls]

 **Finarfin** :

I should not be so welcome as thou dost deem, I misdoubt.

 **Captain** :

If I say so, you will be, sir.

 **Finarfin** :

Belike -- belike after. For the nonce -- I would have peace.

 **Captain** : [bowing]

We'll try to be quieter, then. Afraid I can't promise anything, though. Especially if Huan gets going again.

[Finarfin waves him off, struggling to restrain an inappropriate smile]


	97. Act 4: SCENE IV.v

[Elsewhere: the council chamber]

[things have settled back into the everyone-talks-at-once, usually with energetic gestures, and nobody listens, mode. Somehow Aule's Apprentice has inserted himself into the discussion, by means of an empty chair and assuming that he must have something to contribute, most likely. Overlapping:]

 **Irmo** :

Even if nothing had transpired to interfere, you wouldn't have had more than a half-yen at the most --

 **Vaire** :

I think that you're simply _wrong_ , dear, in your opinion that his commitment is equal to yours --

 **Luthien** : [interrupting, to Irmo]

\-- But if you consider how many years many couples spend _not_ seeing each other, then fifty or sixty years all together can come out the same almost --

 **Nerdanel** : [aside]

Thy words cut deeper than any chisel --

 **Namo** : [quietly to his wife]

Excuse me, I need to check on things.

 **Vaire** : [nodding -- to Luthien:]

But he did leave you repeatedly --

 **Luthien** :

Not because he _wanted_ to.

 **Assistant** : [with a slight emphasis on her title, not enough to come across as rude]

Your Highness -- no one _forced_ him to part from you, by means of capture or other duress. I'm afraid that the fact of Lady Vaire's assertion is not open to denial.

 **Nerdanel** :

Yet, sir, nor mayest _thou_ deny, that to go from another for fear of that one's further safekeeping, is far other than to go from one for love of another, or others, or for seeking after property, or vengeance, or to make such departure, and compel choice of same upon another, in manner of test, that one does truly love -- all these be most greatly differing from the former?

 **Aule** :

And yet this Man too did in fact leave her for the same piece of property, and revenge --

 **Ambassador** : [reluctant both to contradict a Power, and to defend Beren]

But, my Lord, there might indeed be said to be compulsion, in the choice my King set upon him --

[the Apprentice comes in, answering Namo's summons, and looking extremely harried as he goes over to the Lord of the Hall's bench]

 **Namo** : [peremptory]

All right, what's going on now?

 **Apprentice** :

Erm . . .

[he looks rather panic-stricken]

 **Namo** : [exasperated]

The rogue? Remember? That's one of the four things you're supposed to be doing -- waiting for security to check in, taking complaints, forestalling trouble and running errands as needed. How come you're so distracted all the time?

 **Apprentice** :

It -- isn't _all_ the time, my Lord: by my calculations it's only fifty-seven percent of the time --

[at Namo's Look]

Sorry, Sir.

 **Namo** :

So?

 **Apprentice** :

Yes? -- Ah, no -- I mean, nothing is going on, the rogue hasn't been seen again yet, and I did put a stop to the rioting in the halls. That is to say --

[he fumbles around, the Lord of the Halls covers his eyes, and the Weaver is sympathetic in turn:]

 **Vaire** :

Don't worry, dear, we understand. Just do the best that you can -- I don't expect the impossible of you.

 **Aule's Assistant** : [undertone]

And a good thing too!

[the Apprentice looks even more abashed and defensive]

 **Vaire** :

Who was it this time?

 **Apprentice** :

Fingolfin's daughter and her recusant husband. At least to start with --

 **Vaire** : [shaking her head]

Whatever possessed that boy to introduce such an appalling pastime? And of all the people to think of it! And he isn't even embarrassed about it.

 **Namo** : [lacing her fingers in his own consolingly]

You must admit, though, they get it over with a lot faster now that he devised swords. At least we don't get the shouting matches that go on until they run out of insults. I think the shortest one went on for a fortnight nonstop.

 **Vaire** :

\--  _Yes_.

[they share one of those rueful smiles typical of those who share a longtime work/life experience, like ships' crew, or parents. To the Apprentice:]

Just -- what's that expression you like to use? -- "keep bringing out the fires," or however it goes.

 **Apprentice** :

"Putting out," -- it comes from summertimes in droughty regions, or an alternate possibility is that it derives from the buildup of internal heat in mulch heaps, but in either case it comes from agrarian societies lacking the ability to reliably control the weather, or so Finrod informs me. Ah -- sorry, my Lady, I don't expect you're interested in that.

 **Namo** : [apparently completely serious -- surely not with any wicked amusement?]

Look at it this way -- you may be obliged to spend time with the involuntarily discorporate, but at least you're picking up cultural contexts for your trivia that you couldn't easily get out of the Archives. 

**Apprentice** :

Erm . . . yes, Sir.

 **Luthien** : [offended]

What's wrong with being dead?

[he gives her a nervous look and laugh]

I'm serious! Why does he say it like you think it's punishment?

 **Apprentice** :

Ah -- please --

[he looks over at the Lord of the Halls, who just raises his eyebrows back at him -- no help there.]

I -- please don't get angry, Princess Luthien, it's -- just -- not normal, for people to be going about without any bodies on.

 **Luthien** :

Mom always said there were _lots_ of spirits in Valinor who weren't solid and lived in the air.

[her compatriot the Ambassador nods agreement; Irmo covers a slight smile, and the Earthlord's aide is far too bland in his expression to be innocent of amusement at his counterpart's discomfiture.]

 _Manir_ and _Suruli_ , she called them. Oh, and some who live in the water, and simply _are_ water, or more like waves in the water. No bodies either -- do you act different around them?

 **Apprentice** : [desperately]

Yes, but they never _had_ them -- they didn't have them to start with and then lose them.

 **Luthien** :

What difference does it make?

 **Apprentice** :

It's -- it's just creepy. It's not the way things are supposed to be!

[Luthien gives him a narrow Look]

 **Luthien** :

You seem almost scared. Why? Does it make you think it might happen to you? Or have you been listening to too many spooky stories about people getting killed after seeing a ghost or being led into some danger or being possessed? I bet I can tell you plenty more you've never even heard of, about headless warriors and haunted bridges and the ghosts of bulls on the roof, and I bet I can even make up some more just as good as those, too!

 **Apprentice** : [austerely]

From my studies in the Archives I know that not all of those are fiction, your Highness.

 **Luthien** :

Yes, but more of them are than aren't. Maybe you don't sit up late making up stories in Valinor, but trying to come up with an even better story than the next person is something we all do -- mortals and Elves -- in Beleriand. I can see you know I'm right.

[curious]

Are you really that afraid of us? Even you Valinoreans?

[she turns to look right at Nerdanel, catching her in a slight flinch]

It seems strange that you'd be haunted without even being haunted, after a manner of speaking!

 **Nerdanel** : [with a wry smile]

Nay -- for in the reality beneath the Moon and Sun, few needs must think upon such matters, when they are not forced upon our recollection. -- Or so it is for many, I do believe.

 **Luthien** : [looking back at Nienna's Apprentice]

Why? Have any of us "discorporates" actually done anything to harm you here?

[the Apprentice looks guilty]

Have _I_ done _anything_ to you except "yell at" you? -- which is only what I'd do if I were here in the flesh as well.

 **Apprentice** :

Well -- no, your Highness.

 **Luthien** :

So what's the problem, hm? Why are you so troubled by us? You're not _really_ scared, are you? You seem more disgusted and curious at the same time.

 **Apprentice** : [pleading]

My Lord --

[the Lord of the Halls shakes his head]

 **Namo** :

When you arranged with my sister to take you on, you already knew she spends much of her time here. Did you think she was going to leave you home to sweep out her Halls or something to teach you patience? This is another learning experience. Now either answer Luthien's question, or don't.

 **Apprentice** : [sighing]

Yes, Sir.

[back and forth between Luthien and Vaire]

\-- Partly. It's also the constant complaining that I have to listen to -- not from you, your Highness -- about how there aren't any bright colors or lights or proper sensations -- though part of that's the decor, begging your pardon, ma'am -- and how dull and boring it is with nothing to do except remember and talk -- at least until your cousin arrived -- though I do agree -- well, think that they have a point, at least -- with the Sindar who say it would be much improved by some potted plants, at least --

 **Vaire** : [nettled]

If you want plants, _you_ can figure out a way to make them grow in here.

[pointedly]

\-- If you haven't enough to keep you busy, that is.

 **Apprentice** : [getting distracted]

What if we took species that already thrive underground and, oh, sort of changed them to make them look like ones from Outside? I'll bet that --

 **Vaire** : [half-rising]

No! It's hard enough ensuring that fungus doesn't grow in here, given the atmospheric conditions, I won't have you encouraging it on purpose!

 **Apprentice** : [meekly]

Yes, my Lady.

 **Aule's Assistant** : [thoughtful]

What about artificial plants? It seems to me, -- subject of course to your approval, noble ones -- that one might be able to fabricate versions of imperishable materials that would be equal to, or even superior, to the originals in appearance.

[Nienna's student raises his hands]

 **Apprentice** :

I don't know that anyone would be pleased by that. It's the absence of growing things, you see. I try to explain that, well, these _are_ the Halls of the Dead, you know.

 **Assistant** :

\-- Primitives.

[the Doriathrin lord gives him an affronted look -- his Princess is less inhibited by reverence]

 **Luthien** :

We are not! We had exactly the same problem in Menegroth, and we solved it in several ways. One's to bring in live plants in vessels, and just keep them in for a little while, and then put them out in the sun again after. Cut greenery also works nicely to embellish a hall seasonally.

 **Vaire** :

But then they dry out, and bits drop _off_ them onto the floor, and have to be cleaned up.

 **Luthien** : [shrugging]

So? Anyway, that's just one thing you can do. What we mostly did, was to make sculptures like he --

[nods towards Aule's aide]

\-- was talking about. My mother designed a lot of it, and the Dwarven architects built in spaces for the trees and things to go, and some of it was carved out of stone, and then painted, and some of it was enameled metal attached on, and some of it's glass with colors and wire inside to make the leaf-veining. There's all sorts of things one can do.

 **Nerdanel** : [sniffing]

Myself, I have always favoured the use of stones most aptly colored in themselves, the which possess _inherently_ the fitting sheen, as though nature indeed had intended for the purpose of the work.

 **Aule** :

But it's very slow, 'Danel. If you can _make_ exactly the hue you need, why not do it? Why waste time hunting about for it?

 **Assistant** :

My thoughts exactly, Sir.

 **Nerdanel** : [obstinate -- an old argument, obviously]

Yet must I aver, my Lord, that never doth the made piece hold full richness, nor true depth nor variety, that stone which hath grown by longsome layering and the free changes of the water, and fire, and weight upon it, shall inevitably compass.

 **Aule** :

But it's exactly the same process! Only faster, in the workshop. I really do believe that you only _think_ you can tell the difference because you know that one's synthetic.

 **Luthien** :

Well, and of course, they're never exactly the same as real leaves. But they're pretty, and it's fun, in a way, to have something made out of something that it isn't, especially if it's very different. It wouldn't be half as interesting if they were made of wood, even if you could make ones that looked so much like them out of wood, which you can't, because it isn't translucent.

 **Nerdanel** :

Nor is there translucency in paint!

 **Luthien** : [shaking her head]

You can make it like enamel, in thin layers, and mix mica in with it. Daeron came up with that, to make letters show up on a dark background.

 **Ambassador** : [sadly reminiscent]

\-- He was so frustrated that people only ever used the ideas for monograms on doors and such.

 **Luthien** :

Or paint over metal leaf and have the shininess show through that way. We put stars on ceilings with that.

[looking up]

I bet you could do that in here. And not as much work as any of the rest of it.

[Vaire and the others look up as well, frowning thoughtfully; -- maybe, maybe -- ]

 **Assistant** :

Though it would appear terribly derivative, I fear, as though you were trying to copy Varda's designs for Taniquetil.

 **Irmo** :

But the stars _are_ her designs, so _any_ stars are going to be based on her work. You might as well say that she was being repetitive herself and criticize the inside of the mansion, at that. -- I think it would be very attractive, Vaire.

 **Orome** : [half-smiling]

Remind me: how did this turn into a discussion of naturalistic decorating styles?

 **Namo** :

Very good question.

[he gives the Apprentice a raised eyebrow]

 **Apprentice** :

I think I should be getting back to keep an eye on the stone in case anyone tries to report in.

[he makes an unceremonious exit/retreat]

 **Irmo** : [to his brother]

Do you really think Nia has any hope of succeeding there?

 **Namo** : [remanifesting his mug]

If not, she's going to be taking me on next.


	98. Act 4: SCENE IV.vi

[The Hall]

[A new individual arrives on scene -- but after a brief alert everyone relaxes and the outer sentinels do not change position to block the newcomer. She is another shade, but somewhat different in appearance from any other Elves we have seen so far -- for one thing, she's a good bit shorter (though still taller than Beren) as well as barefoot. There should be a somewhat windblown, beachcomber look to her outfit, and her jewelry is all of strands of small pearls. Her speech is not as archaic as the other Valinorean Eldar, but should have somewhat of a precise intonation -- slightly old-fashioned" in tone. Julia Ormond might be good in this part.]

 **Teler Maid** :

So _you're_ the ones who have been running and shouting in the halls. I might have known it.

 **Captain** : [dignified]

We were not "running and shouting in the halls." We were conducting an experiment. Wh --

[they tend to cut over each other's sentences like relatives or very old acquaintances often do, without noticing or taking offense.]

 **Teler Maid** :

You could have fooled me. Is --

 **Captain** :

\-- So what are you doing here, Curlew?

 **Teler Maid** : [rolling her eyes]

It is not " _Curlew_."

 **Captain** :

\-- Sanderling? -- Murrelet? -- Lapwing? It's got to be some sort of shorebird, you're standing on one leg again.

[she adjusts her posture]

 **Teler Maid** : [mock exasperation]

It is _Maiwe_ , and well you know it.

 **Captain** : [shrugs]

Curlew, Sea-Mew -- you can't expect me to keep them straight. Next thing you'll be saying "jib" and "clinker" like those are real words that mean things.

 **Teler Maid** :

I was going to rail at you, you know.

 **Captain** :

 _Rail_  -- isn't that some kind of waterbird? -- Any particular reason? I mean, you could do it now, if you wanted.

 **Teler Maid** :

Are you just going to keep on being silly?

 **Captain** :

Well -- until you get really annoyed. Or perhaps a little bit before that. So why are _you_ here? -- Does it have anything to do with why you wanted to yell at me?

 **Teler Maid** :

Not you personally. All who were disturbing of the peace.

[frowning]

If you're here, does that mean that _he_ is back, as well?

 **Captain** :

You didn't hear?

 **Teler Maid** :

Hear what?

 **Captain** :

Er . . .

[she looks up, much as Finrod did just before Finarfin's entrance, and simply disappears, not as the Powers, but gradually blending into the background]

 **Beren** :

\--  _Wow_. -- Who was that?

 **Captain** :

Ah --

[he looks extremely perturbed]

Maiwe -- ? Are you all right?

[she does not reappear]

She -- used to be a colleague of mine. I -- don't --

[Beren looks at the Sindarin Ranger, who only shrugs helplessly]

\-- Ah. I _wonder_  -- I'll bet that's --

[the Captain grimaces, shaking his head and calls to the empty air:]

\-- Maiwe, if it's the Lord Seneschal again, don't worry -- he can't hurt you if you don't allow him, and he'll probably be so embarrassed he'll ignore you anyway. And if he isn't we'll send him packing.

 **Beren** :

What --

[at that moment the Steward reenters the Hall, looking quite pleased with himself. The Captain puts his forehead down on his knee, grimacing.]

 **First Guard** :

Hullo, Sir. We didn't expect to see you back any time soon.

 **Warrior** :

We thought you were playing chess with the King's uncle.

 **Steward** :

I was. I won. 

**Second Guard** :

How, Sir?

 **Steward** : [a trifle smugly]

 _That_ is for me to know, and the High King to endeavour to find out.

[on the further side of one of the columns, the Sea-elf girl reappears and leans back against it, her arms folded tightly about herself, visibly in the throes of indecision]

 **Captain** :

Edrahil . . .

 **Steward** :

What? -- Do _not_ , I insist, involve me in another such scheme which requires me _not_ to come to your assistance while you get cut to ribbons. I have better things to do, believe me on that --

[the newest visitor makes up her mind and leaves the shelter of the pillar, coming out to confront him in silence]

 **Captain** : [unnecessarily]

A mutual acquaintance of ours is here and has been asking after you.

[they are staring at each other without hearing his words, she still with folded arms and and narrowed eyes, he in total shock and disbelief]

 **Teler Maid** : [grim satisfaction]

I see that you are returned at last.

[the Steward continues to stare at her, completely stunned. Beren gets up and goes over to him, looking worried, but not interrupting]

 **Teler Maid** : [acerbic]

I suppose I should not be surprised that you have no greeting for me, when you had no _farewell_ before.

 **Captain** : [pleading]

Maiwe . . .

[it takes the Steward several attempts before he can manage to say anything]

 **Steward** : [horrified]

But _how_  -- how long -- ?

 **Teler Maid** : [tossing her head]

As to your second, for as long as you have been gone; as to your first, -- can you not guess, then?

 **Steward** : [in denial]

But -- I made certain that your family were all safe, and . . . they were as certain as I, that you . . . were at your cousins' home in Tirion . . .

[he breaks off, grimacing at his own words]

 **Teler Maid:** [sharply]

I do have other friends, you know. -- Or I did.

[he flinches again]

After that our last fight 

I returned home, but did not wish to hear my kin tell me what I already knew, that there was for us not a jot of hope of any bliss, and I went to a certain house of my acquaintance, where my childhood friends would not tell me aught whatsoever, and I might have _some_ small amount of peace before going back to my work where I must see you again.

[with a certain bitter satisfaction:]

And we went out on their boat, and _you_ were not there to dispraise it, or to speak with displeasure of the weather, or the canting of the deck, or the noise of the wind, or our crude chanteys, or the food -- and we had but put in to port when the Lights went out, and I would have gone back to make sure mischance had not befallen you, but my friends persuaded me to wait, that it was not safe, and so we waited for word, and _then_  --

[she stops, not broken up, just angry, staring at him with tight lips]

 **Steward** : [shaking his head in dismay]

But why -- why not -- why are you _here_ yet, and not returned to your parents? Why should you remain in this place for so long, when no Doom bars you from going Outside?

 **Teler Maid** : [ice]

Because I did not wish to learn that you had been party to it.

[he staggers, taking an involuntary step backwards and would fall if Beren did not catch him]

 **Beren** :

What's wrong, sir?

[the Steward only shakes his head, overcome, leaning on Beren's shoulder]

Sir?

 **Steward** : [choked]

If -- if you had somehow survived your encounter with the Wolf, and the King of Doriath had _not_  -- would you not judge there was something far amiss between you, if your lady's first assumption was that -- you were in some way directly responsible?

 **Beren** :

Uh -- yeah. Wait -- I _know_ you weren't part of the Kinslaying, so -- oh. She _thinks_ you were -- ?!

[to the Sea-elf, urgently:]

 _No_ , he didn't, and not only that -- he would never, _ever_ do anything like that. He's one of the most upright and kind people I've ever known in my whole life.

[She gives him a look of increasing curiosity]

 **Teler Maid** :

Who are you?

[pause]

 **Beren** :

The reason he's dead.

[the Steward makes an exasperated noise]

 **Teler Maid** :

Are you a creature of the Enemy? For you do look somewhat like, at least in accord with the tales I have heard.

 **Beren** :

Uh . . .

 **Captain** : [solemnly]

I assure you, the Lord Beren is no more nor less of an Orc than I am.

[she gives him a sharp look in turn]

 **Teler Maid** :

You are making fun of me.

 **Captain** :

I'm making a joke, is all. Have I ever made fun of you?

 **Teler Maid** : [sulkily]

You were much used to tease me.

 **Captain** :

To make you laugh. And you gave back just as good, hm?

[she nods, quickly and unwillingly, and moves on]

 **Teler Maid** :

Then what manner of creature are you? Surely our folk who remained have not become so rough and wild in the meanwhiles!

[Beren shakes his head]

 **Beren** :

I'm a Man. Or was -- the ghost of one, now.

 **Teler Maid** :

You are one of the Secondborn?!

[amazed, she reaches unthinkingly towards Beren; equally unthinkingly, the Steward deflects her hand before she can touch him]

 **Teler Maid** :

Do not presume to push me about so, my lord!

[he freezes, expressionless]

 **Beren** :

My lady -- please -- it wasn't you, people have been trying to beat me up a lot and it was just a reflex.

 **Teler Maid** : [speaking to him, but looking at the Steward]

I am no lady. I am a "humble rustic," and no more, who should be more comprehensible of the signal honour done me by the King's house, in securing for me such a fine post and an opportunity to raise myself beyond my simple origins in the home of his daughter.

[the Steward hides his face against Beren's shoulder]

 **Beren** :

Did he -- did you -- really say those things to . . . ?

[head still bowed, the Steward nods]

 **Teler Girl** :

Does he not speak slightingly to _you_ , then, nor is ever critical of your words and manners in the sight of all?

 **Beren** : [honestly]

\-- Sometimes.

[pause]

But that isn't the whole of it by a long shot. He died rather than betray me, or King Finrod -- and that means way more than just words.

[pause]

 **Teler Maid** :

Lord Ingold is dead? He is here as well?

[for the first time she looks more upset than angry]

 **Captain** :

He's the one mostly responsible for the disorderly conduct that bothered you. It wouldn't have occurred to us to try without him.

 **Steward** :

You . . . did not know we were here, ere now?

 **Teler Maid** : [sniffing]

I keep to myself: I have no wish to be snubbed by Exiles here, as if this were Tirion. I only came to complain to Lady Nienna about the noise having resumed once again.

 **Captain** :

But even if you didn't realize -- I'm sure someone would have told you it was us.

[the Sea-elf looks simultaneously guilty and stubborn]

 **Teler Maid** : [defiantly]

I never asked.

 **Captain** :

\-- Oh.

 **Steward** : [with difficulty]

Forgive me --

 **Teler Maid** : [cutting him off]

\-- Still you would tell me then, fine sir, what I should say or must think? I have a _name_  -- however little you have liked it, and called me "a half-savage, yet" for taking it to my heart -- and if you would have me hear you, then needs must address me by it.

[he stares at her, unable to keep going, and she tosses her head]

I did not think you would. -- Or that any word of mine would make you change your ways.

[he shakes his head helplessly]

What, then? No words at all for me? Not even to answer me, that I may have peace from wondering, if you were among those who slew us in the Darkness?

 **Steward** :

I swear to you -- upon mine own name -- never have I raised bow or blade against any of our people, in life or in death, saving in gaming or in defence.

 **Teler Maid** :

Defence! Was that not what it was called, when Fingon and the companions of Fingon came to kill us too?

[he does not say anything more]

Why could you not even come to speak to me, not even to bid me farewell before your going?

 **Steward** :

I -- we did not think it would be so long. -- Home before the last Leaf fell, some of us said at the outset, and thought it possible.

 **Teler Maid** :

And still you did not think to seek me out, and ask me whether I would or no?

 **Steward** : [as though unable _not_ to answer her]

As we had fought, and you were angry enough to depart the House that we might not meet even though it be a high Feast, and your Lady deeming you so aggrieved that she did chide me for it though I a guest at table, and the chill of your temper like the mist off the surf -- I judged it should be "no." -- Should it have been other?

 **Teler Maid** : [tossing her head]

Again you presume to know my mind without my speaking it. -- And no farewell, not even in anger, that would have told you in the seeking-after and not finding, that I was not in Tirion that hour -- ?

 **Steward** : [in the same compelled manner]

It was a madness upon us, like a fire within our hearts, scorching away all other thought and reason. And it seemed to me that I and all of us might return in blaze of glory, having done deeds worthy of the gods, and I should make the songs of this our victory that every lip should sing -- and then you would no longer dare disdain me, nor turn from me in the coldness of your anger, and in your eyes I should see naught but myself reflected in your admiration. And so in pride, and anger, and insanity -- I left without farewell.

[silence]

 **Teler Maid** : [softly]

You speak of _fire_ , my lord. -- Do you know how I was thieved of my body, while you listened to the words of the Spirit of Fire and dreamed your bright dreams of battles and great journeys? To make the defenders leave off the fight, or else choose betwixt protecting ships and breathing children, _his_ people fired the homes along the waterfront, and set all quayside alight, and the rafters burned, and the wooden galleries that crossed the streets between the upper stories, and I was trapped when I would flee, under the wood and the fallen tiles --

[he shakes his head but she does not stop]

\-- and none could hear my screams above the roaring of the flames. What was I to know, but that youwere amongst the ones of those warriors, that numbered so many of them as your friends? -- And ever did speak, even as those friends, speak slightingly of our poor Wanderers', Thirdlings', Latecomers' ways?

[he opens his mouth and tries to say something, but it is not audible -- perhaps her name]

And what of you, fine sir, Edrahil Enedir's son of House Mahtan? Did you find glory, beyond the waves, did you find what you dreamt of that I could never give you, enough honour and power and admiration to quench your limitless thirst, and deeds enough to busy your restive heart, that would not rest beside mine, and yet would not set me free -- was there wealth and renown enough to please you in those lands? And at the end did you meet your Doom in manner fit for the songs of your leader's boast, that all have heard, living and dead? What mighty deed for our people's remembering cost _you_ your life? Surely it was no panicked, headlong flight into a trap, like a fish into the nets -- not you!

 **Steward** : [shaking his head]

You -- you don't want to -- to know about such things --

[she stamps her foot impatiently]

 **Teler Maid** :

O _most_ wise and clever and eloquent of Elves, when we two were on the green earth together, it was _you_ who would speak, whether I wished to hear or to speak myself, and who would be silent when I _prayed_ you speak to me, and not to turn your face aside, or speak to another as if _I_ were not there, for your ill-temper and your pride. And now you _will_ answer me, will you or nill you, and you will _not_ tell me what it is that I do not wish to hear.

[he answers as before, unwillingly but under compulsion]

 **Steward** :

No songs will be made of our end -- I died unknown, a thrall, enchained, blind, my voice long worn away in weeping, food for a hellspawn beast, and none of my days' work across the years before meant anything by comparison, nor shall I be remembered for accomplishment in the places where I served, nor any there mark or miss my leaving.

 **Beren** : [earnest]

Sir -- that -- that can't be true. They'll find out how much they needed you, if they haven't already.

 **Teler Maid** : [chill]

And -- in all those days and years -- was there ever an hour in which you thought of another left behind, or missed me?

 **Steward** :

There were few that I did not. When I could no longer call your face to mind or make your voice sound in my thoughts I remembered the Sea, and dreamed of the gulls' cry until my turn came to perish.

 **Teler Maid** :

But you have always feared the Sea.

[he nods. Wonderingly:]

\-- I did not know that until I only now did utter it. I thought . . . that you considered it but a dull and formless wasteland, unlike the gracious halls of stone . . . and thus you would not willingly go to it. And all the time -- it was but fear, that you hid in guise of pride.

[he cannot answer. Suddenly loud:]

Edrahil! What will you do to me, mad lovesick fool that I was, and am, that left me so long cold and grey before I was brought to _this_ , and now are come back to trouble my rest and drive me mad once more with your aloofness and your mistral moods, that I cannot follow, being that they change quicker than the wind, so that not even my namesake gull could match them?

[he clutches Beren's arm harder, too stricken to notice or care about the audience or the audience's distress]

 **Beren** :

Please, don't --

[she turns her attention towards him again, waiting, and he sighs]

I was going to ask you not to be angry with him any more about leaving, but that isn't it, is it? You two had problems way back before the Return. That was stupid of me. But he _is_ different now.

[She moves even closer to them and reaches her hand out to Beren, brushing aside his hair to get a better look at his ear and touching his unshaven cheek -- not in a rude way, but very childlike in her curiousity -- while staring into his eyes. (Note: all her gestures and attitudes should be very natural and unformal -- it is only dealing with her ex that she is tense and self-conscious.) The Steward checks his defensive reaction, looking away with an anguished expression.]

 **Teler Maid** : [amazed]

\-- Aftercomer. _You_ are so very different from they who company you.

 **Beren** : [nods]

So are you.

 **Teler Maid** : [suspicious]

Howso mean you?

 **Beren** : [smiling]

You don't tower over me.

 **Teler Maid** :

Are all your folk so short, then?

 **Beren** :

Nah, I'm about in the middle. I was kind of tall for my tribe, 'cause my mother's folk are tall, as tall as Noldor most of them, but the Haladin are a lot shorter than we are. I should explain -- the People of Haleth are another tribe of Men who live in a different part of Beleriand. So did Hador -- that's Ma's side -- but they lived in another different part, up by the High King's holdings.

[she frowns at him doubtfully]

I probably shouldn't have brought that up, because of the Kinslaying.

[the Sea-elf continues to give him a dubious Look]

Only maybe you don't know about how Fingon is the High King now -- only that's just the High King in Middle-earth, not here, of course. Or does everybody here know about King Fingolfin? Not that this is really relevant . . .

[he trails off]

 **Teler Maid** :

I am not following your words well -- but I think that it all comes to your first "no."

 **Beren** : [wry]

Everyone here will tell you that I do a real good job of confusing people with my explanations, not just Lord Edrahil here.

 **Teler Maid** : [challengingly]

You know that _he_ was one of those most resenting of the notion that your people should have our place, and those lands of Middle-earth that had been ours, and should have been yet, had we not ever crossed over the Sea?

 **Beren** :

Yeah. He told me all about how Morgoth used to play on each person's vanity and goals like a harp, even the ones that he never said out loud, and how nobody realized it until it was all over.

 **Teler Maid** : [short laugh]

If he had but listened half so well to me!

[None of them can say anything to this -- she turns away distractedly and begins to wander off, oblivious of the curious and concerned looks of former acquaintances.]

 **Steward** : [whispering]

Maiwe . . .

[she turns back and looks at him, waiting.]

Did you truly think -- that I had taken part -- in those murders?

[pause]

 **Teler Maid** :

Sometimes. -- When I was most particularly angry, or surpassingly sad. -- Which was the most of the time. -- I want to see Lord Ingold.

 **Captain** :

He's off on a mission at the moment.

 **Teler Maid** :

What quaint manner of jargon is that?

 **Captain** :

Sorry. He's gone upon an errand and he didn't say whither.

 **Teler Maid** : [uncertainly]

Is Lady Nienna here? I think -- that I need to talk to her.

 **Captain** :

I haven't seen her about. But she might well be. -- Do you want me to go with you and help you look for her?

 **Teler Maid** : [shaking her head]

No. I need to _think_  -- without being talked at.

[she vanishes abruptly -- the Captain sighs.]

 **Steward** : [sharply]

Say what you would.

 **Captain** :

All right.

[he does not say anything further]

 **Steward** : [tiredly -- to Beren]

As well yourself.

[Beren shakes his head]

 **Beren** :

You didn't owe me that. It wasn't any of my business before.

[the other stops leaning on him and moves a few paces away, still looking dazed and lost -- Beren follows, staying at his elbow]

 **Steward** :

It is not necessary that you hover so.

 **Beren** :

I don't want you to fade, sir.

 **Steward** :

Unlike yourself, there is no place else for me to go.

 **Beren** :

Couldn't you go all sort of _not_ _there_ like she did, or like the K -- like you said Finrod did about me?

 **Steward** :

I have too many responsibilities for such self-indulgence.

[quickly]

I do not mean to accuse our lord of such -- only that there _are_ those whose behavior is disproportionate to their suffering. -- Nor would I imply that your near-fading was of the same.

 **Beren** :

I know, sir.

 **Steward** : [less remotely]

Thank you for your kindness, and your support. I know well that I am . . .

 **Beren** :

\-- pernickety?

 **Steward** :

\--  _I_ would have said, "exacting" --

 **Beren** :

Exactly --

 **Steward** : [brief involuntary smile]

\-- and waspish of humour, and despite what you have often alleged, it is not "all an act" -- I truly am of a chill and critical nature, against which I must ever contend --

 **Beren** :

Well, you keep winning.

 **Steward** :

You're most kind.

[straightening his shoulders]

I am all right. I shall manage.

 **Beren** :

You're still shaking, sir.

 **Steward** :

I am still undone.

[Huan gets up and comes over, somewhat uncertainly, to lean his head over the Steward's shoulder -- the latter does not shrug him off, but rather pats his nose a little absently as if it were the Hound who was in need of comfort]

 **Captain** : [hesitant]

You should also know -- Lady Nerdanel is here. She arrived after you left, in conjunction with him --

[he nods towards where Finarfin is lost in meditation; his colleague glances over, then looks at him bleakly]

I thought you might not have noticed yet, either. It seems only the broadest outlines of our disaster reached them before. However it goes, it's probably going to be not unlike the Princes towards their brother, only worse.

[the Steward continues to regard him in silence.]

I thought you'd rather be surprised now than surprised later.

 **Steward** :

The notion of retreating for the rest of the yen has ever-increasing appeal.

 **Beren** : [gloomy]

My problems hardly seem much compared to yours. I mean, even our _fights_  -- we only had a couple months of arguing and it was all about the same thing. Not _centuries_. And how complicated can it get? Who here _doesn't_ have family mad at them here?

 **Youngest Ranger:** [quiet]

\-- Er . . .  _me_. -- As far as I know.

Beren: 

I swear, this is worse than any of the grazing-drainage disagreements in Drun! I mean, you all knew each other, or worked for each other, or were related to each other, and then you fought, and went away, and now you're back and people aren't speaking to you, or each other because of you, and these are _all_ _the_ _same_ _people_.

 **Soldier** : [aside to the Warrior]

That's got to be the shortest version of the Noldolante ever.

 **Beren** : [getting more upset]

What are you going to _do_? Even if you wait a hundred and whatever years, is it going to fix things? If she's --

[glancing at the doorway]

\-- still furious with _him_  --

[to the Steward]

\-- and your girlfriend's still angry at _you_  -- and all your parents! -- after what, four hundred sixty years? That's not going to make a difference. What's going to _happen_ to you out there?

 **Steward** : [anxious]

This, at least, is one trouble for which you cannot blame yourself.

 **Captain** :

Don't underestimate Beren. Dangerous thing, that.

 **Second Guard** :

I'm sure that if we give him a little bit of time, he'll manage to figure out some way he's responsible for Alqualonde.

 **Captain** :

Why stop at the Kinslaying? Why not everything in the world? I'm sure that with some thought, every possible misfortune in Arda could be laid at Beren's door.

 **Beren** :

\-- Guys --

 **Steward** :

An interesting problem, to be sure. -- Are we limiting ourselves to material causality, or are we admitting metaphysical causality as well? For if the latter, I think it should hardly be any challenge at all.

 **Beren** : [raising his hand in protest]

Oh, come _on_  --

[The Steward gives him a very small, very knowing smile --  _distractions_.]

 **Captain** :

Start making the list, Edrahil --


	99. Act 4: SCENE IV.vii

[Elsewhere: the council chamber]

[It's very loud and the discussion _quite_ animated.]

 **Aule** :

But if you made all the gears out of _crystal_ , then the water wouldn't corrode them --

 **Ambassador** :

Would they not be so heavy then that they'd sink, my Lord?

 **Aule's Assistant** :

No, they'd be on rods lifted off the bottom, at varying heights -- quite possibly adjustable, sliding along a series of paths not unlike a clock's elements --

 **Nerdanel** :

'Tis a great challenge to capture the depth of iridescence natural to plume or scale in enamels, for the layers seek to obscure and oft groweth milky like to ice --

[Looking more than usually sardonic, the Doomsman of Arda snaps his fingers and a flash, similar to that of a white phosphorus flare, illuminates the room, though without the bang" that usually accompanies such intensely-bright fireworks. Instant silence, followed by looks either abashed or irritated from the participants as the glare fades back into the basin and the lighting returns to normal.]

 **Namo** : [flatly]

Well. Now that we've talked about the technical requirements of preparing limestone to receive paint, the best way to create the effect of sunlight indoors, the problems of dust in relation to various artistic and domestic processes, and determined that neither my wife nor I have _any_ desire to have fake trees _or_ replicas of small woodland animals affixed thereto -- not even realistic ones fetchingly rendered in lifelike tones of striated agates with polished jet eyes, Nerdanel, Tavros -- cluttering up our house, though the decision is still pending on small, _restrained_ , and I do emphasize restrained, sculptures of plants in hanging baskets, we'll have to think about that -- could we, possibly, return to our original discussion? Or am I being totally unreasonable in asking that?

[pause]

And no artificial goldfish either, unless Vaire wants them.

 **Irmo** :

I really don't like it when you're sarcastic, brother.

 **Namo** :

That isn't on topic either.

 **Vaire** : [trying not to smile]

\--  _Darling_  --

 **Luthien** :

Why? We're only all going to say the same things all over again to each other.

[pause]

 **Namo** :

Very likely, yes. -- Particularly if you're going to take that attitude from the start.

 **Luthien** :

You're not being fair -- it's not just _me_ who's being obstinate, so please don't make it sound that way.

[he raises an eyebrow to her; Irmo struggles not to smile. (Orome doesn't even bother trying.)]

 **Nerdanel** :

I confess _I_ do not find the matter so simple as 'twas first present --

 **Vaire** : [aside]

I suppose it would be impolite -- not to mention giving the wrong message entirely -- if I were to fetch some knitting?


	100. Act 4: SCENE IV.viii

[The Hall.]

[Finarfin is sitting with his head bowed on his arms, when shouting from over by the waterfall makes him look up]

 **Ranger** : [very loudly]

But what about Ungoliant? Eh? What about _Ungoliant_?

[Finarfin is compelled to leave the hill and come investigate]

 **Soldier** :

Well? What about her?

 **Ranger** :

You can't just keep saying, "Because of the Silmarils," for everything. You have to say something like, oh . . . "Because if Ungoliant hadn't crossed through Beleriand leaving her little brood, there wouldn't have been any giant spiders for Beren to fight through on the way to Doriath."

 **Warrior** :

Brilliant! We can take _her_ off the list. What about Helka and Ringil, though? I don't see any way we can connect Beren with _them_.

[They notice that Finarfin is present and observing them, and go suddenly quiet. Several of the Ten rise and bow, uncertainly; the Captain nods, while the Steward stares ahead fixedly]

 **Finarfin** :

\-- Dare I ask, knowing shall regret . . . ?

[pause]

 **Beren** :

They're trying to cheer me up by proving that I'm responsible for everything that's ever gone wrong in the universe.

 **Finarfin** :

. . .

[starts to speak, stops, then has to ask]

And doth it have th'effect intent in it?

 **Beren** : [bemused, nods]

Actually, --  _yeah_.

 **Finarfin** :

Oh.

[pause]

Such exceedingly --  _strange_  -- friends.

[starts to walk away, shaking his head]

 **Youngest Ranger** : [whispering]

Who's he talking about?

 **Third Guard** :

Beren, I think.

 **Ranger** :

I thought he meant all of us.

 **Finarfin** : [turning back]

\-- Strange, but -- admirably loyal.

 **Beren** : [smiles]

I know.

[in the background two of the Ten are having a whispered argument:]

 **Warrior** : [nudging his neighbor]

Go on, ask them!

 **Youngest Ranger** :

No! Stop it! It would be rude.

 **Warrior** :

Well, if you won't, I will --

[louder]

Psst! Beren!

 **Beren** :

Hm?

 **Warrior** :

What was it like, when you two intersected?

[the Sindarin Ranger closes his eyes and looks very much as though he'd like to vanish]

 **Beren** :

What?

 **Warrior** :

You and his Majesty's father -- we saw it when you were talking.

 **Beren** :

Oh.

[he glances up at Finarfin]

Not much. Like light, I guess, -- like when the sun bounces off something like a horse-brass or a sword, you know how you don't really feel it unless it's in your eyes, but you can tell sort of.

[giving Finarfin another hesitant look]

For me at least.

 **Finarfin** : [looking at the cavalry officer's shade]

Of what matter is thy question?

[the Warrior is too embarrassed now to say; Finarfin turns to Beren with an inquiring expression.]

 **Beren** : [shrugging]

What it felt like, when you tried to take the Ring from me. We were wondering -- earlier, that is -- what would happen if someone living hit one of us. 

**Finarfin** : [lips tightening]

I did not strike thee, boy, nor did e'en attempt such.

 **Beren** : [very polite]

No sir. We meant colliding in general as well -- even only by accident.

[he glances over at his friends, and then back at the Elf-King]

Um, did it -- feel like anything to you?

[pause]

If you're not offended for some reason by me asking that.

[Finarfin only looks at him, not saying anything, and he get embarrassed -- then looks back up with a self-amused hopefulness]

 **Finarfin** : [shaking his head]

Less than twenty-four and six -- !

[even more mildly]

\-- Like to naught but to a shadow passed suddenly 'neath on summer's day, or to a chill air, that moveth off the water -- and to naught else.

[pause]

Thou art a curious folk.

 **Beren** :

Ah, did you mean that "curious," like we wonder about things, or "curious" as meaning really strange? -- Your Majesty.

 **Finarfin** : [slight smile]

Aye.

 **Beren** :

Okay.

[he looks away, hiding a grin]

Next dumb question, were you talking about my people, or about us?

[gesturing around at them all]

 **Finarfin** : [bland]

Most assuredly.

 **Beren** :

You know, I can see now where _he_ gets it from.

[the King's expression darkens]

You sure you don't want to sit down, sir? There's plenty of room, even with Huan taking up half of it.

[the Hound and he share a grin]

 **Finarfin** :

Nay, I think not so.

 **Beren** :

Only think? 'Cause if you're sure, that's one thing, but if you only think you shouldn't because you feel awkward about everything in the past, that's not gonna be fixed by you pretending we're not here, and if you think we have issues with you that we're being too polite to say anything about but you won't ask, it won't go away either by you not saying anything.

[Finarfin gives him a long, level stare]

 **Finarfin** :

Thou kennst ne'er when -- nor dost heed plain sense! -- shouldst cease, I think?

 **Beren** :

Nope.

[brief pause]

I'm not just doing it because I feel sorry for you, sir, or because I don't want th -- Finrod, to think we weren't welcoming to you. My parents would be furious with me for not doing right by a relative, if I didn't even make the effort.

[silence -- Finarfin stares at him, frowning]

\-- We're -- kin, s -- Sire.

[longer pause]

Really. Even if it's just by marriage and by marriage again. That's why they got thrown out of Doriath by your lady's uncle, so it would still be true.

 **Finarfin** :

To what dost thou refer, boy?

 **Beren** :

You know, sir -- when Thingol -- oh wait, you all used to call him something else here, not even Elu -- Elwe? -- he kicked them out of Menegroth -- only just on a temporary basis -- after -- wait, I'm assuming you know where Menegroth is, but that's not necessarily so, is it? Or maybe you would have heard, from gossip? -- Would somebody please make me shut up and help?

 **Fourth Guard** : [obliging tone]

All right.

[he grabs him and claps a hand over his mouth, effectively gagging him, until "Beren elbows him hard in the ribs and there is a brief scuffle which ends when Huan gets up to participate, stepping on people in the way, and they break it up.]

 **Beren** : [to Huan]

Sit! -- Sit!

[to the royal Guard]

\-- I meant _take_ _over_ , you loon -- Now you all are going to have to suffer through my version of it.

[to Finarfin, who is staring with a completely bemused expression]

What I heard was, and somebody'll correct me if I'm wrong, probably all at once, that the King and -- that is, your kids -- were visiting Tinuviel's family again, which they did kind of a lot, only this time it was because they were visiting their sister too, since she was living with them then, and somehow rumors had gotten around about the Kinslaying in Doriath and Thingol called them on it and it was a big mess and there was a lot of yelling and not as much listening, at least at first, and then even after it got straightened out on how you all weren't involved, her dad was still really furious with them for first off not stopping it, and then for being okay with House Feanor afterwards, and then for keeping it a secret from them. 

[thoughtful]

\-- Though Tinuviel said her mom had figured out a lot of it on her own, or at least that it was something big they weren't talking about. -- Because they were -- are -- related to Thingol since he's their granddad's brother. So he threw them all out for a while, only not th -- your daughter. And he let them come back later. And if you want better information than that, you need to ask _someone_ _who_ _was_ _actually_ _there_ _and_ _remembers_ _it_  --

[looking around very pointedly at his companions]

\-- like certain people here who are letting me flounder around telling it, or else ask my wife. -- So if Tinuviel is your kids' cousin because she's related to _your_ wife, that's a direct blood relationship, but she's related to you, right, by marriage, because your in-laws are kin, too, at least the way we consider it back home, and I think it's the same for you, right? At least, I always assumed it was.

[he looks over at the Steward, who nods]

So I'm related to your kids now, by marriage, but that means I'm also related to you. Well, obviously.

[ducking a little under Finarfin's expressionless stare]

\-- Sorry. -- Your Majesty.

[silence]

 **Finarfin** :

We cannot, so the adage goeth, of our kindred by our own choosing make selection.

[Beren looks down, accepting the cut]

Being ignorant of thy people as of thee, 'twould ne'er hath occurred, to choose _so_  -- yet of all whom I perforce must name my kin, thou art by no means worst in my esteeming, nor last whom I had chosen, had choice been given me -- Peace; I'd walk a little while, and think upon all that I have heard this day, and likewise seen, and perchance then 'twill suit me to take place with ye, and hear this curious manner of speech, and more curious tales, brought back from afar.

[He turns towards the door again, and is halted by a discreet cough as the Captain tries to get his attention]

\-- Aye?

 **Captain** :

Would you -- that is, should one of us accompany you, sir?

 **Finarfin** :

What have I said, that thou shouldst think to say so?

 **Captain** :

You aren't afraid to walk the Halls alone, my lord?

 **Finarfin** :

Is there aught of danger to the living in these Halls? Or wild beast, or storm, or precipice, or folk of violent disposition, the which might work to my harm? Surely were it so, my Lord and Lady should have forewarned -- or say ye nay?

[Beren starts to explain, but is discouraged (though not quite so rowdily) by the Guard beside him]

 **Warrior** :

Not to the living, my lord. But -- most -- few Eldar I think would be at ease. Not even the Lady Amarie was comfortable here, though she hid her fear well.

[pause]

 **Finarfin** : [with a peculiar, thoughtful expression]

 _Amarie_ , thou sayest, is eke come hither? By request? Or hers, or his, or other's yet?

 **Warrior** :

I -- we think it is the Lady Nienna's, my lord.

[awkward pause]

 **Finarfin** : [calmly]

Were the Song known, none should e'er know surprise. Peace, I'll not yield to speculation, nor ask of thee the same. -- For what, then, dost think I fear? Or tell the old tales of the dark far past before the Crossing of the Sea the truth, of unquiet dead that steal souls of a night, or lure with deadly pity? Would ye guard me then, that none might dispossess?

 **Captain** :

No, sir, it can't be done here. Lord Namo wouldn't have it.

 **Finarfin** : [with a touch of pride -- he is, after all a King]

Think ye, then, that I do fear where is no ground beneath?

[they are somewhat abashed]

 **Beren** :

I think the only thing you're afraid of is doing something wrong. -- Sire.

[long pause]

 **Finarfin** :

Thou hast taken the lead.

 **Beren** :

Sir?

 **Finarfin** :

Again: hast thou not marked it? -- Nor ye?

[the Ten and Beren look at each other uncertainly]

This child speaketh as were a lord among ye, nor ye to take affront, that he should speak for all, nor claim such precedence, even as there is no contending betwixt thee and _thee_  --

[to the Steward and the Captain respectively]

\-- that share authority as 'twere a cup at banquet without strife. Are ye come to Vanyar then, in death, or hath this change earlier nascence yet?

[pause]

 **Captain** :

Er -- Beren _is_ a lord, milord. He hasn't got a place anymore, but -- none of us do either, really.

 **Finarfin** :

He is a _child_  -- not even old enow to wed, far less to rule over many.

 **Captain** :

Not by _their_ years, sir.

 **Steward** : [speaking up at last, in an out-of-duty way]

Of thy brother's following, the mortal House of Marach has held his chief fortress in office over both their own folk and ours, and two lords of Men -- to my knowing not a third -- have died in its defense, Galdor son of Hador, and his father before him in the Sudden Flame, who was a most valiant warrior, and a skilled commander as well as faithful to his liege lord, and not uncivil in his mastery.

[pause]

\-- Nor is their skill but in violence, as some aver: the sons and daughters of the Secondborn are apt to learning, and possess even wisdom no less than discernment, for all their brevity, nor are their songs lacking in all beauty.

 **Finarfin** : [very dry]

 _That_ is most high praise, from thee.

 **Captain** : [slipping from addressing Finarfin to the Steward to Beren by turns very confusingly]

But it's more complicated, even, than that with regards to young Barahirion here, because he is -- or _was_ , depending on how you look at it, and if you ask your eldest, _and_ what mood you catch him in -- a liege lord to the King in his own right, and I think that the Princes are cheating there, claiming authority over him, because they predeceased Barahir, so I don't see how they can claim that _Beren_ ever owed them allegiance himself, except when he was simply part of the hearth-guard of Beor, but certainly not as Lord of Dorthonion --

[turning back to Finarfin]

\-- and thus no less truly a peer of the realm, though admittedly a junior one on several counts,and then proved himself worthy again and in his own right by demonstrating discretion, restraint, and being able to follow orders, which I'm sure _you'll_ appreciate, sir -- even when said orders turned out not to be well-advised, and if you bring up the question of whose fault it is one more time I'll dunk you myself -- and now he's practically family even before we realized that he _was_ family, so to speak. So --

[raising his hands]

\-- if he wants to speak for the rest of us now, instead of hiding behind us having panic attacks and episodes of agoraphobia and unworthiness, that's quite all right. If we disagree -- we'll say so, believe me.

 **Finarfin** : [amused despite himself]

'Tis like a conflagration, this manner of speech -- the spark of it hath caught in thee as well.

[glancing around at them]

The War hath changéd ye, nor for all the worst. _Strange_ , belike, but not more cruel nor --

[he looks up at the water sculpture]

\-- unvaluing of beauty nor of graciousness, for all the bluntness of thy thought. -- As some have feared it should.

[almost smiling]

\--  _Passing_ strange, that rebellion should return ye trained to obedience even as to command! -- Lord Edrahil.

[this first instance of being addressed as an adult in his own right catches the Steward by surprise]

Will't please thee walk with me, and converse upon sundry matters, and perchance it may be to advise?

 **Steward** :

No, my lord. -- But I'll do it all the same.

 **Finarfin** :

I did but _ask_ , sir -- not ordered thee.

 **Steward** :

And I but answered: it will not please me, and I will do it. I cannot answer other, save to refuse either word or compliance.

[Finarfin starts to say something, then checks and nods. Shrewdly:]

 **Finarfin** :

Thy crest hath fallen since last we held converse.

 **Steward** :

True.

 **Finarfin** :

For what the cause?

[with great reluctance, clearly debating silence, the other replies:]

 **Steward** :

I . . . have learned that she who bore the choice-name Sea-mew and was your lady's handmaiden, -- and that I did most poorly love -- was among the Kinslain these long years, that I had deemed had long forgotten me with a better.

 **Finarfin** : [surprised]

Thou didst not ken?

 **Steward** :

How should I, sir?

[Finarfin looks at him, puzzled]

These Halls are large and there are many here. Give me a little to recover my composure, and I shall overtake you.

 **Finarfin** :

Shall't have no trouble then, for all its largeness?

 **Steward** :

Most assuredly not, for two reasons -- the first that you being _complete_ and undiminished even by your sorrows, do shine like a cresset on hilltop, and no more trouble to find than such a beacon -- the second, that does one know that one whom one seeks is present, it is much lighter work to find that one.

[the King frowns]

But do not think thus to find the King your father, sir, nor even your elder brothers, for none may be found saving only that he -- or she -- does choose so.

 **Finarfin** : [clearly unsettled]

Doth the truth of these walls extend so far as to grant vision of one's inmost heart, that _nothing_ be concealéd, nor unsaid, nor spoken?

[the Steward shakes his head]

 **Steward** :

In life, in the eastern lands, I stood upon your son's right hand in all things. I know you thus -- beyond the knowledge of the past Outside, when all of us were _other_ , and stood in wise far different to each other -- through my understanding of him, and doubtless imperfect for that double remove; yet from my words, and your return, I guess that those two mirrors have not distorted past all truth. -- I'll come to find you anon, my lord, I pledge: and then you may bespeak me as you will, and _ask_ , and I shall endeavor to answer in such wise as you shall find comprehensible, nor give offense.

[pause]

 **Finarfin** :

I would not increase the burden of thy sorrows, still.

 **Steward** : [with a glint of his usual self]

Nor I yours, -- who can say? Perchance we may even succeed at that, my lord.

[with a faint smile Finarfin gives him a polite, acknowledging nod, and another generally to the rest of the company, and goes out through the archway]

 **Beren** : [frowning]

He did say that he didn't mind so much having me for part of his family, didn't he? Not just that there were relatives he hated worse.

 **Steward** : [nods]

The exactness of the phrasing was ambivalent: either might have been meant by the specific words employed. But I too believe you have the right of it. -- He is very like our lord.

[he gestures for the flask, and his colleague passes it over, but holds onto it long enough that he has to look up and meet his gaze]

 **Captain** :

Are you going to be up to this? Is dealing with him, _now_ , a good idea?

 **Steward** :

It will, most like, forestall the brunt of his remorse from falling on the King, and equally his long-held wrath, and at a time when our lord can least withstand either nor spare thought to defend from it. It is my task, and my place. But my strength is not yet equal to my resolve.

 **Captain** :

Is there anything I can do to help?

 **Steward** :

\-- As, for example, standing by to watch a duel of words, where the aim of it is seemingly to lose?

[they share a wry smile]

It will -- disengage my mind from other troubles.

 **Captain** : [earnest]

I _don't_ think it's as hopeless as all that for you two. It's going to take work, but I feel sure she'll give you another chance.

 **Steward** :

Yes, but you would, being an unreasonable optimist.

 **Captain** :

Well -- I've been right so far, have I not?

[pause]

 **Steward** :

I can almost not believe you said that -- but I've known you too long.

 **Youngest Ranger** :

\-- Ware!

 **Captain** :

I mean, it seemed the worst luck that Lady Amarie wouldn't hear a word from Himself, but look what came of it -- we're still here to help Beren and the Princess now that they need it. And --

 **Youngest Ranger** :

\-- Sir --

 **Captain** :

Yes, lad, I know.

[Aegnor returns, alone, quite composed (at least apparently) and not fazed by the unfriendly and wary looks directed towards him. As he comes towards their group -- ]

Our liege lord has not returned yet, I'm afraid.

[he puts a slight emphasis on "Our" not unnoticed by the Prince.]

 **Aegnor** : [superior tone]

On the not-unlikely chance that he's taken off again and is haring about somewhere as usual, Angrod is looking for him throughout the levels instead. -- Which I see was a correct assumption. I'll stay here and wait for him, then.

 **Captain** :

I don't recommend that, Highness.

 **Aegnor** :

Why? Have you claimed this Hall in your own right, then? Going to stake out a realm of your own now, are you?

 **Captain** :

No, it's simply that I doubt you can keep a civil tongue.

 **Aegnor** : [raising an eyebrow]

"Fly pride, quoth the peacock" -- !

[he does not say a word towards Beren, nor the rest of the Ten, but strolls a short distance off and settles down where Finrod had been playing, taking up the harp that the Steward had manifested earlier. Looking it over critically:]

The design of this thing is so squat and ungainly, I've never understood how you could bear to be seen with such a clumsy piece of work, let alone claim the design of it for yourself!

 **Steward** : [still sounding tired]

It stands travel better, and the breadth of the soundbox prevents it from toppling when there is not secure and level place for it, as is often the case when journeying, nor requires additional carry of a stand.

 **Aegnor** :

At the sacrifice of tonal quality, no doubt.

 **Steward** : [shortly]

The dimensions of the chamber are calculated to compensate for the lack of height.

 **Aegnor** :

"Calculated" --

[he snorts and flicks at one of the strings contemptuously]

Such an approach, I guess, is only to be expected, from one who has not a drop of Teler blood or intuition -- !

 **Third Guard** : [polite but firm]

Strictly speaking, your Highness, none of us have any blood, whether Teler, Noldor, or Vanyar -- not even yourself.

[Aegnor does not answer, only fiddles with the tuning, a patronizing smile on his face]

 **Beren** : [loyally]

 _I_ thought it sounded fine, Sir. I couldn't tell any difference between it and the Ki -- and Finrod's.

[the Prince gives him a sharp, sidelong Look at that]

 **Aegnor** : [aside]

Yes, well, you wouldn't, would you?

[the Captain catches the eye of both Rangers in turn and makes a covert set of hand-signals. Separately, throughout the following conversation, they get up and go over to the mural as if critiquing it. To Beren, though addressing him obliquely, not looking at him:]

Though I suppose that you cannot help _that_.

[pause]

You do not answer, Beoring?

 **Beren** :

Not to you.

 **Aegnor** : [setting aside the harp and leaning forward as he gets down to business]

You subscribe, then,to my eldest brother's belief that all are equal in death, then? Or are you merely being insolent?

 **Beren** :

Neither. My father was killed six years after the Battle. I was only ever the King's vassal. -- Directly, I mean.

 **Aegnor** : [shrugging]

There is of course mere common courtesy, when another addresses one. -- What became of the mithril hauberk and arms I gave to your great-grandfather Boromir? That gear was pretty nearly priceless.

 **Beren** : [tersely]

Lost it.

 **Aegnor** : [venomously pleasant]

You lost _everything_ that was entrusted to your care, didn't you?

[Beren does not respond]

The lands themselves -- well, that's understandable, you couldn't exactly do anything about being outnumbered. And I can understand why your people would have left when you could no longer take care of them as well. Property, even your life -- for none of that can you justly be held accountable for, in the end. -- Only for your honor.

[he looks up, then, at the still-silent Beren, ignoring the dark expressions of the Ten]

 _None_ of your House would have behaved as you did. Such a disgrace to the memory of Bregolas, of Bregor, of Balan himself -- to lose the life of the King whose life your own was sworn to protect: even to accept his assistance, when the price of it was merely disgrace and dethronement, should have been beneath you.

 **Beren** : [pushed past self-control]

I couldn't stop him! There was _nothing_ I could do --

 **Aegnor** :

What would your father say to that? Surely _he_ never uttered those words.

[strangely, Beren gives him a faint smile, not changing as the Prince continues:]

Surely _Barahir_ would say, indeed, that you should have fallen on your sword first, before accepting such a boon.

[long, tense silence among the Ten, Huan whimpers -- and Beren keeps giving Aegnor that odd smile]

 **Beren** :

I may be remembering this all wrong, but I thought it was explained to me that you and Orodreth and Angrod were pretty good friends with your cousins and used to spend a lot of time with them, and that's why you set up your holdings in the East so close to the Pass, and why he was with them at Sun-Return, and why they moved in with him and Finrod when the Leaguer broke.

[with an acknowledging look towards the Steward]

I'm sure it was more complicated than just _family_ , but even with there not being all that many places to go, after the Sudden Flame, the thing I'm wondering is, if maybe _you_ feel a bit guilty, since maybe you all being so tight with that crew had something to do with Finrod giving them such a warm welcome, if it was partly for your sake. -- Just going on how things were in Dorthonion after it started getting bad, and the way people react, how it isn't all just what's the most reasonable thing to do.

[silence]

 **Steward** :

A most interesting question. --  _Is_ that the case, I wonder?

 **Aegnor** : [glowering]

I do not choose to answer your unworthy speculations.

[the Captain lifts his hand as if to interject, then lowers it.]

 **Steward** :

I believe that you have _quite_ well, your Highness.

[In the background, the attentive Rangers swing up via the high-relief "forest" onto the stones forming the ascenders of the waterfall and edge over the top of it]

 **Aegnor** :

Still defending him?

[shaking his head, scoffing:]

No doubt you'll say that it was not so bad, after all, since it happened in a noble cause, for the sake of a greater good.

[Beren's expression goes grim -- the Soldier puts a hand on his arm, reassurance as much as restraint]

 **Steward** : [thoughtful]

No, I should never say _that_. It was far worse than I could ever have conceived of, worse than the Ice, worse than the Flame, singly or together.

[this gives Aegnor pause, but only for a moment before he comes back:]

 **Aegnor** : [furious]

Then _he_ , at least, should show a trifling amount of reverence -- at _least_  -- 

[the Captain rises to his feet]

\-- rather than taking for granted and without gratitude the continued generosity that's been shown him.

[with enough nonchalance to convey a distinct menace, the Captain walks slowly over to where Aegnor is sitting, rests his foot on a boulder just short of him, and leans over him, smiling all the while and keeping his eyes steadily on the Prince's]

 **Captain** :

\--  _Enough_.

 **Aegnor** :

What, are you going to challenge me at last, then?

[the other shakes his head, still holding his stare]

 **Captain** :

I will not fight you, sir.

[pause -- smiling wickedly:]

I've no need to, you see.

[his associates ambush the Prince from above-and-behind and drag him backwards to the edge, whence they toss him in with extreme enthusiasm. Aegnor's attempts to recover dignity and land are not aided by Huan's deciding that this looks like a fine idea and leaping in with him. After a couple of tries he manages to climb out and stands there looking intensely disgruntled, sopping, and enough humiliated on several levels not to try to retaliate]

 **Aegnor** : [glaring at the Steward]

Is _this_ the consequence you were hinting so darkly about?

 **Steward** : [serious]

Evidently so. _One_ consequence, at least. There could be others too, I suppose.

[As Aegnor starts to say something else, Huan climbs out and shakes vigorously, splashing everyone, who react with good-natured annoyance -- but coincidentally standing _right next to_ Finrod's brother. It couldn't be on purpose, after all...]

 **Aegnor** :

Huan!? What's _wrong_ with you, dog?

 **Beren** : [offhand]

That's what Celegorm wondered, too.

[Aegnor turns a furious Look on him, getting a raised eyebrow back at him]

 **Aegnor** :

You --

 **Ranger** : [interrupting, to the Captain]

\-- Might we again, sir?

[ _he_ gets the glare instead; his commander looks over to his senior colleague for confirmation]

 **Steward** : [shrugs, smiling a little]

It doesn't matter to me either way: I'm feeling _much_ heartened already.

[Aegnor incautiously puts a hand on his sword-hilt -- and is shoved back in with the additional help of a possibly-unnecessary boot behind the ankles to prevent him from getting his balance, by the other Rangers. Huan follows suit again voluntarily.]

 **Ranger** : [to Beren, as Aegnor crawls out onto the rocks again, very bedraggled]

You know, you're right: it _is_ both fun, _and_ funny. In a very curious and primitive sort of way, of course.

 **Beren** : [solemnly]

Of course, you're really supposed to do it to your _own_ relatives, not your liege lord's family. Or to your friends. And remember, you have to watch out on account of it usually escalates into retaliation.

[looking consideringly at Aegnor]

Only I don't think you really have to worry because first off, he's worried about his dignity and secondly, you've got him way outnumbered if you count everybody, plus Huan, which goes back to the first point.

 **Ranger** :

You should have helped, then it would have been all right and proper.

 **Beren** : [shaking his head]

Oh, I doubt he's gonna like the fact that I'm kin now any more than that we decided he wasn't actually in charge of me. Though I do think Celegorm's worse, all around, than me.

[he and Aegnor lock stares, much more serious this time.]

 **Steward** : [earnestly]

My lord, you provoke him much, and some might say needlessly.

 **Beren** : [quiet and slow, like someone reporting on distant troop movements]

I know, but . . . we've got the truth lying here between us like a hot coal, and . . . he can either pick it up and deal with it, which is going to hurt, or try to kick it away by walking off or picking another fight. I'm betting . . . that he's going to leave it there and walk off again. Given the fact that the last couple fights weren't too satisfying . . .

[Aegnor stands there looking at him, dripping and frustrated, not saying anything, for a long moment. (Note: sfx -- the drops do not land on the floor, but vanish continually as they fall, unless (as with Huan shaking himself off) they strike another spirit: the Platonic Form of Water doesn't leave puddles.) Abruptly he turns and walks evenly away with as much dignity as he can pull together. To his chagrin and annoyance the Captain accompanies him, and follows him to the door]

 **Aegnor** :

Are you so petty in your triumphs, then, that you must make them last so long?

 **Captain** :

No, sir, I was wondering if you'd learned anything from this, and if we should be prepared to do it again -- if not you, then Angrod in his turn.

 **Aegnor** :

Fear not, I'll tell him you're mad and violent when I speak to Finrod about this.

 **Captain** :

Good. Since the Beoring has no hard feelings towards you, I'll give you a word of advice, then: you may be deceived thinking you discern the King your brother, though perchance not; but Lord Beren at first mistook the King your father for Felagund instead. You might warn him about that, as well as our diversions here.

[Aegnor gives him a stricken look]

 **Aegnor** :

F -- my father is here?

 **Captain** :

And in good health, though not spirits.

[pause]

The Powers requested him to speak with the Lady your cousin, and he accepted the task. But her words unsettled him too much to go on, and so he came back here for a while -- until we unsettled him too much in turn.

 **Aegnor** :

What -- did he say about _me_?

 **Captain** :

Nothing, Highness, nothing at all.

 **Aegnor** :

What did you talk about, then?

 **Captain** :

Of my treason, and its consequences, the ones past, present, and it may be to come.

[pause]

 **Aegnor** :

He said _nothing_ about me whatsoever?

 **Captain** :

Not to me, my lord. He might perhaps to Lord Beren -- they spoke for a brief while apart -- but you would have to ask _him_.

[nodding towards the mortal -- Aegnor gives him a glare]

But I don't think it very likely. I gather the substance of their conversation was . . . similar to yours, but with differences.

[another, worse glare]

Well, I just don't know, your Highness. I wasn't present, and they've not told me, and you've indicated extreme dislike for conjecture, so I shan't venture to do so. Sorry, but there you have it.

[pause -- the Prince does not leave, and the Captain relents.]

I think your father is far too troubled at the moment by discovering the same facts concerning our mutual lord's death that so much aggrieved you twain, to think on your long-held resolution, that is _not_ news nor new grief to him -- I believe the information has been nearly as great a blow to him as your words, and the ones which you did _not_ say, were to the Beoring, who nearly faded from this Circle before we might convince him that no fault in it was his, no more than part. --  _Now_ do you understand why we shall not permit you to do so again, even if you judge us mad to name him yet _friend_?

[they match stares for a long moment -- Aegnor tosses his head at last]

 **Aegnor** :

Only now you said you would not speculate.

 **Captain** : [shrugging]

I didn't expect you to thank me for it, my lord.

 **Aegnor** :

That's as well then, milord -- I'd not have you disappointed.

[with that retort he turns to go -- and barely avoids a collision with Nienna's Apprentice, entering, due as much to the agile recoil of the later as to his own attempts to sidestep. The Apprentice stares at him with astonishment -- the Prince gives him a savage Look and vanishes, leaving the other quite bewildered.]

 **Apprentice** :

That was your lord's brother.

[the Captain nods]

He was very wet.

 **Captain** :

He insulted the Lord of Dorthonion, again. -- I hope _you_ weren't thinking of doing so?

 **Apprentice** :

Believe me, it had not even crossed my mind. -- Nor will it, I promise.

[he shakes his head, looking over his shoulder into the corridor]

 **Captain** :

So have you anything useful for me?

 **Apprentice** :

I -- er, I hope so. Nothing has been resolved or decided, except that your friend's lady is one of the most stubborn souls ever to have been born, and the only development has been that far from discouraging her romantic illusions -- that isn't my wording, please don't be offended -- Nerdanel has rather taken her part and argued her case for her. Up until the discussion . . . got off the trail onto another course, rather, and she and the Hunter started trying to convince my Master's family to let them decorate the Halls with tree-toads.

 **Captain** : [startled]

 _Tree_ - _toads_!?

 **Apprentice** :

Carved from chalcedony with garnet eyes. -- It's a longish story and not very relevant, which is what Lord Namo was pointing out. Unless you want me to go through it?

 **Captain** :

No, that's right. -- Hm. And your Master hasn't turned up yet either, has she? _Very_ interesting. Has Lady Yavanna returned?

 **Apprentice** : [shaking his head]

Nor her sister. The only people left now are Lord Namo and Lady Vaire, Lord Orome and Lord Aule, and Lord Irmo. And Luthien, of course. Oh, and Nerdanel -- but I already said that -- and Curumo -- that's Lord Aule's principal aide, he's like me, only -- of a different -- kindred. And not -- pretending to be anything else --

[aside]

\-- and failing miserably at it!

[frowning]

\-- Perhaps you know whom I'm talking of?

 **Captain** :

I didn't know him back in the Day, but the brief encounter I observed earlier between him and my master gave me the distinct impression that he's a bit conceited and given to causing trouble if he can get away with it. Of course you'll no doubt say that I say it as shouldn't, as the saying goes.

 **Apprentice** :

No, you're spot-in -- spot-on? -- from target-shooting, correct? But not the kind of trouble you lot are always making.

[glum]

He just -- says things -- sometimes, clever things, and one looks such a fool --

[guilty]

\-- You really should _not_ be commenting on nor criticizing your elders and superiors, don't you think?

[to his annoyance, the Captain struggles not to laugh out loud]

\-- What?

 **Captain** :

Sweet Cuivienen, how do you think I _got_ this job? -- The intelligence part? That's what I did for amusement, watch people and imitate them at gatherings. It took Himself to show me what use was in it, even before the Rebellion and the founding of the Kingdom -- how the things I noticed were often more than simple mannerisms, and not infrequently something that the individuals themselves were unaware of, and how much less guarded the lordly folk were about the cheerful fellow who only talked of bows and hounds and hawks and points, than about each other. Very useful to Lord Finarfin, when the rest of House Finwe was intriguing like mad.

 **Apprentice** : [snippy]

Still, I don't expect you ever -- parodied _him_ , or his family!

 **Captain** : [bemused]

Why?

[pause]

I repeat, how do you think I earned this responsibility?

 **Apprentice** :

And . . . he didn't mind?

 **Captain** : [frowns]

Well, I'd not say _that_. He rather minded falling off his horse for laughing, but not the imitation. Not as much as his sister did -- she wouldn't speak to me for a whole day, which got tiresome with her having to ask _my_ sister to ask me whatever it was she wanted to know, though when I started doing it back she decided it was a bit funny and left off for the rest of the hunt. Which was just as well. -- I presume you're speaking of Finrod Felagund, and not Lord Finarfin? _He_ thought it a bit childish, but harmless. -- Little did he know! But little did we all, then.

 **Apprentice** :

You're trying to put me at ease and teach me something at the same time, aren't you?

 **Captain** : [approving]

Very clever you are. -- Can you tell me what?

 **Apprentice** :

I'd guess -- something about not assuming things about people one hasn't a long acquaintance with; something about paying attention to the things and persons one doesn't usually pay attention to, something about not being being too proud to laugh at one's self. -- And how to put another at ease -- and off-guard -- in a conversation.

 **Captain** :

All that just from that! Amazing. -- But what I'd prefer you to be learning is, what's going on at the Council.

 **Apprentice** :

Oh, I am.

 **Captain** :

But you're _here_ , not _there_ , unless you've some other abilities beyond Elven ken to employ.

 **Apprentice** :

Well, no -- yes -- both, in a manner of speaking: I have friends keeping track of it and reporting to me.

 **Captain** : [flatly]

You've involved others in this?

 **Apprentice** : [increasingly anxious]

I just -- delegated, too.

 **Captain** :

Friends -- on the staff, here.

 **Apprentice** :

Is that wrong? You -- didn't --

 **Captain** : [sighing]

No, I'll not second-guess you. I didn't tell you how to do it, nor set conditions. It would be ill of me to meddle now, when we chose you for confidence in your abilities.

[sighs again, and starts back towards the waterfall, the Apprentice tagging along with a worried look]

I trust your friends are as trustworthy as discreet -- and if they're not, there's naught I can do concerning it now.

 **Apprentice** :

I'm sorry --

 **Captain** :

Why? You haven't failed yet.

[as the Apprentice is mulling this over, frowning, they come up to the rest of the group beside the falls]

 **Ranger** :

Yes, but if you take the easy route you're practically in Thargelion! Then you've got to cross all that distance again, and you've nearly doubled your travel time. Much better to take the shortcut through the cleft at Aglon.

 **Beren** : [embarrassed, trying to pretend to be angry instead of grinning]

\-- Would you just _shut_ _up_ about that?

 **Captain** :

You're not giving poor Barahirion a hard time, are you?

 **Ranger** :

But you do it, Sir. 

**Captain** :

Yes, but _I'm_ allowed. "Rank hath its privilege" and so on.

[to Beren]

So, which route _do_ you think was the better before the War, the one through the mountain pass at Aglon, or the long way around across the rolling country-side in the east?

 **Beren** : [to the world at large]

I hate my life.

 **Captain** : [settling down on the ledge and reclaiming his flask]

Well, that's all right, then -- cheer up, you haven't got it any more.

[the Apprentice gives him a shocked look]

 **Both Rangers** : [outraged]

Sir!!!

[Beren laughs -- and casually reaches over to shove the Captain playfully on the shoulder, coincidentally as he's just about to take a drink]

 **Captain** : [grimacing and shaking his hand]

Seems as though _someone_ isn't feeling guilty for having been killed any more. -- If that had been the real thing you'd be in trouble for wasting it, whelp. And not just the usual background level of trouble, either.

[to the Apprentice, who is slightly agog]

Was there more that you've still to say? Or did you need something?

 **Apprentice** :

Actually -- you see, I was wondering -- if you're allowed, that is --

 **Captain** :

It's a good thing I'm patient, isn't it --

 **Apprentice** : [abruptly, distracted]

\-- Ah, what _was_ it that you were angry about, Lord Beren?

 **Beren** :

Oh --  

[struggling not to grin again]

Not really. -- Nothing.

 **Ranger** :

It's because we found out that he gets flustered over perfectly ordinary words. Like "mountain pass." Or "rolling meadow."

 **Apprentice** :

Why on Arda -- ?

[Beren looks up at the ceiling and sighs]

 **Ranger** : [serious]

Because of the way you say them in the High Speech.

 **Second Guard** : [just as seriously]

Or what the same expressions are used to mean.

 **Apprentice** : [puzzled]

But what's wrong with saying "the bosom of the earth" -- ? Or "cleavage," for that matter?

 **Second Guard** :

That's what we've been trying to find out. He just gets more and more speechless.

 **Apprentice** :

I don't think one _can_ , actually -- shouldn't you say, "less and less speechful" -- hm, that doesn't sound very well either, does it . . . ?

[to Beren]

Do you think you could explain the reason for such reactions to simple concepts? I don't know all that much about Secondborn customs, you see, and I find them fascinating, but I so rarely get the chance to speak to mortal shades, and I hardly know what to ask or where to begin.

 **Beren** :

You guys are going to _pay_ for this. -- Um, no, sir, I really don't right now.

[sudden inspiration]

You should really talk to His Majesty -- my wife's cousin, that is, and ask Finrod. He's the language expert, after all -- Elvish and human.

[Touché -- the Apprentice looks around at their expressions, knowing there's a joke going on that he's missing. Before he can ask further, Huan, who has been clambering about on rocks like a mountain goat or a puppy, suddenly bounds down and goes running off with ears trailing like a mad thing into the distant shadows of the Hall, and then back again -- and then does it over again]

 **Apprentice** : [shaking his head, looking after the Hound]

 _Why_ is he doing that?

 **Beren** :

'Cause he's wet.

[the Apprentice looks at him doubtfully]

And he's a dog.

[at the continued dubious Look]

Dogs do that sometimes, is all. I guess you don't have any, huh?

 **Apprentice** : [drawing himself up]

I am familiar with dogs, milord. I -- am just uncertain as to whether you're aware who Huan is.

 **Beren** : [mischievously innocent]

He's our hound. He used to belong to my wife's cousin, and before that Celegorm got him from Orome himself. He's the Lord of Dogs.

[Nienna's student sighs a little]

\-- And he's like you. Immortal. Or like Tinuviel's mom. Only different, I guess.

[the Apprentice recovering from his start, gives a slightly wounded look to the Ten]

 **Captain** :

Beren figured you out all on his own. Perception, not deduction, though.

 **Apprentice** :

Oh.

[looking around at them, uncertainly]

Can I rely on you . . . not to, er, what was that phrase you used?

 **Captain** :

Blow your cover, as if you were a pheasant pretending to be a thicket. --  _We're_ safe, but I can't say the same of anyone else who might be here.

[glancing around meaningfully]

 **Apprentice** :

Oh, we're alone.

 **Captain** :

Are you sure? We thought there might be company earlier, and there has been at various times, in various states of presence.

 **Apprentice** :

No, I'm certain.

 **Beren** : [very curious]

You can see if anyone's here who's vanished?

 **Apprentice** : [a touch patronizing]

"See" is not the proper word, given that it is a perception or apprehension of the Unseen.

[Beren looks puzzled, and gestures to get the Steward's attention]

 **Beren** :

Am I imagining it, or isn't "perceive" like "grab ahold of" -- ?

 **Steward** :

There is indeed a common root.

 **Beren** : [to the Apprentice]

So why's that make more sense, when you're not actually touching them, than for me to say "see"?

 **Apprentice** :

Ah.

[pause. Changing the subject:]

\-- Still, you didn't come up with a real explanation of your answer as to why he's dashing about like a dragonfly up and down the room.

 **Beren** :

I already said. Because he's a dog, and dogs do that. Even Immortal ones. Also in the new snow, they run like crazy back and forth. Sometimes he chases his tail. In the woods he'd find fallen branches and drag them around, only they were the size of small logs, and we joked that he was a firewood-hound too.

[frowning]

We had a pony that used to do that with big sticks, too. Never figured out why.

 **Apprentice** :

And that's got _what_ to do with Huan?

 **Beren** :

Nothing. Except they were doing the same thing, and almost the same size.

[the Apprentice frowns -- and then looks suddenly worried]

 **Apprentice** :

Erm -- you wouldn't say I was rude, would you?

 **Beren** : [confused]

Uh -- considering I've only talked to you what, three times maybe? that I know of, and I never heard anything about you until today -- whatever -- and that's hardly anything at all, I really am not the one to ask.

 **Apprentice** :

No, I meant -- to you. Just now.

[pause]

 **Beren** :

No. A little sarcastic, maybe, but not really rude.

[as Nienna's student looks relieved]

\-- Why? 

**Apprentice** : [glancing sidelong at the Captain]

I -- ah -- well, I haven't any wish to follow Aegnor's lead, let's say.

 **Beren** :

Well. You haven't told me I should've killed myself, let alone twice yet, so you've got a long way to go to catch up, if that's any reassurance.

 **Apprentice** : [startled, increasingly, and dismayed]

Oh. -- Oh.

[looks around, trying to ascertain if this is a joke.]

I -- really wish my Master were about. And I were home.

 **Captain** : [slyly]

On Taniquetil, I presume?

[this does not make his victim any happier]

 **Apprentice** :

Ah -- could you _tell_ me what I did wrong? How you -- figured it out? Please?

[He sits down, a little uncertainly, socially awkward among the Ten, on a rock across from the Captain. Huan comes back and flops down not far, looking at the Apprentice and grinning.]

 **Captain** :

You didn't do anything wrong.

[pause -- the Apprentice looks exasperated]

Not _any_ _one_ _thing_. The things that you did -- or didn't -- have almost certainly not been noticed by anyone else. Most people don't, after all, if it doesn't concern them directly. Now, what I imagine you've been doing -- and correct me if we're wrong -- is that you vary your persona depending on whom you're among. I expect you're Vanyar most of the time, except on Taniquetil, since you'd have the most anonymity that way, whether in Tirion or on the seacoast, -- or in here. I also expect that you're _Teler_ when you're in Valmar?

[the Apprentice nods, his expression mixed between chagrin and admiration]

Again, you'd be rare enough, wherever you went, to be something of a curiosity, but so long as you have a decent reason for being there -- like being a servant of Lady Nia's, that's usually acceptable -- that rarity would mean that no one would be able, or likely so, to call you on it. And the curiosity -- assuming that firstly people here haven't changed that much, and secondly you don't do anything _too_ eccentric --

[his erstwhile adversary grimaces slightly]

\-- is bound to fade very quickly as people do have for the most part their own lives and affairs to manage, even here. -- In a manner of speaking, of course. A good friend of mine back home in the Old Country excels at that, fitting in. But --

[he pauses until the Apprentice can't take it any longer; the Youngest Ranger starts a bit, and looks thoughtful]

 **Apprentice** :

But _what_?!

 **Captain** : [teasing]

Patience, lad, patience --

 **Huan** :

[sharp bark]

 **Captain** :

Oh, all right. I'll stop teasing him. -- Due to a circumstance quite beyond your control, there is now someone here who is familiar with the Vanyar enough to mark such small discrepancies in your stories that others might not even notice, and attentive enough to matters of culture and diplomacy to worry about them. To wit, Finrod grandson of Indis, betrothed of Amarie, and also a certain number of those who were formerly of Finarfin's House, such as myself. -- Not that the rest of us aren't good at spotting details, either, though not necessarily knowing the significance of them. But those remarks and reported comments helped build the mosaic over time.

 **Apprentice** :

But what were they? There must have been some specific things!

 **Captain** :

Lack of specifics, actually. Too vague on the details of what family you were related to, who were your kin, what was your House, all a very large part of it. The fact that none of us knew you we discounted at first, on the assumption that you must have been born after the Rebellion.

 **Steward** :

And yet -- though such only could explain -- to counter that, ever the slight recoil, the lifted brow, the secretive smile whenever any addressed you as "young."

 **Apprentice** : [crestfallen]

So it _was_ me.

 **Steward** :

Few would have marked your responses -- nor made much of them: both slight, and not inappropriate as annoyance from one impatient of being dismissed for his youth. Only in the combination, and in consideration with other things, and observed consistently over time -- and, I venture to say, only because _I_ was watching you. One does that, when one must report how a message is received: the mere words themselves being useless without the setting, as a stone cannot be worn without its fixture.

 **Apprentice** :

Hm. So what else was it?

 **Soldier** : [to the Captain]

The children, sir --

[the Captain nods]

 **Captain** :

That was another thing that was marked, by us, how you conducted yourself laboring in the Hall of Play.

 **Apprentice** : [anxious]

Am I not sufficiently well-disposed towards them?

 **Captain** :

Not at all -- you were _too_ good. Even parents sometimes find the whims of their offspring to grow tiresome, as you'd know if you'd ever been either. But your patience had a sort of fascinated wonder about it, as if you were a loremaster studying some strange new phenomenon, or a traveller come to a place where the wild birds settle for winter, overwhelmed with bounty and hardly to be pried away from watching, when most people would have gone off with a headache, or at least requested a little more quiet, less frisking about, long since. 

**Beren** : [startled]

There are _children_ here -- ?

[the others look at him, and his dismayed expression turns to bitter realization]

Of course -- I -- didn't think --

 **Huan** : [pawing over at his foot]

[thin whine]

 **Apprentice** :

Not so many, now. -- And they do not stay long, usually.

[Beren sighs, and nods after a moment. Curiously:]

\-- You sorrow for those you've never met.

 **Beren** :

Don't _you_?

 **Apprentice** :

Yes, but -- you -- your people -- aren't like us --

 **Second Guard** : [aside]

Which "us" do you mean?

 **Beren** : [intense]

\-- Aren't we?

 **Captain** : [breaking in]

So after a while we started paying closer attention, after Himself pointed out that you never actually said "Ingwe" or "Valmar" when you were speaking of your King sending you to the Lady, and that everyone just assumed that was who you meant, when you spoke of your lord on Taniquetil. Things that startle you, things that annoy you -- you seem to find it very annoying to have to go up one hallway and down another to get to a place that's physically adjacent but not connected by a doorway, for example -- and things that delight you. Such as very small people who talk nonstop, for another.

[rasing his hands]

\-- Does that help you? We could spend a lot longer going into greater detail, but I thought you had things you were supposed to be doing for Lady Vaire.

[the Apprentice nods, looking a bit piqued again -- then starts and looks much more dismayed]

What's wrong, lad?

 **Apprentice** :

I just realized something. -- Well, not _just_ , but I've been too busy to do anything about it.

 **Captain** :

And?

 **Apprentice** :

I didn't win.

 **Captain** :

And?

 **Apprentice** :

Not really. You _let_ me win.

 **Captain** :

I thought we'd established that already.

 **Apprentice** :

And -- we didn't finish.

 **Captain** :

Only just realized that?

 **Apprentice** :

I -- I hadn't thought about what it meant! You could have demolished me, you were pushing me hard before you started giving me openings, and -- and -- I don't have a chance!

 **Captain** :

Oh, you've got a _chance_ , all right. Blind luck and random factors play a great part in these things. Someone might do something to distract me, or say something, or I might forget about a step in the Hall and trip, you never know. You could luck out, as they say back home.

[the Youngest Ranger reaches over and pokes the nearest of his companions hard in the arm, but his superior does not notice]

 **Apprentice** :

But unless something happens, unpredictably, like that, your friends will "bet" on you, and they'll win.

[the Captain shrugs]

I thought I was free, once I did this job, and instead I have to look forward to -- to -- what _would_ happen if you'd actually landed a blow?

 **Captain** :

How should I know?

 **Apprentice** :

! ? !

 **Captain** :

I gather that you've been rehearsing and studying with other -- members of your family, from the level of skill you displayed, what happens when you connect with each other?

 **Apprentice** :

Erm . . .

 **Captain** :

Does it hurt? Do the effects last? Simple questions, I'd think,

 **Apprentice** :

Well, yes, but it's -- different. There's a lot more -- noise and light, for one thing.

 **Captain** :

Ah. You're not fighting in this form, then.

 **Apprentice** :

Not -- not exactly.

 **Captain** :

So you're cheating.

 **Apprentice** : [sullen]

I suppose you could call it that.

 **Captain** :

Well --

[setting his left hand on the hilt of his sword]

Only one way to find out --

[in a quick gesture he draws it left-handed, in a second move flips it up into the air, catching it to heft it correctly -- and sweeps it over to swat the flat of the blade hard against the side of the Apprentice's neck. With a strangled yell the "Vanyar Elf" tries to move out of the way too late, and scrambling falls down in a heap, holding at his neck. He looks up at the Captain in dismayed outrage]

I should say that it does. I don't know if you'd have to re-embody if I "killed" you, -- I don't suppose you want to find out, eh?

 **Apprentice** : [stunned]

You -- that -- I can't believe you _did_ that -- !

 **Captain** :

Strange -- the effects seemed pretty believable to me.

 **Apprentice** :

You know what I mean! How -- how -- that was so _unfair_! 

**Captain** :

Not at all.

[he gets up, sheaths the blade and holds out his left hand to the Apprentice, who stares at him in revulsion and scrambles to his feet on his own.]

You had a fast three-count while I was drawing and turning it, and you sat there "like a bump on a log." You think an animal would stay still for such a threat? Go out and try catching turtles, if you think so. Not my fault you've not got the sense nor speed of a turtle.

 **Apprentice** :

 _Turtles_? Turtles are so slow, it's proverbial.

[Beren laughs, as do several of the others]

 **Ranger** :

Didn't I say something like that when you told me to go catch turtles for my first arms practice?

 **Captain** : [dryly]

Among many other things. Let me tell you, after being in charge of a unit for six months, I had even less idea than before why anyone would want to be ruler over the Noldor.

[to the Apprentice, as he sits back down among the company, very lecturing, but not harsh:]

Lad, nothing that fears for its life or death can afford to be wrong in that regard. And we, who have to worry about _doing_ wrong as well, can still less afford mistakes. To be alert, to assess swiftly and accurately, that's the only answer. Else a delusion of the Enemy might cause you to fail, and cost not only your own life, but all those you're tasked to protect -- or too great haste to guard against such might lead you into murder.

[to Beren]

If I didn't remember to apologize then, I'm sorry for saying that I wished I'd not seen the Ring, and shot you as a servant of the Enemy from far off.

 **Beren** :

You --

 **Captain** : [interrupting]

I did mean it, then.

 **Beren** :

I was going to say, you have to be fair, Sir -- you were only agreeing with me.

 **Apprentice** :

Agreeing -- ?!?

 **Beren** :

Yup.

 **Apprentice** :

But -- you'd be dead. -- Then. And not even have succeeded in liberating a Silmaril.

 **Beren** : [flatly]

And nobody else would be. And the Silmarils would be where they were for hundreds of years.

 **Apprentice** :

You -- you'd rather have died without accomplishing anything -- by _mistake_  -- than . . . ?

[he looks around at the Ten with a troubled expression]

 **Warrior** : [proudly]

That's because he's Edain.

 **Apprentice** : [frowning]

Isn't that just a dialect form for "Secondborn"?

 **Warrior** :

Not the way we use it.

 **Apprentice** : [sniffs, grasping for the superior manner again]

Even if one grants that you are _perhaps_ not all crazy, you're still very confusing people. And no chivalry, no sense of sportsmanship whatsoever!

[he gives the Captain a very stern Look -- the latter is not fazed at all]

 **Captain** :

Lesson one, friends?

 **The Ten, and Beren** : [chorus]

"War is _not_ a game --"

 **Captain** :

That's why I call duelling "that silly ritual combat nonsense." It creates all kinds of bad habits, and worse assumptions, such as the one that your opponent will follow the same rules as you. 

**Apprentice** : [rubbing at his trapezoidal again]

I'm doomed.

[pause]

 **Captain** :

You don't have to be. If you'd like, we can train you properly, and not finish _our_ match until you feel you're ready.

 **Apprentice** : [bleak]

I'm not as good as you are -- and unless I . . . cheat . . . I never will be, will I?

 **Captain** :

I've no idea. Only one way to find out --

[Nienna's student flinches]

\-- Nothing like that fast. _Or_ that easy. Same principle, though -- you have to try.

 **Apprentice** : [faintly]

Oh joy.

[pause]

 **Captain** : [serious]

Do you want me to let you off? Call it even, once your task is done, and we're quits?

[the Apprentice is clearly thinking hard about this, but after a moment he shakes his head, though with a very unhappy look, knowing he's going to regret it -- probably more than once]

Good lad. -- Second lesson: it always hurts. No matter what you do, or do not do, the results are going to be unpleasant in one way or another. That's the way of it. You simply have to pick. Would you rather live with: having walked away? -- Or being beaten like an ingot until you don't stand there like a rock asking yourself, "I say, can he really do that, now?" 

[the other grimaces at the imitation, and the fact that rest of the Ten think it's funny]

\-- or stand there afterwards saying "Hey, I've been hit! This can't be happening to me!" for another few moments before reacting. -- Shock of it, and the fear, hurts nearly as much as the blow itself, doesn't it?

[the Apprentice nods, unhappily -- then checks]

 **Apprentice** :

You hit me with the flat, and it hurt _that_ _much_.

 **Captain** :

Don't worry, we'll train with blunted and dulled equipment until you're safe to handle live edges.

 **Apprentice** :

 _No_. That's not what I meant.

[getting more upset]

I wounded you with edge and point, and I didn't pull the blows either. If -- is _this_ what it's like? To be wounded? Only _worse_? To be --

[he breaks off, distraught]

 **Captain** : [gently]

I knew what I was in for.

 **Apprentice** :

But --

[he looks at the Ten, anguished, and is not entirely reassured by their expressions]

 **Captain** :

Are you afraid that I will exact punishment from you for that?

[giving him an intense stare]

You've already called my honor into question a second time, and you know that I can slice the truth fine enough to weave nets for even such a soaring bird-of-passage as yourself -- are you worried I have trapped you yet again?

[pause]

 **Apprentice** :

No. You've only made trouble to defend your friends -- or, well, out of boredom, and --

[frowning]

\-- I suppose I could be as mistaken as before, and quite foolish saying this, but -- I don't _think_ any of you bear me any ill will.

[turning and bowing graciously towards the Steward]

Not even you, sir, despite some cause.

[after a second the Steward gives him a neutral nod in return. To the Captain, reluctantly:]

I _am_ worried -- about what I did to you. Can I at least see how badly your arm is hurt?

 **Captain** :

There's naught to see -- we that are but mind and memory have no blood to spill, it's but the thought of it that counts with us, so to speak.

[brief pause]

But I'll give you my hand in fellowship, and to seal our bargain, if you will.

[longer pause]

 **Apprentice** :

Forgive me -- I am disquieted and -- revulsed, I have to admit, by your state. -- It's nothing personal, you understand.

 **Captain** : [wry smile]

Do you think I haven't noticed that as well? Why do you think I baited you so hard and left you no time for second-thoughts of any sort? Had to encourage that hot-headed impulsiveness to the point where both your common sense and your reservations were swept away.

 **Apprentice** : [dry]

Which, I must say, you managed most adroitly.

[sadly]

How you must despise me -- !

 **Beren** : [frowning]

I think I'm missing something. What's the matter?

[he looks at the others, who look at the Apprentice, who looks at the floor]

 **Apprentice** :

I am not -- easy, among the -- the discorporate, though I do try not to make it obvious, or be -- insulting, about it.

 **Beren** :

You mean _dead_ , right?

 **Apprentice** :

I -- suppose, though the term seems rather clumsy, seeing how, well, it doesn't mean just those who are temporarily lacking as your friends, but your own permanently-transient situation.

 **Beren** :

But you don't mean spirits like in the stories that are invisible servants of the gods --

[breaks off]

\-- Is _that_ why I couldn't see them? Is it just as simple, as stupid, as that?

 **Apprentice** :

Er . . .

 **Captain** : [urgent]

Don't trouble over it, Beren. The answer's _yes_ , of course, and _perhaps_ , because what does "invisible" mean? Only that you can't see something. Does it matter _why_ now? -- That much?

[the mortal shakes his head -- his friends are much relieved]

But I don't think that he means _them_ in any case.

 **Apprentice** :

Well, as a matter of fact, no. -- The involuntarily discorporate, to be exact.

 **First Guard** :

What about people who _choose_ to fade? Like the late King's first wife?

 **Ranger** : [a bit aggressively]

Right -- does that bother you less than people who've been killed? And if so, why?

[Nienna's student is increasingly flustered and defensive]

 **Apprentice** :

You have to understand --

 **Beren** : [breaking in]

He's afraid of ghosts. That's all. I guess it isn't any weirder than for me.

 **Ranger** :

Yes, but why? It isn't like we could _do_ anything to him, even if we wanted to.

 **Youngest Ranger** : [conscientious]

Well, that's not quite true --

 **Ranger** :

Yes, but not really. Not "Undeath" or possession or anything like that. Being dumb enough to pick fights, that's doesn't count. Besides --

[giving the Maia a dark Look]

\--  _he_ didn't get hurt, in any event.

[his commander gestures him quiet]

 **Captain** :

Don't be so hard on yourself, lad, you were gracious enough to help me up, troubling to you or not.

 **Apprentice** :

Yes, but -- I had to. I'd injured you, after all.

[pause]

 **Beren** : [thoughtful]

\-- Horses don't like going near blood. Takes a lot of patience to convince a green pony to carry kill, or go to war. They know it's _wrong_. Not the way things're supposed to be.

[Nienna's student gives him a wary look]

\-- Not trying to insult you, by the way. Just talking about it being in the nature of things.

 **Warrior** : [abruptly]

What about _you_?

 **Apprentice** :

What?

 **Warrior** :

You _change_ , don't you? That's what we've been guessing. -- Though I suppose it could all be illusion, depending on whose company you're in. But when you talk about _going_ _home_ , you're like them again, aren't you? The rest of the Manir? So aren't you being unreasonable to feel as though there's something horribly _wrong_ with us, when you go back and forth from being housed yourself?

[an expectant silence]

 **Apprentice** : [still more defensive]

When I -- forsake this form, I -- am not _diminished_. It's only a change in states of being. I -- can't understand what it would be like to lose -- part of one's self. And I -- I really don't want to, but I can't help wondering.

[Beren raises an eyebrow]

 **Beren** : [coolly]

Not fun.

 **Apprentice** :

Ah -- oh. That -- I -- forgot. I didn't -- I wasn't --

[he sits down abruptly and covers his face with his hands]

 **Beren** : [even]

It's not just _that_ , it's everything else, too -- you don't know how much you take having both hands for granted until one's gone. It's not like having the arm broken or injured, either. I stumble just walking sometimes, because of that little imbalance in weight.

[the Apprentice, hanging his head, does not answer]

 **Captain** :

It's all right, we won't drench you for honest stupidity.

 **Apprentice** : [muffled]

It's hopeless.

 **Captain** :

What is?

 **Apprentice** :

Everything.

 **Captain** :

Oh, I hope not.

 **Apprentice** :

Me, at least.

[Huan comes over, whining, and tries to snuggle, leaning over his shoulder and pressing his head and muzzle against the forlorn Maia's face]

Gyah!!

[he tries to pull away from the sympathetic Hound]

 **Beren** :

That's one of the dangers of sitting around feeling sorry for yourself when there's a wet dog around. He might feel sorry for you, too.

[the Apprentice is treated to some more canine sympathy, not much to his delight]

You better figure outwhat you want to do, because otherwise he's going to keep trying to cheer you up.

 **Apprentice** : [polite but edged]

Huan, _please_. Would you stop _doing_ that?

[this has no discernible effect]

 **Beren** :

The way that works best when he's being like that is to push him hard with both hands, just like a horse. Otherwise you're just going to keep on getting wet.

[pause]

I haven't been very good at it in any sense since I lost my hand, of course.

[silence. Nienna's student grimaces and resolutely shoves Huan's nose away from his ear, straightening up]

 **Apprentice** : [sighing]

I'm being insufferable, aren't I?

 **Beren** : [shrugs]

You're being a kid, is all. And everyone gets like that under stress.

[he glances over at his friends, laughing at himself]

 **Apprentice** :

But I'm _not_ a child. Not compared to any of you, at least. I'm not all _that_ much younger than the rest of my kind. I just -- have a hard time settling down. Everything's so interesting and different, and why limit one's self? I thought I wanted to be an Eagle, but -- it turned out to be so much routine work, I wouldn't be able to just go off and explore as I expected. And -- there were other incidents.

 **Beren** :

Can't figure out what you want to be when you grow up, huh?

[the Apprentice bristles, then looks a bit worried when Beren only smiles and leans back to look at the Ten again]

He could talk to -- to Finrod about that too, eh?

[ducking quickly to avoid a retaliatory cuff from the Captain -- even the Steward smiles a little at the by-play]

 **Apprentice** : [frowning]

You're trying to encourage me.

 **Beren** : [shrugging again, pulling Huan down next to him by his collar]

Hm, yeah. -- You offended by that?

 **Apprentice** :

\-- No. But -- that isn't how it's meant to work. _You're_ supposed to be helped by _us_ , not the other way round.

 **Steward** :

Indeed? I had heard otherwise, but I must presume myself mistaken. At least with regards to who was also in need of help, if not who should give it.

[pause]

 **Apprentice** :

You make simple things more complicated, you know.

 **Third Guard** :

Are you sure? Or is it only that they really were complicated all along? Lord Edrahil's usually right, even if he's got the most annoying way of putting things.

 **Steward** : [slight smile]

One may learn patience from the most _unlikely_ of sources, I have found.

 **Apprentice** : [mournful]

And I thought Lady Nienna was being hard on me with that business of the candles!

 **Beren** :

Candles? What was that?

 **Apprentice** :

They're sort of like lamps, only more convenient: if you can imagine a stick of wax, with a cord running through it, the way the pith goes through a twig --

 **Beren** : [pleasantly]

Actually, I used to help making them sometimes when I was a kid. On account of how they always made me get the combs out anyway because of not getting stung, and hanging around afterwards I usually got to scrounge some of the bits that were too small to be worth pressing, and plus it was boring, but not as boring as having to clean up the leftover wax after.

[the other blinks]

 **Apprentice** : [chagrined]

You meant what was that business, not what "candles" meant.

[sighing theatrically]

She gave me a basket of candles, and sent me into Tirion late one afternoon, telling me to light one and give it to each person I met, if they'd accept it, and ask them to carry them around until they burned out. I didn't realize the basket was attuned to the storeroom!

 **Steward** : [raising an eyebrow]

I gather you didn't expect them to last as long as they did?

[he looks quietly amused]

 **Apprentice** : [exclaiming indignantly]

Do you _know_ how many people there are in Tirion?

[the Ten exchange looks]

 **Soldier** :

Not any more.

 **Apprentice** : [morose]

 _Lots_. And they _all_ think I'm mad, now.

 **Beren** : [frowning]

So what was the point of it?

 **Apprentice** :

I beg your pardon?

 **Beren** :

Some kind of lesson, right?

 **Apprentice** :

Yes. I thought it was along the lines of a practical joke, to keep me passing out candles so that every time I'd got to the end of it, and was just starting to feel hopeful, it would be filled again. And when she came to meet me at the end of it, in the great square by the Tree, and asked me what I'd learned, I said that I'd learned not to ask how things could get worse. And she asked me if that was all, and if it was all, what would it take to open my eyes? Because I hadn't even looked past the pile of candles for -- oh, hours.

 **Beren** :

Well, that's something you never want to ask, but what was the problem? And what else was it you were supposed to figure out?

 **Apprentice** :

I was frustrated and I'd asked her earlier in the day what difference it could possibly make whether I ever -- attained the virtues she was supposed to be instructing me in, how could it possibly be worse or better for my part, what affect could I have one way or the other on the world. And she handed me the basket, and sent me to Tirion.

 **Beren** : [fascinated]

And?

 **Apprentice** : [increasingly rapt in memory]

I was so tired, and footsore, and _embarrassed_ at the end of the day, and I couldn't wait to be rid of the wretched basket, and she took me by the shoulders and said, "Next, I want you to name me the visible stars," and I groaned, and looked up -- and couldn't see a one. There was so much light in Tirion from the candles, and people were standing on roofs and balconies and walkways talking and laughing, and they weren't really laughing at me, they weren't even _thinking_ about me.

[frowning]

\-- And that was --  _worse_ , in a way that I'm not happy about. The whole City was -- almost as it had been, before the Night, but different: you could hardly even see the Beacon, and the White Tree was almost as gold as the Lady Tree before She died, and -- it was so beautiful I couldn't even speak, and I hadn't even noticed how many people were carrying my candles, or how much difference it made as Narya came home and it got dark. And we sat there in the square and watched until the flames died away and we could see some of the brighter stars and did that and then we went home.

 **Beren** : [quietly]

What tree was that? I thought -- both of them . . . ?

 **Apprentice** :

\-- Oh. No -- that was the White Tree, Galathilion, who lives in Tirion. He -- he was a little version of Telperion, almost like a portrait, but alive, not made of anything inorganic. When the wind blows he flickers just like living flames, but silver. You should see him, when you're --

[he breaks off]

I -- I'm --

 **Beren** : [looking at him intently]

I have. Just now, through your words.

 **Apprentice** :

It hardly seems enough.

 **Beren** :

Never is. But you take what you can get.

[the other gives him a troubled look]

Sounds to _me_ like you learned stuff from that.

[Nienna's student smiles, hesitantly and after a briefer physical hesitation, holds out his right hand -- even as he realizes his mistake and falters Beren pulls him to his feet, left-handed, and leads him the few steps to where the Captain is sitting, giving him an encouraging slap on the back as his victorious opponent slowly rises and looks at him consideringly]

 **Apprentice** : [resigned, and formally polite]

I'm very grateful for your kindness and trouble, milord, in --

 **Captain** : [shaking his head]

Not yet, you shouldn't be. You're going to hate me, and every single one of us, many times over, before you're through.

 **Apprentice** :

. . .

 **Captain** :

But -- if you train properly, you will learn not only self-defense but a certain amount of discipline, and very definitely focus, or you'll wash out very quickly. Can't promise anything more than that, and only what you're willing to learn.

[daunted but resolute, the Apprentice holds out his hand again and does not look away in discomfiture or embarrassment as they shake on the deal]

 **Apprentice** :

I promise you, sir, I will learn whatever you can teach me. Nor to quit before you say I can't learn anything more.

 **Captain** :

And I pledge I will not ever, _ever_ push you harder than I truly believe you equal to -- in training. In a testing match, that's a most different story. But even there, I will never _punish_ you, not least for being good -- that is, I will never deliberately hurt you in retaliation for the same, of anger, or humiliate you for making me look the fool as you improve.

[his adversary looks shocked at the notion; he smiles grimly]

Oh yes. You don't think I've been tempted -- or that you will be too? Just wait until some half-yen recruit walks in out of the woods and splits your arrow without even half-trying --

[glancing over at the Sindarin Ranger, who looks away with an embarrassed grin]

\-- and then does it _again_ , without any more work, so it's clearly not one of those random incidents that sometimes happen -- and it's equally clear from the minute he draws his sword that he's never used it for anything but a machete to cut reeds with, or possibly to play at swordfighting with other children. If you don't think the temptation'll be there to flatten the little punk so that he -- and everyone else who's witnessed it -- will remember who was the one who looked the fool at day's end, then you've never been in that situation.

 **Ranger** : [wonderingly]

We would never have guessed _you_ felt that way, if you hadn't apologized for it when it was his turn.

[Nienna's student gives him a puzzled frown -- answering the unspoken question:]

In the Pit, sir.

[the Apprentice looks quite ill]

 **Captain** : [to all of them]

One learns things about one's self, inevitably, as a teacher, if one does the job properly. And if one learns -- then one has a choice that must be made. I didn't much care for the destination if I set foot on that path -- it led due North, to my mind. Or who would be left at the end of it.

 **Apprentice** : [pulling himself gamefully together]

So, what, you just beat people up for the sheer fun of it now?

 **Captain** :

Mostly. Or because they need it, as per those who are trainees. -- Sometimes for being repellent, arrogant twerps who need it, regardless of the amusement value, to remind them not to humiliate those they think weaker for their own amusement. But not because _I've_ been slighted, however slightly, in front of others.

[stern]

Though if _you_ do things that are not within Eldarin abilities to get out of trouble, in the future, you'll make that much more difficult for me.

[the Apprentice nods, rueful]

\-- Of course, you and I are going to disagree significantly on what you're capable of.

 **Apprentice** : [stoic]

This is going to hurt. A lot.

 **Captain** :

Third lesson -- it _always_ hurts. No matter how good you are.

[the disguised Maia rubs at the side of his neck once more]

 **Apprentice** : [a touch resentfully]

Did you enjoy scaring me like that?

 **Captain** :

A little. You were quite obnoxious, crowing earlier, you know, and I'm still going short for that last blow.

[pause]

\-- Not anywhere near as much as you not backing down, though. I look for the best in people, and sometimes --

 **Both Rangers** : [coming in simultaneously]

\-- he's not disappointed.

 **Captain** :

\-- I'm not disappointed.

 **Apprentice** : [sour]

You're _all_ enjoying this.

 **Warrior** :

Consider it thus, gentle sir -- you've been here to be learning patience, well, you've found the shortest way to it. Nothing like learning from the best, is there now?

 **Apprentice** : [wary]

Indeed?

 **Warrior** : [nodding]

Why, the commander will patiently drub you sixty times running, if need be. Where another instructor would say, "go off and practice at the pels until you get the hang of it," he'll keep after you until you start paying attention and actually learning.

 **Apprentice** :

Oh joy.

[but he doesn't sound quite as gloomy as might be expected -- this is, after all, a major challenge to look forward to.]

 **Beren** : [musing]

You know, where I come from, we seal bargains with a drink as well as a handshake.

[he and the Captain exchange a meaningful Look]

 **Captain** : [offhand]

True. -- You want to do it all right and proper as per the Old Country?

 **Apprentice** : [getting interested]

Oh, that's with a drinking horn, and that beverage that they make out of bread, right?

 **Captain** :

Something like that, yes.

[the Apprentice does not notice the attentive and hopeful aspect of the other shades, not excluding the Steward, for all his attempts to seem disinterested, in his enthusiasm for arcane lore and living history -- ]

 **Apprentice** :

Oh, how fascinating! A genuine new-fashioned custom from another culture -- this will be something exciting to tell my family next time --

[meanwhile the Captain has manifested a drinking horn with rather ornate fixtures and offered it to Beren]

 **Beren** :

Hey, I've seen this one before -- Wow! I guess it did come from Nargothrond like everyone said.

 **Captain** :

Yes, I thought you had. You want to make sure I've remembered everything right?

[Beren takes the horn carefully, bracing the tail of it on his forearm, and tries the contents]

 **Beren** : [judiciously]

That's not bad at all.

 **Captain** :

Himself will be happy to hear it. It's always tricky, replicating someone else's art, especially when one hasn't a tradition of it, such as brewing.

[he reclaims the horn, solemnly drinks from it and with a formal gesture passes it to the Apprentice, who unwarily takes a large gulp, and is horrified. Everyone else is much amused. 

**Apprentice** : [gasping]

What -- what _is_ this?

 **Captain** :

That's ale.

 **Beren** :

Also called beer.

 **Apprentice** :

It's _supposed_ to taste like this? Bitter?

 **Beren** :

Nearly. I mean, it tastes the way I remember it, which isn't the same as really tasting something.

 **Apprentice** :

And people drink this voluntarily? Not just because you haven't any wine?

 **Steward** : [aside]

Incredibly, yes.

 **Apprentice** :

And you -- you _like_ it?

 **Second Guard** :

Mortals do.

 **Beren** :

Most. Not everyone.

 **Steward** :

And a very few mad Eldar. -- Most definitely not everyone.

 **Youngest Ranger** :

His Majesty likes beer, sir.

 **Steward** : [haughty]

His Majesty has not ever been able to determine whether he likes it or loathes it. Hence his continuing tests across the centuries, culminating in the experiment which served to prove that it would never under any circumstances replace the vintners' work in popular esteem. -- Nor even rival it, saving among certain lunatics and risktakers both here and in Doriath. -- Though I always suspected it was at least in part an affectation, to appall more civilized folk. 

[the Captain grins]

 **Apprentice** : [shaking his head]

It's like some horrible perversion of mead.

 **Beren** :

It is not! Mead is something completely different. And a lot sweeter.

 **Steward** :

He means something entirely other by it, in any case. The word was simply applied by analogy -- it isn't what they drink here.

 **Beren** : [plaintive]

Why did you all do that? How come you didn't just make up _different_ words for different things?

 **Steward** :

Alas, I was not consulted when our ancestors first devised language, not having been born then, or rest assured I would have insisted upon a more logical state of affairs -- I warn you, however, that the result would have been even _more_ words, and thus more nouns to decline.

[pause]

 **Beren** :

There's that.

 **Apprentice** : [a bit sulky]

You're enjoying yourselves at my expense again.

 **Beren** :

But that's good. That means you're welcome.

[the Apprentice gives him a doubtful Look]

 **Apprentice** :

But -- they engage in humor at nearly everyone's expense. It doesn't mean that -- oh, the Warden of Formenos is welcome --

 **Ranger** :

Seneschal.

 **Apprentice** :

Hm?

 **Ranger** :

He'd be very put out to hear you. Formenos was a much grander stronghold than any of their holdings in Beleriand, because they didn't stop to pack the way we did, and so he has to have a grander title than anyone else.

 **Apprentice** :

Don't they mean essentially the same thing?

 **Beren** :

You'll have to ask --

[he does not duck quite soon enough]

\-- ow!

[rubbing his head -- to Nienna's student]

See? That's what I meant. He wouldn't have dinged me like that otherwise.

 **Apprentice** : [bemused]

But how do you know? What's teasing-to-show-ease, and what's simple mockery? Are there any rules?

 **Beren** :

Nope. It just depends. -- Do you want that?

[nodding to the drinking-horn which the Apprentice is still holding as though it were a poisonous snake]

 **Apprentice** :

Ah -- no.

[with a very dubious expression, not sure what's going to be perpetrated on him next, he starts to pass it across -- but Huan gets up and leans over, intercepting it, and starts lapping out of it.]

Is that part of your joke?

 **Beren** : [chagrined]

No, I think that's Huan teasing both of us.

 **Huan** :

[enthusiastic tail-wag]

[Beren tugs him away by the collar again as if he were a horse and claims the drinking horn]

 **Apprentice** :

Is --  _that_ also a mortal custom, sharing one's vessels with one's livestock?

 **Beren** : [swallowing]

\-- Not ordinarily. But it's Huan, and it's a shame to waste good beer.

[the other grimaces in recollection]

Besides, we're both ghosts, so I don't think it matters anyway.

[this gets him a damp bit of doggy affection in turn.]

 **Apprentice** : [frustrated]

I'm still baffled. I don't know why he's doing this.

 **Beren** :

What?

 **Steward** : [comprehending]

Being a dog? Or remaining discorporate?

 **Apprentice** :

Both.

 **Beren** :

But didn't he choose to keep going in the Rebellion? So isn't he under the Doom with them, too? Until Lord Mandos judges him?

 **Apprentice** :

Well, yes, but --

 **Beren** :

You think he's gonna cheat and, what, use special privileges to get out of here? Like it was all a game, and now because he's a demi-god he's going home and everyone else has to suffer through?

 **Apprentice** :

Erm --

 **Beren** : [earnest]

He's _Lord_ _of_ _Dogs_. He's got way too much honor to do that.

 **Apprentice** : [hurt]

You needn't talk to me as though I were stupid.

[Beren nudges at Huan's foreleg with his foot, and the Hound grins up slyly from where he's resting his head on his paws]

 **Beren** :

I'm not saying anything that he might not tell you. He called _me_ "witless" for being about to try to walk into Angband alone.

 **Fourth Guard** : [innocent]

But what you haven't told _us_ , is -- was that a conditional statement or not?

 **Beren** : [nodding towards the Maia]

You want for me to teach him that reaping song that has a hundred different verses that all sound the same?

 **Apprentice** : [frowning]

 _What_? That's a contradiction in terms.

 **Beren** :

Not really. There aren't any real words, and each verse is just a note different from the other one, and when you finish all of them the changes bring you right back to the first one. It sounds really neat when you do it right.

 **Apprentice** :

How can you sing it if there aren't any words?

 **Beren** :

Well, there are words, only nobody knows what they mean any more. They don't even mean anything in _our_ Old Tongue. There are a lot of working songs like that. And they all sound kind of the same, but they're different. So the threshing song is actually the reaping song done backwards.

[pause]

They seem really easy to sing, but they're not easy to get right, and if you mix it up you have to start over, and your friends throw chaff at you for breaking the changes because if one person gets off then everyone loses their place.

[with a rueful smile towards the Steward]

Lord Edrahil absolutely hates them, on account of how they're boring and complicated at the same time.

 **Steward** :

You left out the fact that once one hears one such --  _tune_ , one cannot banish it from memory.

 **Captain** :

And _you've_ left out the fact that you made certain that someone was humming it, in response to your peevish reminiscences, just when the Warden of Aglon was happening along to scoff at Himself for having been set down by Amarie.

 **Beren** :

See, _that's_ humor-at-someone's-expense.

 **Captain** :

And a particularly-ruthless employment of a Gift, as well.

 **Steward** : [extremely patronizing]

\-- Delightful as this has undoubtedly been, I must leave you to your . . . simple diversions, now.

[he gets up and bows to the Apprentice, just a shade too deeply -- his composure is mostly recovered and his expression is faintly ironic, ready for verbal combat.]

 **Beren** :

But not this. _This_ is just friendly joshing around.

[the Steward taps him lightly on the head as he goes past]

 **Steward** :

Don't bedevil your elders, child -- or at least make a serious effort, if you can't do better than that.

[they share a quick smile]

 **Beren** :

I promise I'll follow your example, sir.

 **Steward** : [sniffing]

Did I advise you thus? I think you'll find not.

[as he edges through, his companions all reach up and clasp his hand or pat his arm]

 **Captain** : [serious]

Good luck --

 **Steward** : [very dry]

t can't be any worse than explaining to the Lady how it was that a conduit was inadvertently sheared across. -- And no, I'd not have another instance to verify comparisons.

 **Apprentice** : [staring after him]

You _are_ all insane.

 **Captain** :

Yes, but you have to admit, we do have so much more fun.

[the disguised Maia tries to look prim and disapproving and responsible -- and fails utterly]

Any bets on how long it'll take before he's tripping people into fountains too?

 **Apprentice** :

. . .

 **First Guard** : [cheerfully reassuring]

You'll fit _right_ in.

 **Apprentice** :

Ah -- was that meant as a compliment? Or as humor?

 **Beren** : [nodding, very seriously]

You got it.

 **Apprentice** : [lightly, but with a more thoughtful look than his words indicate]

\-- Melisma, but you've caught the habit of cryptic Elven -- erm, I suppose I've got to call it wit? -- as well!

[Huan stretches his way up, leans over, and snuffles him enthusiastically, evoking another strangled yell]


	101. Act 4: SCENE IV.ix

[Elsewhere: the council chamber]

[the feeling of a long diplomatic standoff or cross-examination pervades -- all that's missing is a long polished table. Luthien is sitting with her elbow on her knee, her chin in her hand, looking rather bitter as well as tired; Nerdanel is sketching quickly away on some sort of small folding tablet with a crystal stylus, apparently not paying attention at all, occasionally showing her work to Aule's Assistant for comment. The Doriathrin Ambassador is watching the Powers carefully, particularly the two quiet ones, Aule and Orome, and the Lord and Lady of the Halls are stoic about it all.]

 **Irmo** : [with a lifted eyebrow towards his brother]

I dare say _most_ of us will express loud and vocal dismay if the word "inflexible" is used once more, Luthien.

[she rolls her eyes at this sally]

 **Luthien** : [forced patience]

 _What_ am I saying that is _so_ complicated, so _hard_ for you all to understand? -- You're _just_ like my parents, really.

[the Lord of Dreams looks put out; Namo starts to say something, and checks himself, earning a sympathetic look from his wife -- and Nerdanel looks up from her notebook with a keen expression:]

 **Nerdanel** :

Aught is there that confoundeth me, Tinuviel, I must perforce confess: couldst not with all thy manifest and obscure powers, whilst yet in the Old Country, thou to have prevented, ere ever he came to maiming else to death, thy true-love from his madness and his mad designing?

 **Luthien** :

I already explained: I _tried_. I did everything I could to convince him to give it up and forget about it, that we in fact were free and no one could stop us from living our lives as we pleased from now on, and that he wasn't under any sort of obligation to my father since the task had been given in bad faith, and that no one, least of all Finrod, would have expected that he had some sort of other duty to finish getting killed since he hadn't managed it before. I tried reason, I tried simple begging, I tried tears --  _nothing_ I could do made any difference.

 **Nerdanel** :

Thou hast said -- but, methinks, not so. -- Or wouldst say, in truth, that mortal Men be stronger of will and thought and deep-held resolve than ever the gods, than the Dark Enemy of us all and all his bonden Servants be?

[as Luthien frowns at her, Nerdanel not giving ground:]

Might thine own might not have served where 'suasion of plainer means did fail, and bend thy rebel lord to thine own temper, and held him rather by thy side perforce?

 **Luthien** : [snorting]

Of course I _could_ have. I could have taken Nargothrond, too, if Beren would have gone along with it -- it wouldn't have been nearly as hard as the Gaurhoth or Angband, I already knew most of the leaders and I knew them _better_ , in any case, being Eldar like me, from a spiritual standpoint. There might not even have had to have been a civil war at all, no matter what he said. With my power back I could have scryed Celegorm's thoughts like Carcharoth's, and shown him _himself_ as if in a mirror, and made him admit that he _knew_ , really, that what he'd done was wrong --

[Nerdanel flinches, though controlledly, and shifts, her expression pained]

 **Vaire** : [meaningfully]

You've thought about it, then.

[Luthien starts to say something outraged and haughty, and doesn't]

 **Luthien** :

I --

[she tries to speak again, and stops herself, looking both horrified and furious]

 **Vaire** :

You cannot deny it? That you have considered both the possibility and the logistics of the deed, using your power to remove that obduracy and intemperate resolve from your lord's heart, and fill the wound with forgetfulness and pleasure at your approval, instead?

[long pause]

 **Luthien** : [shouting]

 _Of_ _course_ I thought about it! How _couldn't_ I? Beren wasn't being reasonable at all. It -- it would have been -- it would almost have been -- I could have told myself it was really only _healing_ , if I'd tried it. That it was wrong of me _not_ to do it, not to save him from himself.

[pause]

But he wouldn't have been _Beren_ then. If -- I'd done -- anything like that -- he'd --

[she clenches her fists, unable to go on]

 **Vaire** : [reasonably]

\-- He would still be alive.

 **Luthien** :

No! It -- it wouldn't be _him_.

[silence]

And _I_ wouldn't be me, any more, either.

 **Vaire** :

So it is _more_ _important_ that his spirit be whole and undiminished, unshackled, than that you possess his outward seeming and presence, notwithstanding either the fact that already he was injured and bound by the effects of Melkor's deeds, or that the consequence of it be risk, and eventually the actual event, of your losing him? -- In your own estimation?

[silence -- Luthien gives her a very angry Look]

 **Luthien** : [sharply]

That's not fair.

 **Namo** :

On the contrary.

 **Vaire** :

You do _see_ it, then, don't you, dear?

 **Luthien** : [shaking her head violently]

 _No_ , no, NO! You're _missing_ something that's so important that I don't know how to explain it besides showing you who we were, and why you can't measure Beren, measure _us_ , by any ordinary standard. It's like my parents' choosing each other -- maybe it doesn't make sense from a practical point of view, but there are other things that are more important, that are what the point of all the practical things really are --

 **Orome** : [acerbic]

You'll find that's not a comparison that's going to make your case more popular around here.

 **Luthien** : [hotly]

Don't change the subject!

[long pause, in which everyone looks expectantly at her, and she looks extremely defensive]

\-- Stop scorning me because I was _tempted_ , all right? You _don't_ _know_ what it's like to watch someone you love destroy himself.

 **Aule** : [with a faint, bittersweet smile]

No? You don't think so, hm?

[Nerdanel glances up quickly at his words and they share a long, meaningful Look]

 **Ambassador** : [quietly]

Little Luthien . . .

[she gives him an angry glare]

. . . no longer. _We_ were not so wise, we your elders in earth's growing -- but not in the Unseen realm, I fear.

[her expression changes to sadness, both regret and pity: both of them know there is no going back to what was.]


	102. Act 4: SCENE IV.x

[the Hall]

[Beside the falls, the Apprentice is happily ensconced in the midst of the Ten, scratching Huan's ears and laughing at something someone has just said.]

 **Captain** : [mild]

Shouldn't you be getting back to work? We really aren't trying to make trouble for you, after all, simply to employ your talents.

 **Apprentice** :

Yes, but . . .

[he sighs deeply]

It's so much more pleasant to listen to your stories than, well, to be nagged and insulted by everyone else. I really ought to, I suppose . . . but it isn't as though the complaints are going to cease, after all. If only you could throw -- I shouldn't say that, should I? 

**Ranger** :

Say what?

 **Apprentice** :

Hah. No, you'll not catch me that way.

 **Fourth Guard** : [shrugs]

Depending on whom you're thinking of, we might have already done them one better.

 **Soldier** :

That's right -- they could be looking for you right now to report us, since the Powers are still in the meeting.

 **First Guard** :

But, of course, we can't be sure, since you won't say.

 **Apprentice** : [grinning]

Confound the lot of you! What have you done to those two this time?

 **Soldier** :

Injured dignity.

 **Youngest Ranger** :

And kneecap.

 **Beren** :

Shoulder-sockets, too, looked like.

[Nienna's student sighs, in an almost-convincing display of sober maturity]

 **Apprentice** :

What did they do now?

 **Beren** :

Insulted us.

 **Captain** :

\-- That is _not_ why they were forcibly removed from the premises. It was the attempted unprovoked assault on _him_ that got reciprocated in advance.

[pause]

 **Apprentice** :

There's something skewed in your reasoning.

 **Fourth Guard** :

Stick around long enough, it'll all make sense.

 **Apprentice** :

I'm afraid that's probably true.

[for just a moment he looks daunted, thinking about what he's gotten into]

 **Beren** : [curious]

So, do you have to _stay_ like --

[the Apprentice raises his hand, in a sudden and very authoritative gesture, silencing him]

 **Apprentice** :

Do you recollect what I said earlier, when you corrected me as to the negligible difference between _perceive_ and _see_? -- That circumstance will no longer hold true in a moment.

 **Beren** :

Uh -- oh. --  _Oh_.

[he nods, doesn't say anything else; the disguised Maia gives him an approving nod]

 **Apprentice** : [standing up and squaring his shoulders]

Duty -- or duties -- call. I'm not sure _when_ it will be, but I'll bring you news as soon as there _is_ news.

 **Captain** :

Unless you get distracted meanwhile.

 **Apprentice** : [stalwart]

That won't happen, I promise you.

[pause]

Probably.

 **Captain** :

I appreciate the frankness.

 **Apprentice** : [serious]

It may --

[glancing at Beren]

\-- not be good news. -- Though --

[with a bemused expression]

I've got to admit I'm feeling irrationally optimistic, since you involved me in all this. 

**Soldier** :

"Irrational" is right.

[at the Captain's Look]

Sorry, sir, but someone's got to give you a hard time while he's gone.

 **Captain** :

Yes, but are you going to remember to stop when he gets back?

[Nienna's student turns a chortle into a cough and bows extravagantly]

 **Apprentice** :

I pledge you, I shall be back anon.

 **Captain** : [with a casual wave]

And we shall be here, most likely.

[as the Apprentice goes jauntily off, the Captain asks Beren:]

Did that confounded dog leave us any ale?

 **Beren** :

Some. Not much.

[he passes over the drinking horn -- the Captain finishes it and lets the vessel disappear]

 **Captain** :

Anyone else feel that we've company?

[the rest of the Elven shades look at each other; several nod, while others shrug]

 **Beren** :

Is it --  _her_  -- again? His girlfriend?

 **Captain** :

Perhaps. Or not.

[Beren looks around at them, shrewdly]

 **Beren** :

You know who it is, don't you?

 **Second Guard** : [correcting]

Who it could be. There are a lot of possibilities.

 **Captain** : [like someone trying to coax a timid animal out]

You really are welcome to join us. None of us will trouble you -- not even the mortal -- not unless you start it first.

[Lady Earwen's former handmaiden appears softly from the shadows, wearing a rather sulky expression]

 **Teler Maid** :

I know that.

 **Beren** : [pleased]

Hey, I was right.

 **Captain** :

Oh. -- Hullo again.

[curious]

Why were you pretending not to be here, Sea-Mew?

 **Teler Maid** : [haughty]

I do not like that young Elf of Lady Nienna's Household.

 **Captain** :

Why not?

 **Teler Maid** :

He does not understand. He chides me for malingering and is overbold to tell me that if I do not dare to go Without, then I must not blame it upon any other, and also much to say that I ought at the least to go amongst others nor keep so entirely unto myself.

 **Captain** :

Oh.

[pause]

You know, those sound exactly like the sorts of things I would say, if I had thought of them.

 **Teler Maid** :

I did this once already to tell -- I have had enough of being set down and disregarded in life, by Noldor, that I should wish to meet it more within these walls? I think not!

 **Captain** :

Now, Maiwe -- be fair. _Not_ _everyone_ treated you badly in Tirion. Didn't the Family do everything they could to make you feel at home and make the most of being in our City?

[she doesn't answer]

And my parents, too?

 **Teler Maid** : [reluctantly]

Yes . . .

 **Captain** :

Everyone of House Finarfin, in fact. Didn't we all include you in things when Lady Earwen didn't need you -- which was most of the time -- and when you'd let us? Short of picking you up and carrying you away like an infant, there wasn't anything more we could do, was there?

 **Teler Maid** :

I know that you meant well, but it was not -- it was so far from what I was used! You and Suli' and Lady Nerwen and all those big noisy horses and big noisy dogs and big noisy birds with flapping wings!

 **Captain** : [innocent]

Big noisy people too, eh?

[she grins for a second before remembering not to]

We were rather a rowdy lot, I'll admit, and perhaps we tried too hard to put you at ease by being easy ourselves. -- But it's noisy enough along the coast, what with the waves crashing on the rocks and under the piers, and the wood creaking, and booms hitting, and the wind in sails sounding like a drum and all -- and I do seem to remember the occasional large white bird shrieking and flapping its wings for a morsel after coming back from hunting for fish.

 **Teler Maid** : [lifting her chin]

It is different, in the harbour.

 **Captain** :

What you're used to, you mean.

 **Teler Maid** :

But I had no _wish_ to go dashing about the woods and fields like that!

[playful -- what follows is an old joke, clearly]

\-- And you do not _hunt_ fish, you _catch_ them, silly. -- And it was dull, for me, since I had not skill nor strength for your bows and could not contest with ye. 

**Captain** :

And we weren't Edrahil, either.

[the way she doesn't answer is answer enough]

You know that if you'd kept with us -- I don't mean going out in the field, if you really cared naught for it -- but with the House, you'd have been far happier, met much nicer people who would have taught you all kinds of things and learned from you, too. But instead you had to go trailing after him like a poor little puppy dog all over Aman, getting stepped on or patted on the head by those who thought far too well of themselves already, and not being sure enough of yourself to show your teeth and make them at least treat you with respect and think better of your people, if not with liking. You did hoose a good deal of your unhappiness, Sea-Mew, you've got to admit. Even if he did alternate between encouraging you and ignoring you, or worse.

[she gets more stubborn-looking throughout this lecture, and counterattacks:]

 **Teler Maid** :

How can you say such hard things of him, if you will call him friend?

 **Captain** :

That's how. Because he knows my failings as well as I know his, and does me honor regardless.

 **Teler Maid** : [intent frown]

Why? I do not understand how it is that you and he have become friends, far less so fast.

 **Captain** : [shrugs]

I could tell you it was because he saved my life overseas, but that wouldn't really account for it, particularly because it was largely his fault I got shot in the first place.

 **Teler Maid** : [narrowing her eyes]

Would that not have the effect most opposite, in fact?

 **Captain** :

That wasn't the important part. What followed was what mattered. And followed naturally from the fact that he'd long since become someone I had come to respect, during the crossing of the Grinding Ice.

[pause]

 **Teler Maid** : [still doubtingly]

So he did not go upon the Ships, then?

[he shakes his head]

Why did he not?

 **Captain** : [shaking his head again]

You must ask him that, yourself, else you'll have but a friend's guess, whether it be true or false.

[she looks down, and does not say anything. Very seriously:]

\-- Did you _really_ think he was with House Feanor, that Night, or that he would have joined them, or even stood idly by and not tried to defend you all? For not even the gods can say for certain what would have been, but I would stake my life upon it -- if I had it -- that not even as he was in those Days would Edrahil have done any such thing, though he would mock me for such faith.

[long pause]

\-- Maiwe?

 **Teler Maid** : [suddenly and sharply]

\-- I did not think that any of our people would kill us, nor thieve us of our artistry, as they were robbed of treasures of life and jewel, either!

[pause]

 **Captain** : [sighing]

No.

[awkward silence -- curiosity winning strongly over discreteness among the onlookers]

 **Teler Maid** : [trying not to sound like it's important]

He is gone again, then?

 **Captain** :

As you see.

 **Teler Maid** :

Whither?

 **Captain** :

To be harangued by Lord Finarfin.

 **Teler Maid** :

Oh.

[clearly torn between asking why and being too proud to do so]

 **Second Guard** : [hesitantly]

Hey, Maiwe . . .

[he gets the glare]

. . . how come you've come back to join us again when you said we were disturbing you and you'd rather have peace-and-quiet?

[long expectant pause]

 **Teler Maid** : [folding her arms defiantly, spoiling the effect by absentmindedly standing on one leg again]

'Tis dull to be elsewhere, now that I do know that ye are come, and the Lady Nienna I might not find, for all my seeking, nor any of the Household of this Hall, saving those few who would not stay at my summoning but left in haste with excuse. What great matter is it, that all must be away about it?

 **Beren** :

Some of it's my fault --

 **Fourth Guard** : [cutting him off]

But _most_ of it isn't. One of Morgoth's Ainur has been spotted prowling about the Pelori, and everyone else is trying to roust out the intruder and reinforce the defenses. Or so we have it on pretty good authority.

[pause]

 **Teler Maid** :

That was not much by way of an answer, still, 'tis better than I have had ere now.

 **Captain** :

So, rather than suffer the pangs of boredom and the worse torments of not knowing what's going on when you know there's _something_ going on, you'll put up with our disreputable and often-over-noisy company?

[she gives him a very scathing Look]

\-- Aren't you worried about losing your balance and tipping over one of these days?

[she puts her foot down and straightens with rather a definite stamp, and then breaks into an unwilling smile and hops up onto one of the boulders, very much at ease.]

 **Teler Maid** : [teasing]

At the least you have not hawks and horses and dogs about.

 **Captain** :

Only the one.

[she thinks he's joking]

 **Teler Maid** :

Which? Not a horse, surely -- !

 **Ranger** : [grinning]

Well, almost . . .

[he snaps his fingers at Huan, who sits up from where he was lying with his head on his paws and looks over alertly]

 **Teler Maid** :

Oh!

[she leaps off the ledge and stands there staring at the Hound, not at all happily]

I thought that was another rock!

 **Beren** :

That's Huan. He --

 **Teler Maid** : [grimly]

\-- I _know_ who that is. I recollect -- and do well recall when last I saw -- !

[not taking her eyes off Huan]

'Twas at your master's heel, before the House of my King, when your lord's father mocked ours, and would not hear any word of Olwe's wisdom, nor any counsel save his own.

[her fists clench]

\-- Do you not remember, _dog_?!?

[Huan jerks his head aside, breaking eye contact, and barks sharply]

Deny it now, would you indeed, wretch? I saw you with mine own eyes!

 **Huan** :

[double barks, rising in pitch, dog-objecting-to-things-as-they-are]

 **Teler Maid** :

You! Orome's dog, you were, but wicked, and untrue did you become. -- Bad dog!!!

 **Huan** :

[very loud, distraught bark]

 **Beren** :

Hey! He isn't a bad dog. He saved Tinuviel's life. And mine. Several times.

[she looks briefly at him, then glares at Huan again]

 **Teler Maid** : [through her teeth]

How nice for you. -- But he did not save _mine_. -- Did you? Did you, Hound of Celegorm? Bad, _bad_ dog!

[as she speaks, getting louder, Huan alternates between barking and yelping in horribly-unhappy-dog fashion, backing away with his tail clamped between his hind legs. Unfortunately this means he's not looking where he's going . . .]

 **Third Guard** : [slapping at his paw]

Ow! Huan, stop it!

 **Captain** : [very stern]

Get back here. You're not slinking out of this.

[Huan does the negative yelp-head toss thing again and starts trying to back up once more]

Huan! _Stay_!

[he lunges up and secures a grip on the Hound's collar, since words aren't working, hauling on the other's neck as the Hound pulls back and then skids a bit, stiff-legged, on the stone floor -- very much like someone contending with a stubborn horse.]

Dammit, you Hellhound! --  _Down_!!! I'm not equal to this, you bloody idiot!

[as everyone else scrambles to not get trampled, Huan gives up abruptly at these words and drops into a crouch, the Captain leaning heavily on him and grimacing in pain and exasperation as he recovers from the struggle]

 **Beren** :

Sir, why --

 **Captain** : [tightly]

Shut up, Beren, you _don't_ understand -- yet.

[to Huan]

I don't care if you're a demi-god, a demon, or King Manwe himself in disguise, Hound, you're going to carry on a civilized conversation while I'm around. You will _not_ go slamming out of here treading on people, and you will not shout and carry on like the Glamhoth if you don't like what's being said. -- Is that understood?

[he shakes Huan's collar once]

 **Huan** :

[repeated pathetic whines]

 **Captain** :

 _Enough_.

[a shocked silence follows -- to Beren]

What? You've owned dogs.

 **Beren** : [faintly]

Yeah, but -- that's _Huan_.

 **Captain** : [edged]

I'm well aware of that, trust me.

[Huan whines again, and Beren instinctively kneels down to comfort him, but the Captain fends him off]

Don't interfere. You'll understand -- all too soon.

[he nods a little and the other Rangers move up, not to restrain Beren but as moral support in what's coming]

 _Huan_.

[the Hound rolls his eyes, but he waits until getting his full attention.]

I'm sorry I called you a Wolf -- that was pain speaking -- but I'm not sorry for calling you a bloody idiot. Now, _calm_ _down_ and behave yourself. I don't like this any more than you do, and it's only going to get worse, I know. But you know you're stuck until you own up, no matter how many times you sneak away.

[Huan whimpers and tries to twist around to lick his hands, but gets another shake for it]

 _Stop_ that. Pity won't make me let you off.

[to the Sea-elf, in a very grim and formal tone:]

\-- Daughter of Alqualonde, self-named Sea-Mew, what complaint bring you against the Hound Huan, for which he shall answer?

[she looks a little wild-eyed, now that it's come to this, but doesn't back down]

 **Teler Maid** :

When Celegorm his master and his master's brothers did join with their father to steal our ships, and used sword and -- shield? -- shield, all with the tools of the hunt, the spear and the bow and the gutting-knife, to slay those who would bar them from the piers, and drive them from their own works by pain and terror -- this Hound was there, with the other Hounds of Orome's gift, in the following of Feanor.

[Huan starts to make some loud noise, and is preemptively checked with a strong pull on his collar]

 **Captain** : [even more grim]

Are you saying, then, that the Lord of Dogs took part, and led his folk to take part, in the assault on your City? That he is guilty as well of the blood of the Kinslaying? For that I have never yet heard said.

[silence, broken only by almost subvocal canine whining]

 **Teler Maid** :

Not of the former -- but yea, of the latter, indeed. For he was there, and stood by, and did naught -- naught! -- either to dissuade his lord, nor his lord's folk, neither to defend us, save to make noise of his distress, and to run to and fro, but what availed that, oh mighty and noble Huan?

[she stares at him, and he cannot meet her eyes, but turns his head away with a small yelp]

 **Captain** : [dispassionate]

What judgment would you have, what recompense, that your accusation is admitted truth?

 **Teler Maid** : [ice]

None. What can give back what is ruined? Life, or honor -- once burnt, they are as lost as any ship. That the truth be admitted is enough. Let _him_ bear the shame, with the knowledge of what was not done, as I have borne the witness of it in my heart all this long time since.

[Huan makes a half-hearted scrabble to get away with his forepaws, but not serious, since the Captain keeps firm hold of his collar and he gives up as soon as it tugs him]

 **Huan** :

[single sharp bark]

 **Captain** :

If I let you go, -- who are you going to go hide behind? There isn't a one of us whose ignorance will protect you from the truth. And it's a hard, cold truth, as hard as the Ice, and no mistake. If you'd come with us at the first, we might not have been taken by Sauron's werewolves, and the King might not have been killed, and Beren wouldn't have had to live with that. Or it might have all gone wrong, and the Terrible One might have fought you and won, and turned out to be the greatest Wolf the world will ever see, and we might have ended up in chains the same, waiting for death with wrists flayed to the bone, knowing that there was no breaking free and unable to stop myself regardless. --  _And_ _you'll_ _never_ _know_.

[he stares intently at the Hound, ignoring everything and everyone else, including Beren's distress and attempt to curl up hiding his face against his knees, thwarted by the Rangers who compel him to accept a sympathetic shoulder instead]

\-- And we _all_ know this, even Beren, even if he's never let himself think about it. And we welcomed you back among us, regardless, for what you _did_ do and the choices you did make, even before we knew the end of the story. If I let you go, Huan, you can vanish, and refuse to face what you didn't do -- worse than fire, isn't it? And none of us, nor even the Lord and Lady of the Halls, can stop you -- not even Lady Nia.

[Huan keens a short, piercing note]

Of course, you'll be abandoning Beren, and failing the trust Himself laid upon you, and turning your back on your own liege lady who's relying on you to look after her lord -- but if you truly want that, want to judge yourself more harshly than any of us, then go --

[he turns the Hound loose with a little shove, sitting back with a frown and watching him closely. Huan continues to hunker there, keening, getting louder with each whine until the hint of a yelp is to be heard at the end, trying to look as small as a horse-sized animal possibly can but still very much visible. Beren pulls away from his friends and stands up, looking down at the miserable Hound, his face a mask of grief.]

 **Beren** : [roughly]

Huan.

 **Huan** : [flinging his head back]

[echoing howl]

[everyone flinches -- the Sea-elf actually covers her ears -- except Beren, who keeps looking at the Lord of Dogs.]

 **Beren** : [voice still ragged]

Come here, boy.

[crawling by pulling himself forward on his elbows, Huan creeps up to Beren and stretches his neck until his head is between the Man's feet, in the most vulnerable and submissive of dog/owner positions, especially for dogs with long floppy ears. Very carefully Beren steps over and kneels down again, putting his arms around Huan's neck and resting his cheek against the top of Huan's own head.]

You're still my good dog. You try to look out for your people, look out, do the right thing, we don't make it easy for you, do we? I know, I know, -- I'm sorry -- I love you too, pup, okay, get up, you're fine --

[as he speaks randomly, almost, crooning reassurances to the Hound, the latter huffs an enormous sigh, carefully and stiffly stretches back and up, and after nosing him gently in the face, goes over to the Captain, still very carefully and in the manner of a dog who's not sure if he's back in everyone's good graces yet.]

 **Captain** : [wry]

Willing to forgive me?

[he reaches out his hand, but before Huan can push his nose under, he catches hold of the Hound's lower jaw and shakes it as Beren did earlier, a gesture not so much of disrespect nor even familiarity but complete trust, as the returning gleam in the Hound's eyes shows. Huan lifts a paw to brush him away, but he lets go first and reaches up to lightly push down the bridge of his muzzle, making the Hound's head nod like a horse's. Huan bounces back like a puppy, stiff-legged on all fours.]

 **Huan** :

[short, joyful barks]

[he turns around in place, wagging his tail with extreme enthusiasm, and makes short little bounds up to the rest of the Ten in turn, looking completely crazed as only a happy dog can. When he comes up to the Elf from Alqualonde, however, he does not receive any such greeting from her:]

 **Teler Maid** : [biting off each syllable]

Stay away from me, Lord of Dogs.

 **Huan** :

[sharp whine]

 **Beren** : [covering the situation]

Hey. Hey! You're being obnoxious, settle down.

[he tugs Huan down on the floor, where the Hound presses up next to him as closely as possible, a little forlorn, but not wretched any more. The Sea-elf does not weaken, even when the Captain gives her a meaningful Look.]

 **Teler Maid** : [coldly]

You are kinder and more gentle of heart than I. For myself, -- I cannot forget, and do not wish to give up my wrath, merely because another justly suffers sorrow for mine own anguish.

 **Youngest Ranger** : [hesitant]

I understand, a little.

[she turns on him, but he keeps going, stronger as he continues:]

It was hard for us all when we found out. About the Kinslaying. My people, I mean, for I wasn't born yet then. Even knowing . . . or believing, rather -- that the King had nothing to do with it -- and couldn't have, one way or the other -- a lot of folks couldn't deal with it. A few tribes who'd never done so in a thousand years, went and gave their allegiance right to the Greycloak instead. Even almost sixty years ago, there were still people in my village who weren't happy when they heard about me wanting to go to the King's War, not just work on the City and study there.

[she looks at him closely]

 **Teler Maid** :

You are one of us.

[he nods]

And yet you are with them.

[everyone nods, not just him]

 _And_ you are a warrior.

 **Ranger** :

One of the best. Better than me.

[his Sindar colleague looks away, abashed, and mutters something unintelligible except for the word "swords"]

Yes, but you know your weak points and work on them and around them.

 **Teler Maid** : [to the Noldor Ranger, narrowing her brows]

 _You_ are conceding that one of us Latecomers is better at any single thing, save for boats, than you?

[he gives her an embarrassed smile]

 **Ranger** :

Stranger things than that have happened, Sea-Mew. -- Not just one thing, either.

 **Captain** :

\-- I don't think that was what she was remarking on, though -- was it, Maiwe?

[she shakes her head, slowly. To the other Teler]

 **Teler Maid** :

You are not foremost in skill with the sword -- but you carry one none the less. And your bow is no light implement for catching marsh-fowl or fish, -- unless it is that ducks and trout in the Old Country have grown very large and fierce since my family left there?

[simultaneously, dead-pan] 

**Beren** : **Youngest Ranger** :

 _Huge_. 

[the Youngest Ranger is indicating with his hands as they speak]

Beren 

\-- Bigger than swans.

 **Teler Maid** :

Which?

 **Beren** :

Both.

 **Youngest Ranger** :

My cousin spent a fortnight wrestling one out of the river, once.

 **Beren** :

No, that was _my_ cousin.

 **Youngest Ranger** :

Are you sure? Perhaps it was its nest-mate.

 **Beren** : [frowning]

I don't think trout _have_ nest-mates, strictly speaking.

 **Youngest Ranger** :

I was talking about a duck.

 **Beren** :

I thought you were talking about your cousin.

 **Ranger** : [snorting, to the other Ranger]

It was _so_ much less annoying for the seven-twelfths of a day that you were too much in awe of The Terror of the Northlands to actually say anything to him.

 **Beren** : [shrugs]

Shouldn't have dropped your whetstone, then.

[the Sea-elf has been regarding them dubiously with a not-altogether successful attempt to keep from smiling]

 **Teler Maid** :

What means _that_? -- Is this yet more of the strangeness of speech that followed on the dividing of our peoples, that you have brought hither with you? 

**Ranger** :

No, I -- was upset and distracted and when we made camp the first night, I dropped my whetstone, and both of _them_ said at once, "Look out, it's trying to rejoin the herd," without knowing the other was about to, and it sort of kept on from there. Turns out that _someone_  --

[nudging his younger colleague]

\-- is a lot less serious and quiet at heart than he ever let on all these years. We now think there's some sort of cultural shift to _silliness_ that goes along with the quesse-parma and sule-thule changes, and that explains much of mortal humour too.

 **Youngest Ranger** : [stiffly]

I was trying to behave appropriately among the High-elves and not embarrass my family for being a yokel. And you're not supposed to elbow a superior officer, I don't think.

 **Ranger** :

We aren't on duty, _Lieutenant_.

 **Youngest Ranger** :

Yes, we are, we're guarding Beren.

 **Ranger** :

But if we're in the field, on duty, and someone spots something, and is right next to another, one _always_ elbows them to get their attention. Because it would be stupid and a waste of time to go through the hand-signals to point out them that there was something they needed to know about, when you're right there. Right?

 **Youngest Ranger** :

Well . . .

 **Teler Maid** : [dryly]

If your theorem is correct, then the condition must come about when you begin to use our dialect as well. But I think it cannot be so, I think it is more a state to be passed from one to the other like damp or paint, for --  

[pointing at the Captain]

\--  _he_ was ever so, and so I can well assure you who did not know him well in Tirion before.

 **Warrior** :

That's why he went native so quickly over there.

 **Captain** :

Really? And here I thought it was the chance to live out-of-doors most ofthe time without being considered completely daft for wanting it. 

**Teler Maid** : [narrowing her eyes]

 _Silly_  -- and most deviously endeavouring to distract me from my questionsand mine outrage. 

**Beren** :

Nope, that was just a useful consequence. Mostly we're kind of upset and stressed right this moment and my people tend to make dumb jokes that some people don't even recognize at times like that.

 **Soldier** :

What was it you were asking, anyway?

 **Teler Maid** :

. . .

 **Beren** :

See? _Useful_  -- but complete coincidence. -- I think she was trying to ask how come we don't just let the violent warmongering Noldor look after all thefighting for us back home.

 **First Guard** :

Well, there weren't enough of us, for starters, not even before the Bragollach.

 **Youngest Ranger** :

And you didn't come along until after we'd already almost lost once and had been fighting for a long time before and after. -- Only not me, because I wasn't born yet then either.

 **Beren** :

And it would just have felt wrong to sit around enjoying ourselves and looking after our stuff, and not helping, when they gave it all to us in the beginning to start with.

 **Teler Maid** :

You said that twice.

 **Beren** :

What?

 **Teler Maid** :

"In the beginning," and "to start with," for those are entirely the same. 

[Beren just shrugs, with a rueful smile]

 **Fourth Guard** :

If you correct Beren every time he says something that sounds weird, you're going to spend an awful lot of time doing it, -- and you'll miss a lot of things you'd have done better to hear. Oh, and _you've_ changed the subject this time. 

[pause]

 **Teler Maid** :

You are all ganged up against me.

 **Captain** : [reasonable]

On the contrary. _You_ are all against _us_ , and have driven us back together.

 **Teler Maid** :

But there are many of you, and only one of me!

 **Captain** :

And -- ? Still all of you, right?

[pause]

 **Teler Maid** :

Cease this! You are making me laugh, to think of you mighty warriors fleeing before me like a school of fish before a dolphin.

 **Captain** :

Oh, not fleeing -- but definitely at bay.

[he pats the stone next to him, inviting her to sit down again]

 **Teler Maid** : [glaring at Huan]

I am still much wroth with him.

 **Beren** : [nodding, reasonably]

Yeah, that figures. I bet you will be for a long time.

[he thumps Huan's withers gently as he speaks, and the Hound sighs]

 **Teler Maid** : [frowning at him]

You are not quite so ill-favoured as first I had thought, though indeed very untidy and unkempt.

[he raises his eyebrows at that]

But of that -- a great part is your devotion to your friends, even in despite of me, and for all that I am unfriends with them. I am much confused, for it seems me that I should like you less, that you defend the lords Edrahil and Huan counter to me -- and yet it inclines me to your part.

 **Beren** :

Um. Okay. I --

[sees behind her the Steward returning, alone]

\-- heh, guess we'll test it out some more.

[she senses the Steward's presence at almost the same moment and turns, tensing up very obviously, with a flicker like wind going through her visible manifestationas though she were about to disappear again, but changed her mind. He sees her amoment later, and looks if possible more drained and disheartened than a momentago, but resolutely comes up to them. Huan whines in a distraught way, but quietly enough not to be obnoxious.]

 **Steward** : [hesitantly]

The Hour's joy to thee, Maiwe.

 **Teler Maid** : [brittle]

There are no hours here, milord.

 **Steward** :

I know. But I could not remember any other of the old greetings that should be fitting.

 **Teler Maid** :

Why, do you hold _that_ one fitting, then?

 **Steward** :

No.

 **Teler Maid** : [caustic]

What then, you'd not have me joyful?

[he starts to say something, cannot, gesturing -- the Captain breaks in, rescuing]

 **Captain** :

\-- What passed with his father? And how?

 **Steward** :

Much, and ill, yet not so ill as might have been.

 **Captain** :

How did Lord Finarfin take it?

 **Steward** :

Badly -- yet, again, not so ill as he might. He --

[breaks off]

 **Captain** :

Yes?

 **Steward** :

He was far kinder to me than he wished to be, -- or than I merited.

 **Warrior** : [quietly]

Not true, sir.

 **Captain** :

Is he coming back again, or does he return to the council with their Lordships?

 **Steward** : [shrugs]

As to that, he knew no more than I or you, himself. He would walk longer, and think --

[the Sea-elf is getting more and more tense at each exchange, until she finally snaps.]

 **Teler Maid** : [fiercely]

Will you now again pretend I am not present, that you are among your friends, and do not know why I am hither even as I did come hence with you?

[all of them stare at her]

I tell you, I shall not longer be quiet! No, not though you should mock at my fashion of speech, nor yet be silent when your companions do so! 

**Captain** : [mildly exasperated]

Maiwe, _none_ of us here is going to say anything about your accent. Firstly, we're not Maglor's following,and none of us ever did, at the House or anywhere else, and second, we've been speaking Telerin, the way they do in the Old Country, practically since we left Aman.

[gesturing at the Youngest Ranger]

One of us _is_ Teler, for that matter, you do recall.

 **Beren** :

'Sides which, he hardly even blinks when _I_ say things, and my accent's way stronger than yours.

 **Teler Maid** : [frowning]

That is true.

[glowering even more]

You would dissuade me from my anger!

 **Beren** :

Um -- yeah.

 **Teler Maid** :

I tell you you will not!

 **Beren** :

But you're not really angry with _him_.

 **Teler Maid** :

What?

 **Beren** :

You're angry with the guy who left you without even saying good-bye. But this isn't him any more. So he doesn't deserve to be treated the same way.

 **Teler Maid** :

What nonsense is this? But of course he is the same who left this shore!

 **Beren** :

Not exactly, just on account of being dead. But more important, from what you were saying, the Elf you knew wouldn't have put his life on the front lines to try to help an Aftercomer like me. So because youdidn't recognize him in that description, he can't be the same person.

 **Teler Maid** :

If not he, then who is to blame for it? If it is not he who belittled me, and stood by while others belittled me, then how is it that he does remember it and admit to it?

 **Beren** : [agreeable]

Okay. But you're talking to him like he's gonna do it again, when five hundred years ago --

[checks]

\-- Whoa. Five hundred years of being angry. _Definite_ disadvantage to being immortal. Anyway --

[shaking his head in disbelief]

\-- five hundred yearsago, when you were both alive he wouldn't have admitted that it was his fault, right? So you both admit that there's something different about you now. Right? Besides being dead.

 **Teler Maid** :

You are giving to me a headache.

 **Beren** :

Nope, just sharing.

[she snorts angrily]

 **Steward** : [very quiet and carefully]

I'm sorry, Maiwe. You were not pleased to have me greet you, and the matter we were speaking of did not concern you, and for that, and for the second, and for the fact that I am much distracted by it, I did not think to include you in the discussing of it.

 **Teler Maid** : [raising her voice]

Ah, _now_ you will call me and use mine own name, but to quiet my dissatisfaction and defer my anger at your disrespect!

 **Steward** : [baffled]

Did you not demand that I acknowledge your chosen-name?

 **Teler Maid** :

Must you ask? or are you but speaking in twists to snare me in a net and make me contradict me for your satisfaction? I know this dance, _milord_!

 **Steward** : [crystal-clear emphasis]

 _How_ would you have me bespeak you, then? How might I address you, that will not awake either your wrath or your suspicion of mockery or of manipulation? --  _What_ _should_ _I_ _do_?

[she flings her hands out in a wild frustrated gesture]

 **Teler Maid** :

Nothing. _Nothing_ at all. -- I wish I had not known you were dead! I wish I might not have to know it now, and then I might have peace yet!

[she spins about and starts to walk off -- not, however, vanishing]

 **Steward** : [loud enough for her to hear]

And I the same.

[she does not turn nor answer, but stops at the closest pillar and leans against it, hiding her face, her posture both furious and forlorn. He bows his head, accepting her rejection -- but his friends don't.]

 **Captain** :

Go over and embrace her, you idiot!

 **Steward** :

She doesn't want to have anything to do with me. You heard --

 **Beren** :

\-- If she didn't want you to go say something, she wouldn't be staying around waiting for you to do it.

 **Soldier** :

He's right, sir.

 **Steward** : [bleak]

I should be most surprised if she did not strike me for the effrontery of such a gesture.

 **Beren** : [uncompromising]

From what she and you said -- you deserve it.

 **Soldier** :

He's right about that, too, sir.

[the Steward looks at them, sighs, then braces himself and goes over to where the Sea-elf is standing beside the column.]

 **Steward** :

Maiwe.

[she does not answer -- he puts his hands on her shoulders, leaning over her a little]

Sea-Mew, please hear --

[in a flash she turns and shoves him hard, flinging him away and back with such violence that he stumbles and falls to his knees, not trying to catch himself]

 **Teler Maid** :

How dare you! How _dare_ you think that you might come and call me after all that's passed, and I to answer to your song like an errant breeze charmed to your sail, for so long as you fancy my small strength to buoy your spirits, and then forget, or shun me, when stronger winds lure you to higher, swifter joys! No, I say, I will not be yours to disdain ever again!

[he does not answer]

"Maiwe," you say now, but do you not remember the times in Tirion when your friends would make jibing turn upon the word, and you allow it, or do the same even, that I was but a whining beggar, _shrilling_ for your attention? How you should urge me to take some finer name, as I would not yield to your wish that I should give up my own House's way, to take a name when we should come of age, of that beast or bird most near to our own hearts? And would not hear me when I told you Swan and Heron were not for me, but only the dancing gull that silvers all the air?

 **Steward** : [quietly]

I remember.

 **Teler Maid** :

Would you now caress me, that would ever turn from me when I would take your hand and walk beside, nor let me set my arm about your waist when we were anywhere but Lady Earwen's halls, and did I make so bold, you may likewise hold in memory, then would you walk along the streets and square with such long and great strides that I must ever hasten to keep pace with you, nor might we talk, for the haste of your going no less than the silent trouble of your mind -- else you should grip my hand so fast that I take pain of it, nor ever admit that there was aught of deliberation in it, nor failing saving of mine own weakness?

 **Steward** : [not looking away, in the same low-voiced manner throughout]

Yes.

 **Teler Maid** :

Do you not recall how you disdained my gift to you, that I had gathered all of myself, and fashioned by my hands, and crude it was, perhaps, but my Lady praised it and thought it fine, and when I gave it you, you frowned, and but said that no bard should wear a wristlet, for that the beads would strike against the sounding-board, or 'gainst the strings, and so I should have known, nor asked me to fashion of it but armlet or collar that I would have done, had you but spoke the least, the _least_ word of pleasure at my gift! Not so many pearls did I scatter that Hour in the gardens as I did tears --

 **Steward** :

I do recall.

 **Teler Maid** : [tossing her head]

But what should _I_ know of music, that did but sing simple songs, knowing naught of the forms and sciences of it, the modes and mathematics and the harmonics of the heavens that should order all? What was my melody, made but on a reed pipe, that I did cut with mine own knife and give back to the water when it had served its time, but the whistle of the wild breeze in the grasses and no art at all, rough and unshaped as the winds or my namesake's cry? But a buzzing, as of the blue-black shore bee, a silliness to divert children at their skipping -- or so did one say, who would be known as harper full great as his reverenced companion was at song! Do you not remember him, and the words he said one twilight Hour, when I would have given a tune to the Silver One?

 **Steward** :

That, as well.

 **Teler Maid** : [jeering]

No more to say than that? Where is your skillful debate, to set me at a loss, and make all my thoughts and words seem but the chattering of a tiny babe, and turn my sorrow and my righteous anger into folly before all these your friends, as ever did?

 **Steward** :

Against the shafts of truth there is no shield strong enough, nor mail fine enough, to withstand its pangs. Be it enough that I can answer you at all, for even that is almost beyond my enduring. Knowing what has befallen you, and what part I had in it, is grief enough I think to kill me, were I yet living.

[long pause]

 **Teler Maid** : [slowly, softly]

I wanted to see you before me humbled and broken-hearted, as I have wept over your coldness to me. And now I have my wish -- and -- I do not much care to have it.

[she makes a slight, half-turning motion, looking briefly at the rest of the Ten, and then away into the shadows, poised as if about to take flight]

 **Beren** : [approaching them, carefully]

Don't.

[she gives him a sharp glance as he comes to stand protectively over the Noldor shade, guarding, yet without projecting any menace towards her.]

Don't run away again. It's _not_ gonna help. Trust me on that.

 **Teler Maid** : [returning to the fray with a vengeance]

And what, pray, shall help? _Words_ , that he has ever used to tangle me and bind me into such confusion that I might not speak, or _silence_ , that left me becalmed and moorless and far from harbor, finding no way to follow him nor homeward fly instead? I am no fool, I know how it shall end, as ever it did, with my self alone and in tears and a fool in the sight of all for loving him!

 **Beren** :

You wanted him to be someone else. And he is. But now you have to deal with this Edrahil, not the old one.

 **Teler Maid** :

For what shall I trust this change, that I shall risk my heart again, as in past Day, to find that it should last only until we again should leave my Lady's House for other halls?

 **Beren** :

Because you're not a fool. Because _I'm_ here, and you know how much that means by way of changes, because you said so. Besides, what have you got to lose?

[silence]

 **Teler Maid** :

Mine own valuing, that I be not the same poor silly child that could not help but cling to one who loved me not.

 **Beren** :

But you do still love him, so that's just an illusion you're holding on to.

 **Teler Maid** :

But I did promise myself that I never again should yield so!

 **Beren** : [wry]

Did you swear an oath?

[she gives him a puzzled look]

How much is that worth to you?

[he lifts his wrist]

Your hand? Your life? --  _Forever_? Pride's a damned expensive prize. _I_ _know_.

[she looks away, then sidelong at the Steward, before meeting Beren's gaze again]

What have you got to gain by risking it? -- 'Cause that's the question.

[long pause]

 **Teler Maid** : [very softly]

I am not sure . . .  _I_ _am_ _not_ _sure_  --

 **Beren** :

You came back . . . I think you're brave enough to find out.

[she looks at the rest of the Ten, doubtfully and very defensive, to find that all of them are troubled, anxious, and none of them enjoying her discomfiture at all.]

 **Teler Maid** : [to the Steward, suddenly]

It is said by sundry and by all that you are no longer the same proud, vain soul that was so uncaring to me when we were yet alive. Perhaps 'tis true -- yet there is this as well that you have likely not to thought of, that _I_ might not care for this stranger that you have returned, that bears your same name. What of that, my lord? What say you to that chance of a chance?

[pause]

 **Steward** : [with the merest hint of his normal manner]

I'll chance it.

[they lock stares]

 **Teler Maid** : [suddenly very sad and quiet in turn]

Perhaps it shall be the other way about, and it is _he_ who shall not care now for one who stayed perforce and by her will to stay and never see the changes of the world nor to take part in any of their making, but only to hide in shadow --

 **Steward** :

No chance of that.

[she stares at him, warily, for another long moment]

 **Teler Maid** : [sharply again]

 _One_ chance you shall have, Edrahil, for I cannot spare you any more than that, to prove your change of heart, that before your friends and mine -- but more yours than mine! -- you will not be ashamed of me, nor wish me changed, nor silent, nor away.

[abruptly she turns back and takes a place by the waterfall, next to the edge of the spill pool, closest to the Sindarin Ranger, and waits with a very challenging expression as the Steward accepts Beren's (unnecessary) help to rise.]

 **Beren** : [undertone, but intense]

Whoo boy, this is not good --

 **Steward** : [as quietly]

How many chances does one require? _If_ one does not fail.

[he doesn't exactly sound cheerful, but . . . ]

 **Beren** :

This isn't a fair setup.

 **Steward** :

Such is the way of the world.

[still leaning on Beren's shoulder, he goes back and sits down beside the Captain, who presses the flask of miruvor on him without objection. Huan slinks over from where he was lying and drops down behind them, rather absurdly trying to keep as much of himself hidden from the Sea-elf's angle as possible.]

 **Teler Maid** :

Now. -- Tell me about the world, and what it is like in these days, and the other Children who dwell in it now, and your War against the traitor-god, and everything else I am ignorant of -- !


	103. Act 4: SCENE IV.xi

[Elsewhere -- the empty area of shadows, in which the semblance of a gated archway has appeared again.]

[Finrod is standing in front of it, addressing the unseen someone through the lattice, in a concluding-business manner.]

 **Finrod** :

Thank you again for hearing me out. I won't say you'll not regret it -- but I promise you'll find it worth your trouble.

[the gate fades away completely once more, but he does not seem discouraged as he turns to leave.]


	104. Act 4: SCENE IV.xii

[Elsewhere: the counsel chamber]

[the dynamics have changed again -- this time it is the Lord of the Hunt who is going at it animatedly with the Elven members of the group, living and dead, while his colleagues look on.]

 **Ambassador** : [earnestly]

But it is not the _same_ , my Lord. It may indeed be better, here -- but it is not what we are used to.

 **Orome** :

And? _Reason_ considers the objective values of each circumstance and judges between them on _that_ basis. _Alone_.

[to Aule]

Right?

[scowling at the Middle-earthers]

\--  _Not_ on the basis of sentimentality and a hidebound reluctance to embrace change.

 **Luthien** :

Then _you_ could have all just moved back, couldn't you?

[silence]

 **Vaire** : [sighing]

You don't seriously think that people are going to be able to just leave everything they've built and pack up and go to the other side of the world again just like that?

 **Luthien** :

Oh, come on!

 **Ambassador** : [quietly]

Princess, regardless of the validity of your views, you do yourself and them no service by this incivility and uneducated language.

[aside]

And you make _us_ look bad, as well.

[she snorts and folds her arms angrily, giving him a sidelong Look]

 **Nerdanel** :

Nay, but 'tis but truth: our parents needs must make shift unto the same, even as -- I _deem_  -- Melian's daughter would declare. Her question -- if I do interpret aright -- is not without all reason, wherefore it should behoove us better to remove hither, than ye to remove hence.

 **Luthien** :

I really don't see whatthe difficulty is. After all, that's what Mom did.

 **Vaire** :

Your mother had nothing tying her to Valinor, dear.

 **Irmo** : [aside]

Except for a job. But -- pfft -- what's _that_ matter? You don't even need to tell people you're not coming back -- they'll figure it out eventually, after all!

 **Luthien** :

After all, if that had been the case then there wouldn't be any Return, because we would all be here --

[checks]

I mean, _there_  -- anyhow, there wouldn't have been any Kinslaying or any reason for people to treat each other differently, because we'd all be the same.

 **Ambassador** :

I fear you're being overly optimistic, my Princess.

 **Aule** : [with a disbelieving smile, ironic]

And what about the _Trees_? It isn't as though my wife could have made Them over again, and They were a little -- just a trifle --  _large_ to dig up and transplant like chrysanthemums.

 **Luthien** :

We did _fine_ without Them.

[to her compatriot, not waiting for agreement]

Right?

[very patronizingly to the Smith]

\-- They could have stayed here, and you could have remade the Lamps there, if you wanted.

 **Namo** : [adamant]

 _No_.

 **Aule** :

There were --  _serious_ design flaws -- in the Lamps. The risks --

[Luthien interrupts again; Aule's Assistant rolls his eyes]

 **Luthien** :

\-- But there was only a risk because Morgoth was out-and-about, and since he was locked up then it would have been safe, right -- who _else_ was going to try to get at them?

 **Irmo** : [patiently]

Well, as a matter of fact, there _was_ Ungoliant. We didn't know about her at the time, of course. But dangers one is unaware of are not non-existent --

 **Luthien** :

\-- Don't talk down to me!

 **Irmo** :

Then don't ignore the obvious. You --

[shaking his head]

You're acting as though none of these sorts of problems ever came up in discussions, as though they _never_ would have crossed our minds until you suggested them.

 **Luthien** :

Well, make them sturdier, or -- put some sort of covers on, or barriers about them, or something. A solution _could_ have been found.

[Aule covers a smile; the Weaver leans over and whispers to her husband]

 **Vaire** :

Is this reminding you of anyone we know?

[he nods briefly, inspecting the contents of his cup as an alternative to the debate]

 **Luthien** : [gesturing widely]

It's not critical anyway, we didn't need them -- we didn't need anything besides the stars.

 **Irmo** : [raising his hand in turn]

There are all kinds of issues that -- we could spend _decades_ considering them in-depth -- where to set up, the distance from the Sea, the transportation issues of bringing all of our work and re-establishing it in Middle-earth again -- the not-inconsiderable emotional effects of returning to a place of such mixed memories -- these Halls themselves -- just to begin with a few.

 **Luthien** : [with a dismissive shrug]

Something could have been figured out. It would have saved so much trouble.

 **Nerdanel** :

Nay, 'tis not so simple of a matter as wouldst make it. Manifold and deeply-meshed as the ore ere it is smelted be the elements of these our Kindreds' difficulties, and eke that is changed doth change a dozen other of diverse sort, and eke in own turn still more, so that in end _what_ _was_ should be so changed that none might guess how had it befallen from the first, that be but one change and that but slight -- and each various end bring both ill and good in company, and what serveth one should disservice render to another, or harm, else displeasure. -- Thy mother and father should have been more glad, had thy true-love ne'er crossed thy path, and they have suffered even of the same cause that thou hast taken joy, and thou as well joy and sorrow at once hath found, and shalt thou -- or any -- sever the twain?

 **Luthien** : [calm]

That's because they were stupid.

[the Ambassador winces]

If they hadn't been _selfish_ _idiots_ , nobody would have suffered. We could have been happy, and everything would have been all right for everyone, not just us. Instead, they started a chain of events that's killed I don't know _how_ many people so far and made even _more_ people miserable. It's their own fault, and it isn't complicated at all.

 **Nerdanel** : [very quietly]

And yet -- thy lord is mortal.

[Luthien ignores this, though her chin goes up a little more]

 **Ambassador** : [sighing]

Highness, Highness, you _know_ it is more complex than mere folly. You know that your father's Sight long forewarned him that disaster and trouble should attend the coming of humans into our lands, that your mother has contended with encroaching Doom for Ages, and you know your parents' wisdom is to credit for our realm's ancient safety and prosperity. Why should he -- or we -- misdoubt any of his forebodings, nor make light of the risks that Men should pose? Were not the doubts he held of our foreign kin most sadly proven well-founded?

[she doesn't answer; everyone in the room looks a little grimmer at that]

Then why should they not deem it so that --  _he_  -- should be the fulfilment of that dark vision, and his beguiling of you, my lady, the catastrophe your father so long ago Foresaw? b 

**Orome** :

That's a good argument right there against having that information just out there. People make bad decisions based on incomplete data and set in motion events that are far beyond their ability to control. If Elwe had just stuck with the plan, and brought everyone here, we wouldn't be dealing with this mess.

 **Luthien** :

But if we had all just stayed in Middle-earth then it wouldn't have mattered, because then mortals would simply have come along when it was their time just like the Naugrim and there wouldn't have been any reason to be suspicious and none of the troubles that followed would have happened. 

**Ambassador** :

Once more I must declare I think that a far-from-warranted assumption, my lady.

 **Irmo** : [frustrated]

There are two distinct problems that you're conflating and that's creating _chaos_. One is whether or not we should have brought, or tried to bring, your people here to a defensible place and a place of safety. Which it _is_ , by every possible standard of comparison. There have been _three_ instances of murder, in Aman, all connected, in all of recorded history. The number of deaths at Alqualonde --

[raising his hand, giving his brother a meaningful Look]

\-- I'm _not_ minimizing them, I'm just being _accurate_  -- do not _begin_ to approach the tallies of those killed in Beleriand _before_ Morgoth ever returned. -- Needless deaths, which would _not_ have happened had your father carried out his obligations instead of tarrying to seduce your mother and leave your people to fend for themselves --

 **Luthien** : [hotly]

\-- That isn't what happened!

 **Irmo** : [keeping going]

The other problem is whether or not we should have informed you of the fact that you were not intended to be alone in the world and that other sentient life-forms would eventually appear on the central land-mass, which is an _entirely_ different topic, despite the efforts of --

[giving Nerdanel a troubled glance]

\--  _various_ parties to connect them in discussion.

 **Nerdanel** : [didactic]

Thou knowest I do hold and ever have, that yon long-made choice to withhold counsel from our kindreds concerning the coming of the Secondborn was grievous error, nor without some part in the cause of my husband's festering madnesses. Ye should ne'er have left unto the Dark Lord that knowledge to convey, and impart withal the taint of his own jealousy.

 **Aule** : [creasing his brows]

No, 'Danel, I'm afraid I can't remember you saying that . . . more than, oh, six or seven thousand times this Age.

 **Irmo** : [admonitory]

That sort of sarcasm is _very_ inappropriate, you do realize?

 **Nerdanel** : [smiling]

Nay, but we of his Following are well used unto his ways, my Lord --

 **Luthien** : [cutting her off, to the Lord of Dreams]

\--  _Who_ was being sarcastic about my mother just a few minutes ago?

 **Vaire** :

Luthien. Would you _please_ stop interrupting like that?

[Luthien subsides with a very bad grace]

 **Orome** :

It wouldn't have become an issue anyway, if he had _stayed_ locked up.

 **Irmo** : [leaning forward, very definite and stern]

We _don't know_ that.

 **Orome** : [snorting]

 _How_ could it have been an issue? _How_? You tell me.

 **Aule** : [steepling his fingers]

Developments in better scrying technology.

 **Irmo** :

The fact that no one had Seen the Secondborn yet proves nothing about whether or not anyone _would_ have Seen them eventually, either.

 **Assistant** :

Or that the curious might have made eastward expeditions in time without, or with, Feanor's involvement, my Lord.

 **Luthien** : [caustic]

 _We_ would have known, as soon as humans turned up. Once you meet someone it's sort of difficult to keep on _not_ knowing they exist.

 **Assistant** : [dryly]

Highness, -- do you not think it might be fitting to show oh, at least as much respect to a Power here as you do at home?

[the Lord of the Hunt fights back a grin]

 **Orome** :

Oh, trust me, she is.

 **Ambassador** : [hoping against hope]

You were not _really_ this rude to your lady mother -- ?

 **Luthien** :

. . .

 **Nerdanel** : [dauntingly]

So much of empty breeze is this talk. I stand in great amaze, noble ones, that _any_ yet should yet aver, that darkness of intellect should be preferred, e'en but in fancy and conjecture, as conducible to light and peace -- when manifestly hath it been far otherwise! 

**Aule** : [patient]

'Danel, we're just talking hypotheticals. Discussing possibilities _is_ casting light on them, don't you agree --

 **Luthien** : [frowning]

What _are_ chrysanthemums? Are they something new?

 **Namo** : [aside to his wife as the debate spirals on]

There are _many_ reasons why I'm hoping they track down that rogue soon.

 **Vaire** : [mock reproach]

That's hardly fair, darling.

 **Namo** :

Oh, I'll need you to coordinate operations. A perfectly legitimate reason to adjourn for a while.

 **Vaire** : [smiling briefly]

It won't make the problem go away, you know --

[she flinches as the Hunter pounds on the arm of his chair to reinforce a point]

\-- Tav -- !

 **Orome** : [not hearing her]

 _All_ _right_. -- All right. If that's what you want we can go through _every_ _single_ _reason_ for and against --

[the Doomsman, sighing, reaches up to snap his fingers again, filling the room with a blinding burst of light . . . ]


	105. Act 4: SCENE IV.xiii

[the Hall]

[beside the waterfall -- the Ten are gathered in a loose circle, at ease, though not entirely careless: there is a wary attention both to the shadows around and to the latest addition to the company, who is seated among them with only a slightly-less hostile and confrontative demeanor. Beren is on her left, on the other side of the Teler Ranger, and Huan is curled up behind the Captain and the Steward, (who are using him for a backrest) with his nose between his paws, though his expression betrays the fact that he is paying attention to the conversation. The Sea-elf is looking across the circle at her ex with rather a critical tilt to her head.]

 **Teler Maid** : [to the Steward, wonderingly]

I do not think I have ever heard you be silent for so long.

 **Steward** : [nods]

It is -- most awkward to engage in a conversation when the matter of it is one's own praises.

 **Teler Maid** : [acerbic]

I do recollect it never troubled you before, that you should be hailed amidst your peers, and those you'd have hold you as such. -- And what's more: since when is "madly fixed upon every least detail unto the weight of a single grain," a word of praise?

 **Third Guard** : [breaking in]

\-- Since it meant the difference between life and death to an awful lot of families, my own included.

 **Soldier** :

And not just ours, but the High King's following as well.

 **Third Guard** :

That's what I said.

 **Soldier** :

Oh. That's right, you were with them originally, weren't you? I'd forgotten.

 **Teler Maid** : [turning sharply on him]

Are _you_ a Kinslayer, then?

 **Third Guard** :

No. We were with Lord Turgon and their father, not his siblings.

[pause]

 **Teler Maid** : [darkly]

I could almost wish it were so that one might speak untruth here, that I might deny you.

[Beren leans forward to get her attention]

 **Beren** : [chiding]

Hey. You want to take your anger out on someone, yell at me, why don't you?

 **Teler Maid** :

But _you_ were not party to it -- you were not even born yet, then.

 **Beren** :

Doesn't seem to make much of a difference to most folks, so far. But that's my point.

[she scowls at him]

 **Teler Maid** :

I do not like you so well now.

 **Beren** : [shrugs]

Sorry.

 **Teler Maid** : [distracted]

\-- How do you manage without your hand?

 **Beren** :

Not too good.

 **Teler Maid** :

\-- Do you not mean "well" -- ?

 **Beren** : [shrugging again]

That too.

[as he answers she catches herself, guiltily, and gives a quick look over in hopes that the Steward hasn't noticed. No luck, though he does not say anything and looks down at once; she glares hard at him and crosses her arms in defensive defiance. The Youngest Ranger taps her elbow, and nods meaningfully towards the mortal.]

 **Youngest Ranger** : [not meanly, though]

You want to really drive yourself mad -- and everyone else for good measure -- try counting how many different ways he's got for saying _yes_ that aren't the word "yes." 

[pause]

 **Teler Maid** : [stiffly]

I am sorry, Lord Beren. I ought not to make a fellow guest to feel unwelcome here.

 **Beren** : [terse, staring straight in front of him]

\-- Wouldn't be the first, won't be the last.

 **Captain** :

Beren.

 **Beren** : [abashed, bows his head]

Sorry.

[to the Elven girl]

\-- S'okay.

[she looks away, still annoyed, and gives a quick glance at the Captain before addressing the Steward again:]

 **Teler Maid** :

 _He_ said you did not treat me well when we were both alive.

[the Steward sighs, nodding]

You are not angry at that?

 **Steward** : [bemused]

For what should I be angry? It is no more than the truth.

 **Teler Maid** :

You were not always so easy with the notion that you might possess them -- far less to hear any chronicling of your faults.

 **Steward** :

That too, I cannot deny.

[pause -- very reluctantly]

You do ill, Maiwe, to seek to make division between us.

[she tosses her head and looks away, obstinate]

 **Captain** : [shrewd]

Do you think it betrayal by me, this friendship of ours, of _yours_?

[she does not answer]

But that was our friendship's foundation, Murrelet.

 **Teler Maid** : [challenging]

 _How_?

 **Captain** :

That he should talk of you to one that knew you well, and speak of how ill he'd treated you to one who'd not gainsay him.

 **Teler Maid** : [still very skeptical]

Why?

 **Captain** : [looking to the Steward]

\-- Shall you, or shall I?

[the other raises his hands in a resigned gesture]

 **Steward** :

 _You_ will enjoy it far more.

 **Captain** : [shaking his head tolerantly]

\-- For one who'd have been a bard, you've a curious distaste for telling stories.

 **Steward** :

Only mine own.

 **Captain** :

 _And_ those you're involved with.

 **Steward** : [with a cool Look]

That is what I said, is it not?

 **Captain** :

Not exactly, no.

 **Steward** : [still more acridly]

On the contrary: if I was involved, even on the periphery, then it is to however small a degree _my_ story as well.

 **Captain** :

Well, by that principle, then everything that ever happened involved you, for if you weren't present, someone known to you was, or related to you, or it had some consequence direct or indirect upon your life. Therefore I maintain my assertion, that you are _signally_ unfond of recounting tales.

 **Steward** : [iy patience]

You are, as usual, exaggerating grossly again.

 **Captain** : [leaning back against Huan with a smug grin]

\-- Never.

[long pause, during which the Teler girl stares at them in wide-eyed disbelief]

 **Steward** : [sighing heavily]

Go on, finish the story -- or begin it, indeed.

 **Captain** : [shaking his head]

Oh no, clearly you'd rather correct my speaking than hear me speak, so I'll be silent.

[pause]

 **Steward** :

No. _No_. It is entirely too twisted for you to compel me to beg you to humiliate me in public. One _must_ draw the line somewhere.

[his friend only smiles innocently, and says nothing]

\-- My Lady, if you're attending, your help would be most welcome now!

 **Captain** :

The thing about _help_ is, you don't get to say how it comes, you know.

 **Steward** :

Shut _up_.

 **Captain** :

Absolutely.

[the other, after a visibly-jaw-grinding moment, raises his hands in capitulation and asks:]

 **Steward** :

Would you then be so kind as to answer this gentle's question that I might be spared the painful necessity of doing so myself? -- This is utterly _wrong_.

 **Captain** : [cheerfully]

All right.

[he sits up straight again and prepares to go on, while the Steward leans his forehead on his hand -- but is interrupted by the Sea-elf, who is too shocked almost for words:]

 **Teler Maid** :

But -- but -- he is not _angry_ with you?

 **Youngest Ranger** :

That's just their way. They've been doing it since before I was born.

 **Teler Maid** : [skeptical]

In truth?

 **Beren** :

Oh yeah. Apparently generations of my relatives on both sides of my family used to regularly lose bets to these guys --

[gesturing at the rest of the Ten]

\-- expecting one of those two was going to haul off and hit the other, and they never did, of course.

 **Teler Maid** :

Bets?

 **Beren** :

Er, _wagers_?

[she shakes her head]

 **Teler Maid** :

I do not understand the notion.

 **Beren** : [helpless]

Oh.

 **Youngest Ranger** :

It's when you don't know what will happen, and so you make a promise with someone else that if it falls out one way, you will give them something valuable, but if it falls out the other way, _they_ will give you something valuable instead.

 **Teler Maid** : [puzzled]

Why?

[he shrugs, embarrassed and unable to explain better]

 **Second Guard** :

It makes things more interesting that way.

 **Teler Maid** :

I do not see how.

[uninterested in the subject, to Beren:]

Where are your kinfolk?

 **Beren** : [taken aback]

Uh -- dead, mostly.

 **Teler Maid** :

But they are not here?

[completely thrown by this question, Beren looks around at the others for help]

 **Captain** :

Mortals don't abide here, Sea-Mew. But surely that's known to all in the Halls, certainly after the Bragollach?

 **Teler Maid** : [shrugging]

Mayhap. But I have not cared to attend much to all that's said or done herewith.

[to Beren]

Then for what are you here? I had thought you must be the first of the Secondborn.

 **Beren** : [starting to get agitated]

\-- No. Not by a long shot.

 **Teler Maid** :

But then why are you yet here? Or do you but ignore my questions as was _his_ wont?

 **Beren** : [increasingly distressed]

No. I -- I'm not supposed to be here. It's this big mess.

[on his other side the Warrior grips his shoulder, deeply anxious -- Beren answers the unspoken question through set teeth:]

\-- I'm okay. Really.

 **Teler Maid** : [total frustration]

But _why_  -- ?

 **Captain** : [half plea, half exasperation]

Maiwe --

 **Beren** :

Because I'm trying to stay with my wife.

 **Teler Maid** :

But --

[the realization takes place]

She is one of us . . . ?!?

[he nods, once]

But --

[she trails off, her brow furrowing]

 **Beren** : [very dry]

Believe me, I don't think there's a variant of "What on the gods' green earth does she see in you?" that I haven't heard yet.

 **Teler Maid** : [shaking her head 

That was not what I would say, only -- I do not know _what_ I would say. There are too many things, I think, that I must know to ask what I must know!

[she pushes back her hair with both hands and lets them fall in a gesture of resigned dismay]

I did not comprehend that it should be so new upon you, nor that yours should such a different matter prove, else I'd not have pressed you so hard for answer. I shall not more, for I like it little when others do ask me hard questions I would not answer.

 **Beren** :

Thanks.

 **Teler Maid** : [worried]

Are you much angered with me?

 **Beren** : [gently]

No.

 **Teler Maid** :

I do like you, truly, I do believe.

[at this admission the Youngest Ranger stops glowering between them; abruptly she turns back to her original question:]

So, then, tell me -- how _did_ it happen that you should happen to talk of his unmannerliness to me?

 **Captain** :

It's a long story --

 **Fourth Guard** :

\-- but not _that_ long, don't worry.

[Beren gives an exaggerated sigh of relief]

 **Teler Maid** : [affronted]

You do jeer at me again.

 **Captain** :

No, we're teasing Beren this time.

 **Fourth Guard** :

Or he's teasing us.

 **Teler Maid** : [wary]

Then which, pray tell, is it?

 **Beren** :

Oh, definitely _both_. -- Probably.

 **Teler Maid** :

Now you do tease me indeed.

[she can almost completely keep from smiling]

 **Beren** : [blandly]

Could be.

[she makes a dismissive gesture, rolling her eyes, and turns back to the Captain]

 **Teler Maid** :

Was that before or after he shot you?

[the Steward grimaces, covering his face]

 **Captain** : [shaking his head]

He didn't shoot me, Curlew, not by accident or purpose. He simply ignored my warning and ventured into a dangerous situation.

 **Teler Maid** :

Then whence came you to mischance?

 **Captain** :

We were riding escort, and that's what the job entails, dangerous or not.

[there are looks exchanged among the Ten]

 **Ranger** : [reluctant]

Er, sir --

 **Steward** : [irritable]

If you insist upon telling it, then tell it properly, at least!

 **Captain** :

Yes, but by that you mean painting yourself in as bad a light as possible.

 **Steward** :

I mean leaving out no pertinent detail.

 **Captain** :

Very well, I'll do my best, though you'll not be pleased of course. -- The reason we were riding to a parley with minions of the Enemy was that against my counsel (but not mine alone, I wasn't as senior at that point, but all of us with much field experience thought it a bad idea, not myself merely) he had persuaded our lords to permit him to respond, saying that as it was then known (or at least rumored through his contacts among House Feanor's following) that the ill-fated parley had gone wrong because the Noldor side had gone with far more than their promised number in hopes of taking the Enemy's emissaries as hostages, and broken faith first, it wasn't certain that negotiations were truly out of the question, as a good-faith attempt had never been undertaken.

 **Teler Maid** : [shrewdly]

But was not Melkor given his freedom in good faith, and did break that faith, ere ever you reached the other shore?

 **Captain** :

Did I say I thought it a good idea? _I_ didn't, many of those who had seen combat didn't, none of those who were born in the Old Country, veterans or not, thought it so, and Lord Turgon, whose Following had already attracted a great many of the locals and thus had direct access to a great deal more information unmitigated by protocol, never did agree with it.

 **Beren** : [interrupting, shaking his head]

I _still_ don't see why they did. I mean, maybe that's hindsight, because of us fighting the War for so long and that was early days, but still . . .

 **Captain** : [lifting his hand in a small shrug]

Well, between the appeal to Family rivalries implicit in the assumption that _we_ could do it because we were smarter, as well as more honest -- which captured the support of Prince Fingon and their father from the first, before any operational details were discussed -- and the moral high ground of trying to solve things peacefully as well as honestly, which lured Himself into it eventually, we skeptics were outshouted, -- which is an exaggeration, true, voices were raised but it wasn't quite shouting. We didn't know then that the Enemy had also sent a force vastly over the agreed numbers to the Feanorion's parley, but nobody should have been surprised by it.

 **Steward** :

I was not surprised -- by then.

 **Captain** : [caustic]

I should hope not. -- So he won permission to make the attempt, and the contacts were made via their spooks, and a time and place appointed for it, and it was my luck to get the assignment, and we went. Now I wasn't happy with it for several reasons, one of which was that although the location was open, and the country open, there were a lot of rocks and it was far from flat, meaning lots of good cover. 

**Teler Maid** :

\-- Of _what_?

 **Captain** :

Er, hiding places. For the foe.

 **Teler Maid** :

Oh. Like quail.

 **Captain** :

Exactly. So there was that -- but then it was to be held in broad daylight, which was also in our favour. But the morning started clear and then started getting overcast, and I got suspicious about that, and the closer we got the more cloudy it got, and then a bit of fog started coming in as well, and I started objecting strenuously, only to be told that there was nothing unnatural about it, days often got gray as they wore on, and was this part of the country not known for its mists?

 **Teler Maid** : [narrowing her eyes]

I think you are not saying it _quite_ as he did say it.

 **Captain** : [shrugs]

Near enough. -- And that was all true, only I still didn't think it was natural at all. And I kept saying so, and we just kept getting closer to the destination, and yes we had a large company, all within the agreed-on limits, and I just kept on thinking to myself, _Balrogs_. What if the rumours about the Balrogs were right?

[she shivers]

 **Teler Maid** :

I have heard of them, even in my solitude there were whispers of them. _Are_ they so terrible as all do tell?

[he nods, very seriously]

 **Captain** :

And reminding myself that neither of us was a prince of the blood, nor any particular prize, didn't help much against all the warnings from my Sindar colleagues that the Lord of Fetters didn't care who you were so long as you could make weapons for him.

 **Teler Maid** :

But _you_ know naught of smithing.

 **Captain** :

But they wouldn't know that, would they? And there's plenty of work that requires no particular art, merely coordination and strength.

"We're all going to end up thralls in Angband, or dead," we all kept thinking, though we hoped we were very wrong. And now we're at the edge of the place where the parley's to happen, and the visibility's poor, but not terrible, and if it were any other business I'd be worrying about rain starting and slippery footing for the horses most of all, not an iron collar -- but there's no one there in the center of the ring of flat stones that was the designated spot, and no one in sight for leagues around, and there was no way beneath the hidden Sun I was going to walk us out into that unprotected area.

 **Huan** : [not moving]

[low, but rising, growls]

 **Captain** :

We were about three bowshots from it, and I told my riding to stay put in the gorge we'd just come through, that I wasn't going to budge until we saw some signs of a good-faith effort to meet us, namely some visible enemies coming to parley, we were going to wait, watch, and be late if we must, but we were _not_ going to put ourselves in the open.

[he reaches back & pokes the quiescent Hound]

Stop growling, you.

[Huan gives a penitent tail-wag-in-place]

And -- since he wants me to tell you it as if he were telling it, there was a lot of unpleasant conversation at that, and I wouldn't let him embarrass me into going through with it, and he wouldn't agree that I knew what I was talking about with regard to the number of troops that could be hidden in this apparently open countryside, so he says to me, "Do as you please, and I will do my duty," and goes to ride out there alone.

 **Ranger** :

We couldn't tell if you were insanely brave, or just insanely overconfident.

 **Steward** : [snorting]

Neither. I was petrified. But I did believe in the mission.

 **Captain** :

So obviously I had to go along (though I _really_ wanted to take the flat of my sword to his skull and drag him back home regardless) with strictest orders to my company to stay put, regardless, and dire threats of what would happen if they didn't -- and all of us so rattled it didn't occur to any of them to ask me how I'd manage that if things went badly. And we get halfway there, and nothing stirs, not even the wind, and you could not have offered me a Silmaril to keep going, and he just keeps steadily on at a walk, and we're about three-fourths of the way there, and something spooked my horse -- but it might only have been me, so I circled about a little --

[making a descriptive gesture with his hand]

\-- trying to catch another glimpse of what it was that I'd thought I'd seen, and apparently _that_ worried our adversaries into thinking we were about to give up and go. So someone from their side lets slip a little too early, from behind one of those scattered boulders on the heath, and that's how I got shot. Our armour wasn't so good then, before we purchased proper mail from the Dwarves and learned the art of making it ourselves.

 **Teler Maid** :

Where? -- Nor do you say, "in Beleriand" -- !

[he indicates a point on his upper arm]

 **Ranger** : [with exasperation]

Sir --

 **Captain** : [offhand]

Might have been a little higher --

[the Steward elbows him]

Oh, well, that too, -- but it was the other side.

 **Teler Maid** :

 _How_ many arrows by which you were struck?

[she is nervously twisting one of her braids tightly around her fingers, not even realizing that she is doing so]

 **Captain** :

Just one.

[she frowns]

 **Teler Maid** :

Then how --

 **Youngest Ranger** :

\-- Nailed right through to his ribcage and into his lung. That's what I heard, at least. I wasn't there for it, as I wasn't yet born.

[she gasps, wide-eyed, and then turns an absolutely furious glare upon the Steward]

 **Steward** :

I had seen death, and I had seen those slain, and even wounded, but only after significant time and sufficient for medical attention to have begun -- never anyone so gravely injured and yet living, or halfway. Not at that early point.

 **Captain** : [to the Sea-elf, trying to reassure her]

It was _not_ that bad.

 **Steward** : [grimly]

It was very bad, and would have been so had _not_ the arrow been poisoned as well.

 **Captain** :

I thought _I_ was telling this story.

[silence]

It could have been much worse.

 **Ranger** : [quiet]

It was bad, sir.

 **Captain** : [resigned]

I didn't say it wasn't. But at least -- no, wait, I can't say that, can I? At any rate, we were able to get back to the others where I'd left them, and there were some sharp words, but quick, for the need to hasten past our foe's reach, and by the time we reached a distance where we might alight in some surety, if briefly, the poison had taken strong hold, and our company healer didn't want to draw the arrow, but didn't dare leave it in for the sort of riding we had yet to accomplish, and I was starting to lose my grip on reality, and so were my companions, with less excuse, and there were some very harsh words given to, though not exchanged with, our Herald.

 **Steward** :

\-- Deservedly.

 **Captain** :

And yet _they're_ not here, with one exception.

 **Steward** :

Many died before at the Bragollach, or in the retreating actions of the subsequent years.

 **Captain** : [looking at him directly]

And I repeat: with one exception, those Rangers who rode at my command in that hour are not here, nor those who fell beside us in the Fen. And yet you are. 

[the Steward looks away. Simultaneously asking:]

 **Beren** : **Teler Maid** :

Why not?

[the two Rangers look downcast and upset, but say nothing]

 **Captain** :

It's -- complicated. We -- as has been said before, are a disreputable and disorderly lot -- well, you've seen it, Beren, though Maiwe's only heard us before, and not everyone is quite comfortable associating with us. Or at least, not on any sort of formal and regular basis.

 **Beren** :

But you said people follow him anyway. Like with the battles.

 **Captain** :

Yes, but it's all most informal, and . . .

 **Warrior** : [filling in]

We got into trouble for it. Some people aren't very happy at the idea of having the Powers possibly angry at them again.

[aside]

\-- Like me.

 **Captain** :

There's a sort of unofficial official recognition which is quickly disavowable, and tends to alternate between unthinking enthusiasm for projects -- no, not us, I meant with the reenactments -- and a wait-and-see-if-They-toss-him-or-them-in-the-non-existent-dungeons, first, attitude. Essentially folk ask _him_ for advice and help, and he makes recommendations and doesn't _ask_ anyone else for anything now. Except us.

 **Teler Maid** :

I do not quite follow you.

 **Beren** : [flatly]

I do. Sounds like a repeat of Nargothrond, again.

 **Captain** :

Not quite that bad.

 **Beren** :

Doesn't he mind?

[pause]

 **Captain** :

I'm not the one to speak on that.

 **Steward** :

Nor I.

 **Beren** : [grim]

That's why he got so upset when he thought I turned on him.

[pause]

That's why _you're_ all here tearing up the gods' living room on my behalf.

[to the Sea-elf]

Sorry, I didn't mean to talk around you. Long story.

 **First Guard** : [reassuring]

We'll not desert him, Beren.

 **Teler Maid** :

I -- would almost hazard you mean that some have forsaken Lord Ingold . . . ?

 **Beren** :

You'd be right.

 **Captain** :

But it is, as Beren says, a long story, and another -- or at least a lot later in this one. -- Which I am going to resume telling, in the absence of objection. I was not doing terribly well at that point, but it was crucial to keep on as speedily as possible, not simply for my sake but because of the likelihood of pursuit. They kept changing me from rider to rider for the horses' endurance, and despite the unwillingness of my followers for reasons of sentiment, even to Edrahil, for reason of principle. And he kept saying something, and I assumed he was trying to apologize, and wanted to tell him to just _stop_ , dammit, but that would have taken too much breath. And then I realize that what he's actually doing is the same thing our medic did, as best he can manage, having memorized, or nearly, his words when they were patching me up. And at that point I stopped worrying, for I knew things would be all right.

 **Teler Maid** :

But -- might you not have died despite, before ever you might be brought back to safe haven?

 **Captain** :

Oh, yes.

 **Teler Maid** :

Then why say you 'twould be well?

 **Steward** : [quietly]

Because he is mad.

[she gives him an affronted glance]

 **Captain** :

Because I knew from that that he was recollected enough to withstand panic and other disorder and to make sure that all the rest would make it home safely, whether I returned there or here. And I was right. There was a motion to cut directly over some rough country that gave a more direct route to Fingolfin's command post --

[to Beren]

\-- not the one you're thinking of, the castle at Eithel wasn't built at that point -- and _strongly_ urged in the interest of time -- and does he give in? Not at all. 

"We are not crows," he retorts, and refuses on the grounds that none of them knew the ground, and if it were passable, or for horses, or for a casualty, and insists upon the longer, surer route, and carries them all by force of cold reason, despite the fact that not one of them but wished it were he bleeding there, not me.

 **Steward** : [irritably]

Have you any idea how many times you've changed tense already?

 **Captain** :

Yes, you get more tense each time. You'll not change the subject that way. -- So instead he sends one warrior by that shortcut, and another to go breakneck (only hopefully _not_ ) ahead of us, with my horse for a spare, and the rest together to bring me back as quick as they might without killing me altogether, while whichever messenger might reach the encampment first should bring a company of medical personnel to intercept us along this our known route. _Exactly_ what I would have done, had matters been the other way round. Though I only learnt of this after the fact, not being fully-conscious at the time. And when that happens, and it's not only those he requested but Himself as well, trying to keep me alive, he says nothing whatsoever about the mission nor his own actions, but only stays out of the way until they dared to take me back home at last.

 **Teler Maid** : [extremely grim]

What said _you_ , to account for your wound then?

 **Captain** :

I was still unconscious. _They_ might have said a lot, but oddly enough they didn't -- for some reason they elected to give him benefit of honour, to see what he would say before making their report.

[the Noldor Ranger smiles wryly]

And what he said was essentially what I have said, though with longer words and more of 'em. No attempt to justify himself, nor discredit any claim they might make, by reason of their having been back of our position, nor to assign any of it to me. He made a full admission to the Princes, not in private mind you, but before all of the folk of Finarfin and Fingolfin as well, and submitted himself to whatever judgment our lord and his siblings should come to, but first, meanwhile, he said, he intended to learn what he might of healing for himself, that never should he be in such a situation again and of so little use. -- And so, of course, they gave him more jobs like that, and harder, but didn't manage to get rid of him _that_ way.

[longish pause -- the Sea-elf glowers at the subject of the story, clearly not as amused as the teller]

 **Teler Maid** :

Why do you not speak, sir? Surely you are not content with a tale told by another not you, still less when it is of yourself it does tell!

 **Steward** : [shaking his head]

The trouble is this -- shall I _agree_ , and seem more arrogant yet? or _correct_ , and seem a most ungracious ingrate? Better to be silent, and leave the matter in _some_ doubt at least.

[several of the Guards snicker at this, and she gives them a sharp Look, and then a quick glance back, her expression becoming more thoughtful]

 **Teler Maid** : [still taunting, though]

What would you correct, then, my lord?

 **Steward** :

It was made implicit, though not said outright, that I added _healer_ to the chronicle of my accomplishments -- when, in fact, I merely completed a course of studies in that field.

 **Teler Maid** :

And is that not the same thing -- for _you_?

 **Steward** :

My teacher and the chief of that avocation thought not so. She made -- if you will pardon the unseemly-yet-appropriate human levity, gentles all --  _no bones_ about my lack of anything remotely akin to the proper empathic spirit required of a Healer. "Perfect pitch is necessary but far from sufficient," and "You can't improvise to save your life, can you? -- so how do you expect to save anyone else's?" were phrases I very swiftly tired of hearing.

[the Sea-elf giggles -- then checks abruptly and gives him a wary glance, continuing to scrutinize his expression covertly]

 **Soldier** :

Yes, but she didn't forbid you from attempting, Sir.

 **Steward** :

 _With_ the proviso there was none else certified at hand. "You probably won't kill anyone who wouldn't die otherwise," is hardly endorsement. 

**Soldier** : [sighing]

It could have been worse, though -- back after the Glorious Battle, when there was such a rush to become Healers among people who'd never have thought of it otherwise, she told _my_ lady to stick with the books, for at least parchment and quills were dead and couldn't be hurt.

[the Steward winces, then looks up as if struck by a sudden thought]

 **Steward** :

Wait -- if I remember correctly, there was a request for a new lighting arrangement and several pieces of furniture were commissioned for your apartments at about that time. _Not_ coincidence, I gather?

 **Soldier** :

Well, after we cleaned up what was left of the desk she did admit that a temper which built up like a blast in a kiln for a fortnight after being set down fairly, probably _wasn't_ suited for medical work. There's patience and there's patience, love, I told her, and they're both important, but you've the sort that can spend months hunting down references or laying down a page of colors in lines as thin as thread, not the sort that takes being thwarted well, or criticism as other than insult.

 **Steward** :

 _That_ , I have not either.

 **Soldier** :

True, sir -- but you just get more and more sarcastic, instead of breaking things.

 **Steward** :

Nor should _that_ be most welcome at an invalid's bedside.

 **Captain** :

Yes, but that only bothers you because you're an insane perfectionist. If all you're doing is patching someone up so they'll last long enough to get into competent hands, calling them six times a fool the whiles hasn't any detrimental effect that I've ever noticed. Makes 'em more determined to prove you wrong by surviving --  _right_?

[at this the Noldor Ranger, who has been trying to look oblivious with decreasing success, ducks his head with a chagrinned expression]

 **Ranger** :

That was a calculated risk, Sir, only -- I miscalculated. You didn't _have_ to say it shouldn't make a damned bit of difference, since I had rocks for brains anyway.

 **Captain** :

Yes, but you never assumed after that that an enemy without a bow wasn't a danger from a distance -- and made damned sure that everyone else took the danger of slingstones seriously, too. And being angry at me kept you awake despite your concussion until we were able to get you to a fort and a bone-drill within safe walls.

[his subordinate gives him a rueful smile while Beren supresses the sort of expression most people evince at the thought of trephanation]

Could have been worse, though -- you remember that report about the accident in the storage caves, right?

 **Ranger** : [grinning]

The one where a bystander was quoted as saying that no one was _ever_ going to ignore safety precautions down there again, not so much for fear of severing an artery, as for dread of learning yet _more_ formulations of "I told you so, did I not?"

 **Steward** : [with a slight edge]

I -- was panicked, as I'd never had call to employ that training ere then, far less upon something so grave as that!

 **Captain** : [ignoring him]

That's the one -- my personal favorite was, "However, given precedent, I am inexorably forced to the conclusion that the majority of you will adjudge it to have been a random occurrence, and not until as many times have passed will you concede that indeed my reasoned apprehensions were well-founded -- but no matter, for it's clear as well that we've no shortage of overconfident idiots within the City, and can well-stand attrition of the same."

[the Steward leans back against Huan, looking up at the ceiling with a resigned expression]

\-- But I don't remember any sarcasm in word or tone when I was delirious with venom, or after when I woke at last without the taste of my own blood in my throat, and found a solemn and uncommonly quiet still-chief Counsellor waiting to beg my forgiveness -- and give me report of the cygnets I'd been watching all through the season, though the thought of him crawling through cattails to view the nest was so strange I admit I laughed, to my immediate regret . . .

[rubbing at his side with a grimace of recollection]

. . . and tell me that my fear, that I had not spoken aloud to him, nor any Healer betrayed to him, was groundless -- that he had Seen me seeing them in flight, before the bulrushes should have blown to seed, and so I knew that I should not remain purblind, nor long, which not even the King had been able to assure me of. -- A great deal of awkwardness, and much formality, and more embarassment -- but nothing of mockery whatsoever.

 **Steward** : [distantly]

You forgot _confusion_ , at being thanked and commended for bringing all home without further casualty or loss. I thought you were _still_ delirious. _Or_ that your vision was so affected you'd mistaken me for one of your officers.

[the Captain only smiles]

 **Teler Maid** : [with a doubtful expression]

And that is the way of it that you did find friendship?

 **Captain** :

No, far from it. Courtesy, yes -- courtesy, concern, deference, exaggerated deference even, but these things do not add up to the other. We were not friends until after our first visit to Doriath.

 **Teler Maid** :

I think I have overheard that name upon a time or three. There are mountains there, are there not?

 **Beren** :

There's no mountains in Doriath. I think you're thinking of my country, Dorthonion.

 **Teler Maid** : [frowning]

That sounds not right either. Is that where the horses are?

 **Youngest Ranger** : [knowingly]

Ah, you mean Dor-lomin. That's surrounded by mountains. I've been there.

[The Sea-elf looks over challengingly towards the Steward]

 **Teler Maid** :

Did you not know that, my lord?

 **Steward** : [after visible hesitation]

\-- Indeed I did, Maiwe.

 **Teler Maid** :

Then for what did you not correct me?

 **Steward** :

There was no need for me to speak. The children had answered you well.

 **Teler Maid** :

Hah, then, my questions are but fit for children, do you say?

 **Steward** :

No. Only that the younger were swifter to speak. And that is often true, in many things, but I meant no slight to you or any other.

 **Teler Maid** :

But I think --

 **Captain** : [interrupting]

Did you want to hear the rest of it, or do you just want to fight, hm?

[she scowls, but stops her needling for the moment]

All right, then. -- We'd gone to the domain of His Majesty's kindred -- though we hadn't acclaimed him as King yet, that happened after, when we set up our own capital at Nargothrond -- and now that we were settled and the border growing ever more secure that all of the Noldor Houses were cooperating --

 **Teler Maid** : [interrupting, grim]

I am still very much angered concerning that.

 **Captain** : [evenly]

I know, and if you cut me off one more time to say that again, I _am_ going to start calling you "Rail," Sea-Mew. Trust me, we all know you're not happy with us for making peace with the Feanorians, and neither was the lord of the realm we were about to visit, when he found out either. But you're never going to hear the end of _this_ if you don't stop expressing your feelings on the subject every time it comes up.

 **Teler Maid** : [scowling]

You --

[stopping abruptly, disgruntled; she looks down, letting her hair fall in front of her face]

 **Captain** :

What?

 **Teler Maid** : [through her teeth]

I would have said you do not like me longer, but I cannot.

 **Captain** :

To borrow another mortal saying, -- no kidding. -- Because the northern lands were growing safer, we thought it a good time to go and pay a visit of state to the Lord and Lady of Doriath, and so we went to pay our respects and make offers of such alliance as they might wish, and to see the legendary Thousand Caves and their still more legendary rulers. We rode through the forest -- but that word doesn't mean anything like the same, here -- those trees were older than any that ever were in Valinor, and taller than any but the Two themselves, and so powerful that all of us, even those who love the woods, were daunted entering their shade.

 **Teler Maid** : [disbelieving]

Even you?

 **Captain** :

Even me. And then we came to the main gate of Menegroth, where Queen Melian with her nightingales on her shoulders and King Elu Greycloak were waiting as tall and fair as trees themselves to greet their grand-niece and nephews, and --

 **Teler Maid** :

 _Who_?!?

[before he can answer]

You do not mean _kin_ in the sense that _we_ are kin, but _kin_?

 **Captain** : [struggling to keep a straight face]

That sounds like something _Beren_ would say. Ah, -- yes.

 **Teler Maid** :

Do not foible with words! What is this, that the rulers of the Old Country are parents' siblings to any of the Noldor, when they must be of the same kindred as _him_  --

[gesturing to the Youngest Ranger]

\-- unless --

[she frowns, looking around at them]

\-- you do not --  _surely_ you mean not -- but how might it happen? -- but --

[pulling herself together]

It can only be that you do mean that my lady's uncle is yet well and free and does rule and they but call him by another name! Am I not right?

 **Captain** :

Of course.

 **Teler Maid** :

What befell Lord Elwe that he came not hence?

 **Fourth Guard** : [mischievously]

That's a _long_ st --

[his immediate neighbors suppress him quickly]

 **Captain** :

Short version is, he ran into the Lady Melian and that's why _she_ didn't come back either.

 **Teler Maid** :

Who is she?

 **Captain** :

Do you recall the stories about the Maia who went missing in the Old Country whilst exploring there?

 **Teler Maid** :

I remember some such tale. -- Not well.

 **Captain** :

That's her. So there was this incredible reunion --

[as the Steward shakes his head]

\-- well, I'm not sure what _else_ to call it, Edrahil, what would _you_ recommend?

 **Beren** :

 _We_ used to call them family reunions even if not everybody there had ever met everyone else because of not being born in the same place.

 **Captain** :

 _Thank_ you. -- And welcomes, and introductions, and talk, and Themselves brought out the gifts they'd made for their aunt and uncle, and there were thanks, and more talk, and then we were most graciously invited inside, which we'd all been most anxious to see, having heard so much in the way of rumour, and not having believed half of it as to what the Thousand Caves were really like. I'll tell you all about it in detail some other time, Maiwe, since everyone else already knows, and I could spend months and not be anywhere near through.

[Beren makes a quiet exclamation of disappointment]

But you've _been_ there, lad.

 **Beren** :

Not like you all have. The first time was rushed and all I saw was the throne room and a back staircase and the doors on my way out, and the second time was longer but not all that much and even crazier. And --

[he breaks off]

 **Teler Maid** : [curious]

What?

 **Beren** : [with a touch of reluctance]

Even if I had been there like them, not the way it was, it would have been different. I wouldn't have seen it the way they did, or been treated the same, even if I was welcome. I would have always been a stranger, like at Nargothrond, because I was mortal.

[beside him the Warrior touches his arm in an apologetic gesture]

 **Youngest Ranger** : [troubled]

But your lady could tell you.

 **Beren** : [wistful]

Yeah, but she's so mad at them all that it isn't easy to get her to talk about it, because when she does, even when she isn't starting out to yell about them, that's what ends up happening, and everything she does talk about she ends up tearing into like you wouldn't believe.

[running his hand through his hair in a frustrated gesture]

I mean, I know it can't have been _all_ bad for a thousand-whatever years, that she had to love it there or she wouldn't be so hellishly angry at her parents, relatives, and all the court and the entire population of Doriath for treating her that way, but it's like -- I -- I try to remind her about how she was _before_ , when we were together in Neldoreth the first time, and it's like that doesn't even exist for her any more. I don't know _what_ would have happened if I hadn't gotten killed, if we'd stayed there. She didn't actually ever say that they deserved having the Wolf break in on them, but -- I could tell -- it was like a thunderhead overhead, it was gonna break out sometime. Maybe she did say it to Melian, quietly, I don't know.

[he shakes his head]

But, you know, with nobody paying attention to her, how was it gonna work if she came back to be Lady there? I guess I didn't think about that so much when I just wanted her to be safe. I don't guess that her father thought about that much either. Just wanting her back, but when she was, it wasn't her. -- But Doriath was different too, because of what they did to her.

[increasingly upset]

She just kept saying one thing after another after another, and I think he would have given her his crown if that would have made her happy again, like she was before. But that couldn't happen, because of me. -- She doesn't want to hear that from me, either.

 **Teler Maid** : [blinking]

The daughter of the King of Doriath that is my lady Earwen's uncle?

[the Ten nod or murmur assent, though their attention is on Beren]

 **Beren** : [making it be true by sheer force of will]

I'm okay.

[he pulls himself together, though his jaw is set rather hard]

 **Teler Maid** : [astounded]

But -- your wife is _my_ King's niece? Lord Olwe's long-lost brother is your lady's father?

[Beren nods]

What mad story is _this_?

 **Beren** :

No, it's the truth.

[pause]

 **Teler Maid** :

I think we mean not the same by it. How did _you_ come to find lost Lord Elwe, and what of his family and yours? That is what I did mean. 

**Beren** :

Oh. -- That's really a long, _long_ story. I'm not sure I can explain it at all, let alone well, and they can do it better, but probably, and I'm not joking around this time, guys, you should talk to H -- Finrod about it, because he was around for more of it, he knows everybody, and he studies this kind of stuff. Um, I mean, Lord Ingold to you. 

**Teler Maid** : [sharply]

I know that is also his name. I call him Ingold because that is what we called him mostly. Do you not think that I am ignorant, too! 

**Beren** :

Sorry. I didn't mean that, either. I just get confused by it still, so I didn't want to confuse you.

 **Teler Maid** :

Ah.

[reluctantly]

I thank you, then. I will do so, when he does come back.

 **Captain** :

All clear on that, now? We were in Doriath, at the Thousand Caves, which were fully as spectacular as local legend had painted them and more so, somewhat to the -- I guess you'd say chagrin, though mostly awe -- of us all, who'd assumed that tales of how much finer it was than anything we'd set up there were partly local patriotism and partly due to the fact that we still had fairly simple encampments at that date, visiting with King Olwe's brother and his Lady, and their daughter, who's now married to Lord Beren here, but wasn't then, since neither he nor any of his people had been born then.

[to the Youngest Ranger before he has a chance to interrupt]

\-- Nor you neither, lad, since you weren't born yet either, though I think you said you'd a cousin there.

[the junior officer nods agreement]

 **Teler Maid** : [to the Sindarin Ranger, very seriously]

Was that the one with the giant fish?

 **Youngest Ranger** : [just as (un)seriously]

No, that was Beren's, I think.

 **Captain** :

\-- Ahem. Anyway, we were there for a long time, being feasted and furrowed for information and gawked at by everyone who'd not ventured out to meet us before, and everyone who had as well, I think, and if you think you were the object of undue curiosity in Nargothrond, lad, take my word (though it's little consolation) that it can be far worse. Though of course the most attention was upon our lord and his brothers and Lady Galadriel --

 **Teler Maid** : [interrupting]

Who is that?

[confused pause]

 **Captain** :

Ah. Right. That's the name that their sister goes by these days. It was a present from her husband, means the same as her old nickname, though Himself will tell you it means "Tree-girl" instead, just to make her laugh.

 **Teler Maid** :

Lady Nerwen is married too? To whom?

[the Captain and others look a bit taken aback at how much catching-up there is to do; before they can answer:]

 **Beren** :

Oh, I know this one. The King's sister's husband is a lord of Tinuviel's kindred named Celeborn -- only I haven't met them, just heard about them -- on her father's side. Er, my wife's father's side, if that wasn't clear.

 **Teler Maid** :

 _He_ is one of us as well?

[she is both surprised and triumphant, and gives the Steward a keen look before asking them]

What is he like?

 **Captain** : [frowning]

Serious, fair-minded, thinks things through carefully before acting and then acts decisively, very polite and rules his temper well -- though he does have one, make no mistake. -- A lot like their father, in fact, were Lord Finarfin to become a warrior and commander of warriors, I'd hazard. 

[he looks at the Steward for confirmation of his assessment; his friend nods agreement.]

 **Teler Maid** : [uncertainly]

 _They_ are not here, are they?

 **Steward** : [fervent]

\-- Stars, no. _Not_ everything has gone as wrong as might.

 **Captain** :

\-- What did I just hear you say?

[this gets him a very cool Look]

 **Steward** :

That there are always exceptions, and that nothing can be relied upon to be constant.

 **Captain** :

Damn, I thought I'd caught you. Good recovery.

 **Teler Maid** : [rubbing her temples]

So -- if it is so that none but my lady's youngest children do remain in the Old Country, which of them does lead? For you said that it was Lord Ingold and Lady Nerwen of the House that were most foremost to arrange the efforts of the March -- then now he is dead does it fall to her last brother, or to her and her lord, to rule your folk in that City you have spoken of to me?

 **Captain** :

Well, in fact they're not there any longer.

 **Teler Maid** :

Then where?

[impatient]

Must I ask and ask and _ask_ , for every least thing?

 **Captain** : [a little tired-sounding]

I'm sorry. I -- was thinking about how much telling this is going to take for all the relatives. It's a bit daunting. A lot daunting, really. -- They took off a little while back on their own with some like-minded sorts and struck out over the Blue Mountains to explore and set up on their own and hadn't got back yet when the War hotted up.

 **Beren** :

 _You_ call it a little while. _I_ wouldn't.

 **Captain** : [shrugs]

I guess it was a while ago, at that.

 **Teler Maid** :

I have missed a great deal of news.

 **Captain** :

Yes, you have. So one night there was a grand celebration, partly for the Family, partly because it was the New Moon, and partly just because. And there was every sort of music and dance and diverse arts --

 **Beren** : [interrupting]

\-- Magic, right?

[the Sea-elf looks over at him curiously, sharing the strange look among his neighbors as the Youngest Ranger and the Warrior simultaneously elbow him in the ribs to make him shut up]

 **Captain** :

That too, but also contests of skill and strength with weapons and other sport -- and the speaking of tales and verses besides, and we were all having the grandest time of it, being at home as it were with all the advantages of being someplace else -- in other words, somebody else looking after all the things that have to be done, plus it's unexpected and charming because it's all strange, but not so very -- and then I noticed that _someone_ wasn't taking part --

\-- and then I noticed him go skulking off along to the edges of the crowd, in spite of the fact that Master Daeron was playing then for the Queen herself to dance, and even a stone would not have been so deaf and blind as to turn away from that. So I followed him from the clearing before the Green Throne at Hirilorn's feet -- I'm putting that in for Beren, Maiwe: it's a huge tree beside the City of the Lord and Lady of Doriath, where they hold court, betimes, I'm not trying to confuse you with strange names, all right?

[she nods]

And to my great surprise I saw him go off to the shadows of the wood and stand there glaring at his harp, and brace it in his arms as though he were going to break it, and I deliberated calling to him, but then he changed his mind before my eyes, and went back to the gathering and looked about as though seeking out someone in particular, and then goes up to a villager that to my knowledge had never spoken with any of us before, of a party come from great distance to the celebration, and offers the harp to the stranger as a gift. And then -- still unawares that I was shadowing him -- he left the clearing again and returned to the Thousand Caves, quite unobserved by any other, all being under Queen Melian's spell and the spell of the flute --

[to Beren]

\-- even us, though not _quite_ the same way it happened to you -- and I, being much troubled by what I had seen, followed. He wasn't hard to find -- there was no one else in the place, everyone was out on the greensward enjoying themselves; I found him in the grove the Queen had made, sitting by the fountains looking at the water and not seeing it, so to speak.

"What -- is -- wrong?" I asked him, like that, as forcefully as I might. And he looks up at me, not quite seeing me either, and answers, "I am here, and she is there, and the Ocean is between us." And I said, "Oh," not expecting that at all, and not knowing anything else to say, and he pulls himself together a bit, and returns, "Or were you asking something else entirely, sir?"

[he glances at the Steward, who is sitting with his chin resting on his forearms, looking off with a resigned expression]

 **Teler Maid** :

What said you?

 **Captain** :

Nothing. I had, with my usual and quite mundane foresight taken care to provide myself with a pitcher of wine and two cups, and also a few sundry small edibles from the varied spread outside --

 **Youngest Ranger** : [aside at large]

 _I_ heard people wondered if a bear had visited the tables.

 **Captain** :

It was not _that_ _much_ , Lieutenant, and I was merely implementing the lesson you shouldn't have forgotten, that one secures resources as they are available.

 **Beren** :

I think those rule each other out, actually.

 **Youngest Ranger** :

Which was it, then, sir?

 **Ranger** : [aside, but not discreet]

\-- Bear.

[the Steward gives a quick nod]

 **Captain** : [ignoring them]

So I poured him a cup, and while I was unrolling the cloth -- and it wasn't a tablecloth, whatever these louts tell you -- he's holding the wine, looking at it, and at me, wondering when the joke was going to happen, and I poured myself a cupful, and he kept on watching me, very wary, and I, in a stroke of, if you will allow me to say so, brilliance, made the toast _to_ _absent_ _friends_. And he whispered, "Yes," and drank with me, and so we had our own little feast on the steps of the dais, under the golden trees, and we talked. And listened. And I learned that the noble Edrahil, esteemed counselor of the eldest of Finarfin's scions and lord entrusted with the most vital matters of our lord's household, and accounted of no small skill with word or note either, considered himself a failure and a squanderer of his time and a miserable excuse for an Elf besides.

 **Teler Maid** :

Indeed.

 **Captain** : [disregarding her cold tone]

Indeed. For, so he said, he had thought himself excellent, and although he was willing to concede the Vanyar our superiors in song (though naught else of skill) and to be accounted in the second rank after the children of the King (meaning in this case our first lord, Finwe) --

[with a quick glance to make sure Beren understands]

\-- he had never been content to allow any other might be his better, nor rival, and yet here so many were his equals, and it was easy as breathing to them, for all that they had not the same scholarship here (meaning _there_ ) and he could not dismiss it as but a rustic sort of music, and of a different kind, and hence no competition, for he'd heard compositions of the greatest, like Elemmire, learned in a few hearings by the Doriathrin and changed into their own modes and sung back with the most elaborate variations. And that was many, _not_ a few, before ever he should speak of Daeron, whose mastery he had no more hope of equaling than he had of the Powers' --

[to the Steward]

See? I can do your style as well as your tone of voice pretty fairly, hm?

 **Steward** : [grimly]

You're just remembering it.

 **Captain** :

Not _just_. There's skill and effort involved.

[to the Sea-elf]

And I couldn't figure out what this had to do with _you_ , and I wanted to say something about him conceding that the gods could manage to do _something_ better than us, but I restrained myself.

[raising an eyebrow, as the Steward visibly restrains himself from speaking in turn]

\-- Of course, my mouth was full at the time. And anyway he soon cleared that up talking about how he'd constantly made light of your pipe-playing and your people's songs and how everyone and everything here made him remember you, in spite of the fact that the cultures were so different, and he had been so thoughtless not to realize that his words to you would have had the same effect on you as Lord Enedir's telling him to stop wasting his time on that for which he was not suited to him, only worse, for his family thought him much talented in painting and would have had him study that, but he had never praised any deed of yours at all.

[she snorts and tosses her head at his words, her eyes very hard at the memories, as he continues in the same mild nostalgic vein]

I remember being most confused over his berating himself for his cruelty in deriding you as childish for skipping, and climbing in trees, and not understanding what that had to do with the Moon Feast at all, though I agreed as I had all along. 

[looking meaningfully at Beren]

And he says that who was he, after all, to declare what was childish, and what was unfitting of the Eldar, when our lord's eldest cousin and the King of this land's own daughter had been up in an elm the day we arrived, and but a day before had enlisted all that she could find unoccupied into a complicated game of tag that involved, among other steps, skipping. And he'd attempted to explain it as having some deep metaphysical and ritual significance, but when he inquired of Lady Galadriel-also-known-as-Nerwen what it meant, she answered, after she'd got her breath back, that it but made it much funnier, to have to obey the rules of the dance, even if it makes the game harder. 

**Teler Maid** : [bemused]

 _Skipping_. -- Lady Nerwen.

[he nods seriously, while she shakes her head in amazement]

Not even your sister skipped with me, though she never chid me for it, nor for scaling the bannisters as though 'twas a hawser. -- Nor did you.

 **Captain** :

Well, she would have if she'd been there. Joined her lady in the game, I mean. Princess Luthien's hard to argue with, as Barahirion could tell you.

[Beren hides a grin]

Skipping -- backwards -- and with her hair falling down all over the place like Treelight, and laughing "like a loon" --

[he nudges his companion, who affects indifference]

\-- till she could hardly stand up, by the end of it, and the rest of us not much better. Though I did notice that she wasn't waving off offers of a supporting arm as we would all expect, when it was young Celeborn doing the offering. And nobody saying anything scathing about being silly, or shouldn't we be less frivolous, or was this any way for adult Eldar to behave?

[to Beren]

I think that the real blow was when _your_ lady's parents lamented the fact that they'd been too busy with organizing the feast to join in.

[Beren joins the Teler girl in looking both amused and half-disbelieving]

And he kept on explaining about how he realized now how wrong he had been to disdain you, Sanderling, and I kept on agreeing with him all the while, and yet he didn't once get angry with me for presuming to do so. -- So, did I tell it to your satisfaction?

 **Steward** :

No.

 **Captain** : [dismissive]

 _What_ have I left out?

 **Steward** :

That you spent the whole of the time listening to my complaints without complaint of your own, when you had far rather been at the dancing and under the stars and moon, nor made reproach for having missed it, but only to jest about having failed to secure enough wine for such a thirsty night of talk when the flagon ran dry.

 **Captain** :

Well, it wasn't all on one side, I wasn't _just_ commiserating with you -- I do recall ranting as well about the fact everything was strange and much of what I knew didn't apply to animals in this continent (which is to say, _that_ continent) and that I'd tell people to do things and they'd listen and go off and do something else altogether, and so on.

 **Steward** :

Truly, I did not notice --

 **Teler Maid** : [breaking in]

But of course you did not notice -- for when did another's concerns ever concern you? Nay, Edrahil, you need not even say so much!

 **Captain** : [mildly]

I _think_ he meant it as a common courtesy, Curlew.

 **Steward** :

Nonetheless it was equally the truth -- against my own cares I fear yours mattered not, so that you might have complained of mutinies or plagues of vampire bats and I'd not have noticed while I bemoaned my state. Moreover you have omitted what followed -- how upon the morrow I was so dismayed to have disclosed my cares and uncertainties to your hearing that I avoided you for days thereafter, all the while in a fear that you'd make merry over my admissions among your friends, or presume upon me in public fellowship before all, and spent the whiles in an agony of regret and shame over my weakness.

 **Captain** : [bland]

The whiles _I_ thought it was because I'd tried to convince you to join a proposed excursion to the southern marches and then perhaps if the weather held good out to the site of the First Battle. -- I still think it would have cheered you up.

 **Steward** : [snorting]

To be trapped with _you_ , Captain Beleg, the Lady Galadriel and a collection of the least-sane followers of Elu Thingol and House Finarfin combined, for _weeks_ on end? -- And innumerable trees, of course.

 **Captain** :

There would have been serious cultural and historical stuff too, visiting Amon Ereb.

[the Steward just Looks at him]

\-- And bugs, and no furniture, and rain, and songs sung most uncarefully of technicalities, and whatever we managed to scare up for dinner, and you could have complained for weeks on end while enjoying the whole business just as you did in after years.

 **Steward** :

That was _after_ , and not unconnected with the events you insist upon recounting.

 **Captain** : [very smug]

Got you.

 **Steward** :

 _What_?

 **Captain** :

You finally admitted to a liking for cross-country excursions and hunting trips and the whole outdoors life.

[the other grimaces in self-directed disgust]

\-- What did I say, people?

[there are groans and resigned sighs from around the circle]

Pay up, now.

[one by one the other eight find or manifest some small article of value and hand over the items to their commander, who pockets them all into his wallet, while the subject of the bet affects dignified obliviousness to it all.]

 **Beren** : [aside, to the Sea-elf]

 _That's_ a wager.

 **Teler Maid** : [shaking her head]

I still do not see the purpose of it.

 **Steward** :

Would you just _finish_ the confounded story?

 **Captain** :

You mean you want me to tell it?

 **Steward** : [not fooled by the innocent tone of the query]

No, I want it over with.

 **Captain** :

Oh, all right. -- As he said, for a couple of days he moped about, dodging out of my sight and worrying me still more -- though not much since I had some of my people looking out for him meanwhiles -- and then abruptly and quite unpredictably abandoned that policy by coming upon me unexpectedly and collaring me, and demands without any sort of explanation, "What do you think you're about?"

 **Steward** :

You exaggerate _shamelessly_. I did _not_ lay a hand on you, and you knew _quite_ well at the time the matter whereof I spoke.

 **Captain** :

So? And I meant "collared" figuratively, the way it's usually meant.

[continuing]

\-- And I said, "Er, what?" and he snarls back, " _Why_ did you tell him I was not doing well?" and I said, "Because you aren't. Are you?" And that shut him up quite, for a bit at least. And then he gives me a look that would have frozen boiling water solid and asks me, "What are you looking to get out of this?" and I said, "-- I beg your pardon?"

[the Steward clears his throat]

Well, what I _actually_ said was, "Er, what?" again, which admittedly doesn't sound so intelligent but means the same thing --

[his former colleague giggles before recollecting herself]

\-- and while I was trying to figure out which of several possible meanings of "this" was intended he reiterated, in very simple syllables and extremely slowly and then over again in Quenya too --

[the Steward's expression becomes more pained]

"What -- do -- you -- want -- from -- me?" And I told him the plain truth again: "That you not be so gloomy."

"Why?" says he, which was such an idiotic question that I gave it an equally foolish answer: "Then you won't have to spoil any more perfectly fine evenings by moping off in a corner." At which point he gets all haughty again and tells me, "If you minded it so much, then you ought have said something at the time."

"If I had, I would have," I told him. I swear it felt like the Helcaraxe in there, for all 'twas midsummer. So, of course, I made a joke: "The House of Finwe already has one grim, bad-tempered Elf -- we don't really need another Caranthir about, do we?" Which threw him for a moment, and then he comes back ever so smoothly, "Belike you will be less high-humoured yourself when you have heard my message for you: our lord would speak next to you, and upon the moment."

"I doubt it," said I. 

" _You_ have not the Sight, I think," he tells me, just like that, and I said back, "Don't need it -- he's just going to tell me that you've agreed to the mission I suggested and ask me to take care of the necessary arrangements for the journey, and I'm going to tell him I've already done so." And he stands there scowling at me like a pup that's got out of its nest and can't find its way back to the litter, ready to try to chew your fingers off when you try to fetch the poor mite from behind a cask or under a chest or wherever it's backed itself into. "Just mind you don't get me shot, this time," I said as a joke, and he stops looking angry all of an instant and gives me a look completely guilt-stricken, which wasn't what I'd meant for to happen at all.

[he stops, and does not go on, despite the Sea-elf's expectant look; the Steward clears his throat]

 **Captain** : [easily]

Your turn. I'm tired of talking.

 **Steward** :

That is so unamusing that it cannot even be considered a joke.

[continued silence -- he gives the Captain an even sterner Look, to no avail.]

 **Captain** :

You said you wanted it finished. Well, prove it.

[after a moment of impasse the other capitulates, shaking his head]

 **Steward** : [acerbic tone]

This lunatic stood there grinning, and while I was distracted with the consideration of my prospects for surviving a journey halfway 'cross Beleriand with a mad Elf who deemed it a fine jest to be shot, he declared to me, "You'd best not, for I'll haunt you if you do, I vow it," and dealt me a blow that sent me reeling to the wall before turning to go answer his own summons.

 **Teler Maid** : [troubled, to the Captain]

For what did you hit him, that were not angered with him beforetimes?

 **Captain** : [snorting with disgust]

I clapped him on the shoulder, is all. I didn't realize that the shock of it would knock him off balance like that.

 **Ranger** :

You have to admit, sir, you're the only one that was ever so bold to slap Lord Edrahil on the back. Not even the King does that.

 **Steward** : [extremely austere]

Finrod Felagund is a most civil, courteous and gracious lord whose humour never exceeds the limits of decorum; I leave you to your own conclusions as to the corollary. 

[picking up as though he'd been telling the story all along]

\-- And so I found it even as he'd said, that my gear should have been readied and horses called and the other riders all waiting upon us, and so we gave thanks and farewell to our hosts and companions and betook ourselves upon the journey to the High King's holdings. And for those days and nights I sulked exceedingly and my wrath that I should be so judged and dealt with for mine own good, as were but a child, contended for precedence with indignation that a mere fighter's counsel should count as high as mine in our sovereign's sight (and also that manifestly should be deserved), and that his friendship should be so divided (for so I saw it) and both of those with the truth, which was that answer that I might not deny, and relief that the King should know and take thought for the burden of my griefs, and anger that it had been made known thus and in my despite, and I be reproached for keeping mine own counsel and my cares so long; nor was I good company the whiles, as might well be imagined --

 **Captain** : [impatiently]

\-- You take so long about even the simplest story. What happened was this: we kept having horse races -- which we always did, when the ground was level and clear, as a way to make the journey more fun, just as you'll recall from here -- and he kept losing and getting more annoyed, mostly because he wasn't concentrating on the course but getting distracted by his inner turmoil, and so his mount kept getting put out with him and back _at_ him by doing things like going forward at an angle or splashing through the muddiest parts that could be found, and annoying everyone else -- and I ignored it all on the assumption that he'd get over it soon enough. 

[with a sidelong glance]

\-- How hard is that to recount?

 **Teler Maid** :

Do not be fooled -- he but did so of a purpose, that you would resume!

 **Captain** : [smiling]

I know. We're almost done. He'd said nothing for the whole of the day -- if you can believe it -- and we'd almost reached the end, when we stopped to watch the sunset on the water, and he rode off a little ways on his own, so of course I went along. After a bit he asks, "Am I truly like Lord Caranthir?" which I wasn't expecting.

"Not so much," I said back, which was the truth. And he didn't say anything, so I said, "You're not really giving up your music, are you?" And he answers, "It was not sturdy enough for the journeying that lies ahead of us." I wasn't sure I liked the sound of that -- I mean, he'd managed to bring the instrument unbroken over the Grinding Ice, after all -- but I wanted to get on to the High King's hall before it got too late so instead of getting into that, I said, "You could make another that will be."

"I don't want your pity," he says to me, not angry nor sharp nor anything of the sort.

"I know," I told him. "I'm sorry." And he gave me a look to match the tone of voice, very plain, very straightforward, -- not like him at all, you'd probably say -- and returns, "Then since you will not rescind it, I must thank you for it." And She went down and we got back on the trail and went on from there.

[silence]

 **Teler Maid** : [not entirely happy still]

So it is of mercy that you did befriend him . . .

[suddenly, rather fierce]

For what do you spend so much of your time speaking but of _him_ , when have you not your own lives and stories and deeds to be telling?

 **Beren** : [reasonable tone]

But that's who you're really most interested in, and you know it and we know it.

[pause]

 **Teler Maid** :

You are unkind and do amuse yourselves at my expense, to find diversion in my folly.

 **Fourth Guard** : [earnest]

Would you _rather_ hear about the building of the City, Maiwe? I worked on the Gates: do you want to know about dressing stone so that a dry-set wall will line up perfectly and still appear completely natural from the outside? It isn't at all easy to make an ashlar facing look like weathered rock, you know, even though it does seem that it would be the easiest thing in the world to make broken stone look like broken stone.

 **Teler Maid** : [coldly]

You do make sport of me.

 **Captain** :

Do you mean you want us to talk about him, or you _don't_ want us to talk about him?

[somehow his former colleague finds her toes more interesting than anything else.]

Sulking's also an option, I suppose.

[she looks up at him with an angry expression]

 **Steward** : [tightly]

You're not helping matters, you realize.

 **Captain** :

On the contrary, that's exactly what we're doing.

 **Steward** : [disgruntled]

I didn't _ask_ for your assistance.

 **Captain** :

Well, not in so many words, no.

 **Steward** :

Not in _any_ words.

 **Captain** :

You don't think we can make it _worse_ , do you?

[pause]

Look, all you're doing is imitating a statue, and --

 **Steward** :

\-- Exaggeration --

 **Captain** : [not missing a beat]

\-- not by much, when the Sea-Mew wants to know what happened to change a self-centered, neurotically-insecure-yet-overconfident musician into an unselfish, self-effacing hero?

 **Steward** : [through grit teeth]

I am _not_ any sort of a hero -- !

 **Ranger** : [earnest]

But you are, sir.

 **Soldier** :

Even if we didn't see it before, we couldn't help it after Serech, when the King was down and you held us long enough for Beren's father to get there.

 **Steward** : [exasperated]

What else could I have done?

 **Second Guard** :

Run.

 **Youngest Ranger** :

Given up and died.

 **Captain** :

Forsaken your duty because it was hopeless, instead of proving that sometimes it's a good idea to have a pessimist in charge, since it comes as no surprise to him not just that things _could_ go wrong, but that there's no hope of them going otherwise. Instead of the chap who was convinced that yes, we could easily take out Melkor-now-Morgoth, retake the Silmarils (ignoring the problem of the Gloomweaver), and make Endor into what Valinor ought to have been, all in time to hear his epics chronicling it at dinner.

[looking over at the three youngest members of the group:]

\-- We were idiots, if you haven't realized that by now.

[the object of their praises struggles with embarrassment, and then takes the offhand approach]

 **Steward** : [lightly]

\-- What became of him? He faded, for the most part, unmarked and unmourned, during the crossing of the Ice; when it became most eminently clear that a talent for remembering was of far more worth put to the accounting of consumables and not for the rehearsing of lore, and a gift of eloquence more valuable employed in passing on a leader's instructions than any new-fashioned verse of his own devising. What little was left of him did not survive the knowledge that his ambitions had set another far on the Westward path, in his own place -- or in the stead of a Northern destination -- and a hard reckoning of the worth of that exchange, listening for heartbeats in terror of silence. He did not return from that parley, and none missed him.

 **Captain** : [musing]

\--  _Unregretted_ , perhaps, but not unnoticed. -- Though I was late in recognizing it, I must admit. We were well-settled along the Lake by the time it occurred to me that you were saying things because they were the sorts of things that you _would_ have said, and well aware of how arrogant and pompous they sounded, and allowing folk to laugh at you _not_ to have the better laugh on them, but as a strange way of joining in with the general mirth.

 **Steward** : [loftily]

What curious notions you do come up with.

 **Teler Maid** : [narrowing her brows]

Do you _know_ what he would say, when gone from among the House, and neither Lord Ingold nor any other of the family to reprove him present, -- how he would declare that there was scarce any art whatsoever in the making of gardens, for so much did the plants do of their own, without care, and to but arrange them in differing place was the play of children, not of minds full grown --

[in a rush, aside to the Steward]

\-- and when I did say that it was insult to the Earthqueen to say such _you_ would but disclaim that it was honor to her to say that no hand could better hers, and your friends laughed at me behind their wine-cups, but can you say _here_ that you did not twist words like hawsers? --

[not waiting for him to answer]

\-- and of those who followed the Rider that there was little greater skill in those that did hunt than among the beasts themselves, for so much did they do indeed, that it should take no thought nor speech, nay, for must be silent when stalking prey --

[to the Steward again]

\-- and that was much of mirth between your fine lord Maglor and his brothers, and all of the general bandying of words about, in that so-witty company -- but you _did_ think it, I knew then and know it to be true!

[to the Captain, demanding:]

It does not astonish you to learn that?

 **Captain** :

Er -- no, I can't say it did when he told me.

 **Teler Maid** : [outraged]

Is there _nothing_ that he might do or yet have done, that would aggrieve you then?

 **Captain** : [rueful]

What, you think it's easy, having a compulsively-hypercritical despondent type who's harder on himself than anyone else for a friend?

[she shoots a Look at the Steward in turn]

 **Teler Maid** :

And you say naught to that?

 **Steward** : [very dry]

Rest assured, I would contradict him, -- if there were any point on which I might. But there is, for good and ill, nothing I can say.

[she snorts angrily, her lips tightening]

 **Teler Maid** :

Only that is not so. There are _many_ things you might say, many things hard and sharp and pointed as swords, cold as iron, burning as fire, that should wound the spirit, -- only you choose not so, but let them make game of you, and answer not, but smile from your high vantage point and fancy yourself most generous, that you withhold your mockery! And these are grateful for even the crumbs of your notice that you so jealously grant them!

[Beren and the Youngest Ranger exchange a startled glance]

 **Beren** : [whispering, to the Youngest Ranger]

Whoa, does that sound familiar or what?

 **Youngest Ranger** : [nodding, as quietly]

It sounds like the Fall of the Noldor, the bits with Feanor.

[through the rest of her tirade they carry on a low-level exchange of nervous banter, making it increasingly harder for the nearer of the Ten to behave]

 **Beren** :

\--  _Yeah_.

 **Teler Maid** : [glaring around at the rest of them]

You sit at his feet in eagerness and hope that he should approve ye and make remark of your words as though he were Lord Ingold himself!

 **Captain** : [straightfaced, not showing any anger in response]

Oh no, we never get them mixed up. They don't look anything alike. -- Sound different, too.

[this just makes her lose her temper still more]

 **Teler Maid** :

You know whereof I mean! You are pleased even to have his mockery, as though you merited no more, as though such attention were honour of itself and enow for your content!

 **Youngest Ranger** : [aside]

Only we never thought of him as a god.

 **Beren** : [aside]

Speak for yourself.

 **Teler Maid** :

Are you _blind_ , then, that can see all else so clearly, and nothing of this? What fog misleading has he set upon the lot of ye, that should be so fondly led and misled that have not _my_ excuse for it?

 **Youngest Ranger** :

Well, perhaps a demi-god.

 **Teler Maid** :

You are even yourselves Noldor, -- well, for the most part -- and that high precedence he cannot claim against you. -- Oh, but you came to the Light sooner than we -- and yet you left it fast enough in truth as well!

 **Beren** : [shrugging]

I'm not really one to say, though, being mortal.

 **Teler Maid** :

Or is it that you believe in his assurance of greater wisdom, and that you less skilled in words, less truly are the Quendi than he and his honored companions?

 **Youngest Ranger** :

You met all the same Powers I did when we were alive.

 **Beren** :

True.

 **Teler Maid** : [gesturing sweepingly]

Only not any of ye has not the gift of thought nor song, but instead to it do add other skills, so far from diminished that are not bards or scribes!

 **Youngest Ranger** :

Except Morgoth.

 **Beren** : [quick headshake]

Didn't _meet_ him.

 **Teler Maid** : [impassioned, not noticing (or caring) that no one is disagreeing with her]

But what of that which all must have to live, nor there might be speaking without?! Is it not so -- that to grow and catch the stuff of food, of clothing, to make the things that must be had for other making, is that not as worthful as to make words and letters to hold them in?

 **Youngest Ranger** : [nodding slightly towards the Steward]

\-- He's not much like Queen Melian.

 **Beren** : [biting his lip]

N -- nope.

[there is some suspicious coughing from his left as well, but Earwen's former servant is too caught up in her harangue to notice them.]

 **Teler Maid** :

Or why are things of stone more noble than the same designs when made in woven rushes, more worthy a vase than a basket, tell? Or why is a house of stone more noble than a ship of wood?

 **Youngest Ranger** :

Nor Huan neither.

[the Hound perks up his ears and rolls his eyes to look at them without lifting his head]

 **Beren** :

Oh, I don't know, you haven't heard Huan being sarcastic --

 **Teler Maid** :

Is there not no less skill in either, and so too in the makers of them?

 **Youngest Ranger** :

Well -- perhaps so. But really I'd say --

 **Beren** : [interrupting, glancing at his neighbor on the left]

\-- Don't say it.

 **Youngest Ranger** :

But --

 **Beren** :

I know what you're gonna say. _Don't_.

 **Teler Maid** : [rhetorically]

 _Well_?

 **Youngest Ranger** :

You can't.

 **Teler Maid** :

Have you not anything of respect left for the worth that is your own? But must you cede it all up to him, who does not give any back?

 **Beren** :

Yes I can.

 **Youngest Ranger** :

Prove it.

[Beren looks apologetically at the Warrior, who is trying with supreme effort to keep a straight face, and leans over to try to whisper his guess too quietly for anyone else to overhear -- but the strain is too much and all three dissolve into sputters of laughter, drawing wrath upon themselves]

 **Teler Maid** : [snapping about to direct a furious Look their way]

 _What_ do you mutter when I attend you not?

[now the object of scrutiny from all about the circle, the culprits attempt to display a spirit of reform: the Warrior by straightening up, eyes front, the Sindarin Ranger by bowing his head apologetically under his commander's stern expression, and Beren by looking innocent. None of this works particularly well.]

Pray, what of my words does so _greatly_ amuse you?

[she leans around to glare at them; Beren leans back, trying to stay out of the line of the glare]

 **Youngest Ranger** :

. . .

[she reaches around behind him and pokes Beren hard, making him look at her guiltily]

 **Beren** :

Uh -- we were just -- ah -- being silly.

 **Teler Maid** : [innocently]

Nay, and I thought you but spoke of the winds.

 **Warrior** : [uncertain]

But -- there isn't any weather in here.

 **Teler Maid** : [grimly meaningful]

Even so.

 **Beren** : [looking at the senior officers]

Er, sirs -- we have to tell the truth, right?

 **Steward** :

Or else remain silent. 

**Beren** : [glancing nervously at the Teler girl, who is leaning around still scowling at him]

I don't think that's an option right now.

 **Steward** :

Then, as you understand it, yes. But you will find it simply to be _so_ , not something to be worked at.

[aside to the Captain]

\-- And no, we are _not_ going to explain how to get around it, things are bad enough as it is.

 **Beren** :

Can I leave things out?

 **Teler Maid** :

 _No_.

 **Beren** :

Damn.

[he sighs heavily]

Promise you're not gonna yell at me?

[she keeps glaring at him, and he squares his shoulders, sighs again -- and breaks into helpless snickers once more.]

 **Youngest Ranger** : [aside]

\-- Just run for it, Beren.

 **Beren** :

Oh, you're volunteering to explain?

 **Youngest Ranger** :

No, I'll be retreating right alongside you.

 **Captain** :

Lads -- you're straining _my_ patience, now.

 **Beren** : [straightening up]

Yes, sir.

[to the Sea-elf]

When you started saying we were all being like a bunch of dumb kids just looking up to Lord Edrahil even if he was looking down on us, it reminded us of what Feanor said about the Valar and the Noldor, or the Noldor and the Valar rather, and when I say "reminded us" I mean "about" since the two of us weren't around for it, so we can't actually get reminded of it, but you know what I mean, right? So -- that -- just got us going about the Powers we _did_ know, and if they were like him at all or not, and _he_  --

[lightly elbowing the Teler Ranger]

\-- was just about to bring up Morgoth's second-in-command, and I lost it.

[his co-offender gives a huff over being proven wrong; the Sea-elf's Look becomes still icier]

I know it wasn't really appropriate, but we weren't _trying_ to be rude, and I guess it wasn't really all that funny either --  

**Warrior** : [aside, straightfaced]

\--  _Melian_.

[Beren breaks down again, but the Youngest Ranger manages to maintain his composure -- for all of a half-second. The Captain just shakes his head, sighing.]

Sorry, my lords.

 **Steward** :

One supposes you were incapable of refraining, and hence not culpable.

 **Youngest Ranger** : [nodding seriously]

That's it precisely, sir.

 **Teler Maid** : [furious]

Even you! Even you that are of the free kindred that went upon your own ways, you too are content to be his thrall and fool and make jest even of yourself for his amusing!

[her distant compatriot bows his head, trying to avoid conflict, but the Steward looks up at last and leans forward, his eyes blazing]

 **Steward** : [fiercely]

Think you so, my lady? -- That I know not the worth of these my friends, nor rate theirs properly against mine own, but deem it no more than due? That no more do _they_ , but like fools do believe a glamour of words and certainties and pride, as they were deceived by the Enemy himself? Listen, then, and _then_ judge them as you will --

[she glares back, not backing down, though the others do not look happy]

You will hear whether or not they know my limit, and the boundless depths and heights of my cowardice, and if their kindness and care of my uncertain temper is of aught other grounds than their compassion!

[the Captain grips his shoulder, but does not make any attempt to interrupt; but when he goes on the heat is absent from his voice almost completely, and the edge is replaced by a calm, if somewhat wearied, factual tone]

When we were taken prisoners, and sentenced to die unless we should betray which among us were our leaders, and what our mission had been, I held at first that I should endure far better than my fellows, for my greater understanding of all things, that I judged but second to our royal master's, and for that those things which grated so heavily upon certain of us, and that some had no power whatsoever to withstand --

[he looks apologetically at the Youngest Ranger, who is watching him with a serious, intent gaze]

\-- to me were almost nothing, compared to those burdens which did trouble me deeply. But that confidence, which was indeed pride, and in equal part fear that another less able to resist would break and give Sauron the Abhorred the word he wished, and thus the keys that might unlock not only Nargothrond but also haply Doriath, did news of our fate come to King Elu's daughter. -- We did not at that time know that she had already learned some part of it, and even then was making effort to come to Beren's rescue, but had been twice thwarted before reaching more than halfway to our holding-place.

[he frowns, looking off thoughtfully -- she snaps her fingers impatiently to get his attention]

 **Teler Maid** :

But?

[to his confused look]

But what of that confidence -- ?

 **Steward** :

Forgive me -- I am somewhat distracted with many things, and this is not so easy a tale, nor one I am much used to tell.

 **Second Guard** : [aside]

Huh --  _That's_ an understatement.

 **Teler Maid** : [aside, suspicious]

Who _is_ this, that addresses me in such a fashion?

 **Steward** :

As I had begun, but finished not, that confidence of mine was far from well-founded. Instead of other and more noble cares, the one that came to prey most upon my mind was _fear_ , not of pain but of being unhoused: the certainty grew upon me that I should be lost there, unable to find my way, unable to escape the snares and power of our captor, and the dread of it was worse than sleeplessness, nor the burning of the chains that caused it, nor the dark itself. So great did this conviction become, and so wholly did it consume my attention, that I grew to most bitterly resent the giving of my place to you --

[glancing at the Captain]

\-- and to waste much fruitless energy in wishing to have the deed undone; and in fury, that Barahir's son might not be obliged as we to spend a measureless Age in yet another prison after that one, but should go free, nor be held shelterless within these Halls --

[to Beren and the rest of the Ten, wryly]

\-- I am often wrong, you see.

[Beren shakes his head]

 **Beren** : [tightly]

Nobody Saw this one coming. Not even Lord Mandos.

 **Steward** :

In any case, Maiwe, you must surely concede that none that were present can have any doubt of my vanity, nor my weakness, nor my inability to rule the same --

 **First Guard** : [interrupting, very definitely not rudely]

\-- That -- wasn't how it seemed -- to us, sir. That you could be _that_ _frightened_ , and not give in, and still care about us, the worse it got -- how could _we_ do any less?

[the Steward bows his head in embarrassed acceptance]

 **Teler Maid** : [shaking her head]

But that does not make sense. How could one _not_ come here, when your body is not there to stay in? What foolishness is that, to worry about finding your way" -- ? 

**Captain** : [aside to her, urgently]

It -- isn't the same, for everyone.

 **Steward** : [shrugging]

\-- Unreasonable, perhaps, but reason had long abandoned me. I strove to conquer it, and thought I had at last, by virtue of silencing my mind, that I thought of nothing, but only the ever-changing, ever-familiar, never-silent vistas of the Sea; and thus could not afflict my companions with my fear, nor they to shake me with their own. But I had not escaped it, only hidden for a while, and again the dread of it grew so strong upon me that I could no longer speak, for it drowned out all other thought, so that when my time came at last, I had not strength even for wrath, or for any other thought than that I should at least no longer be obliged to hear _his_ coughing --

[nods towards Beren]

 **Teler Maid** : [confused]

Was there smoke?

[the Steward shakes his head]

Then what was it made you cough?

 **Steward** :

Not us. Only he.

 **Teler Maid** : [frowning still more]

Why?

[the Ten exchange looks of dismay and distress, while her expression changes from confusion to anger at being apparently treated as unworthy of response. Huan starts whining, very softly, and gets a light tap from the Captain to make him shut up.]

 **Beren** : [to the others, earnestly]

She doesn't understand. How can she? No one who _stayed_ has ever met us. You said that not even animals get sick here the way they do back home, there's no blight on crops, things don't grow _wrong_ , they just grow until they get old and stop, or something eats them first -- they don't start dying while they're alive. 

**Teler Maid** : [sudden understanding]

That is what they meant, those I did overhear talking that are returned, when they spoke of the Sickly Ones --

 **Ranger** : [fierce]

You mustn't _say_ that --

 **Teler Maid** : [concerned]

Is that unmannerly? Was that insult, then?

 **Beren** : [shaking his head]

Not from _you_ , no.

 **Steward** :

No living thing fares well in chains, in darkness -- not even the Children of Aule could bear such forever, I think; but for we that were born of earth beneath the sky, it is death to be held under stone, and falls hardest on the youngest of us. No more than a bird or a green plant might live without free air or light -- yet the bodies of the Secondborn still strive to mend and to live despite the harm even as our own, and _that_ is sickness.

[pause]

 **Teler Maid** :

For how long were you imprisoned?

[none of the Elven shades answer her -- they do not know]

 **Beren** : [in a weirdly-detached manner]

The leaves were partway-turned when we reached the southernmost edge of the delta, the farthest point north we got. The trees were bare when Huan broke Tinuviel out of Nargothrond. Closer than that, can't tell. I don't even know if that means anything to you, if you had seasons here before like we do now.

 **Teler Maid** : [quiet]

But a long time -- longer than days --

[he nods]

 **Beren** : [shortly]

Yeah.

 **Steward** : [quietly]

But not so long as years, as those that are thralls of the Iron Lord must serve without hope, until, and _if_ , they are allowed to die.

[she stiffens, her expression growing hard]

 **Teler Maid** :

They are Kinslayers, and such is their fate.

[the Youngest Ranger starts and looks grim, but the Steward replies before he can say anything.]

 **Steward** : [still dispassionate]

Not all. Many are of your tribe of our people, and guilty of no murder -- for the Lord of Fetters cares nothing for the deeds or misdeeds of those he takes for slaves, saving only as he might use them against his foes. It is a terrible choice to be given, between dying and giving slavery to those that have been one's friends.

 **Teler Maid** : [chill emphasis]

 _I_ had no choice.

 **Steward** :

And for that I do envy you.

[she makes as if to say something, and he waits,until it is clear she will not, before he goes on]

But even though I did make it, there was no respite there, no satisfaction in the deed of choosing, for the slave-demon made no haste in its work to end my time of captivity, and the fear of being stranded as an unquiet ghost grew to outmeasure what dread I had known before as a true hurricane that uproots ancient trees and hurls the Sea upon the land and casts down the sand cliffs into it outpaces the wind and tumult of a common thunderstorm.

[again her braids are being turned into knots without her realizing it]

And that was worst of all -- I had not dreamed that fear could be so strong, nor that any emotion might consume so without killing, and I was still bound there to life, even as I was torn from it and from my friends, who might not save me, no more than I might aid them. All that was left of my mind was _fear_ , and a longing to be free of it, as might a wild bird trapped in a burning cage know, and in my yearning I reached for that dream that had given me rest when no rest was to be had, and the Sea was _there_.

[at these words the Captain slides his arm across to grip his other shoulder, and he leans his head back against his friend's elbow in acknowledgment of the gesture, but doesn't hesitate or stop:]

And I understood at last, in the place beneath all speech, all mastery of words, beneath the biting roots of that fear that had devoured my wits more thoroughly than the Enemy's beast devoured my body, that it was no mere memory nor fancy born of my own wishfulness, but truth: that the voice of the Sea is wherever the Lord of the Waters holds dominion -- and the salt currents run endless through our hearts, through every least inch of our flesh, through our brains and our bones living, and never can we escape the Deep, though it lies so near to us that we do not even mark it for the most part.

[smiling grimly]

And I knew also that my fear, _for_ _me_ , was the truth -- that I had so weakened myself in my lonely war against it that I might not have the strength to make my way Westward against the dark winds that blew across Middle-earth, and I should indeed perhaps be trapped by the Enemy's might, if not as his slave, then as a lost thing that once had a name, within the shadows.

[pause]

 **Teler Maid** : [doubtful and resentful at once]

But -- you did mean it for mercy's sake -- to keep your fears to yourself.

 **Steward** :

So I did indeed.

 **Teler Maid** :

But that is not _fair_  --

 **Steward** :

That I should be free to harm myself for good cause as for ill? 'Twould be hard, I think, that I should be let Doom myself for vainglory, and not to protect those I loved, whether it made any difference in the end.

 **Teler Maid** :

Yet --

[she subsides again with a troubled expression]

 **Steward** :

Only might I turn to the Waters, while yet they ran within my emptying veins, and forsake the dry cliff from which I watched the breakers in my thoughts, and let the god of the Deeps protect me, and thus find safety -- and this I knew, as one knows the embrace of one's parents from the first, before ever word or name is known, and yet -- I did not dare to enter the Sea.

 **Teler Maid** : [baffled]

But why should you yet fear the Sea, and more so than houseless death?

 **Steward** :

But I did. Nor was it all unreasoning in its root, though there was no reason in me then; for your Lord nor his folk had cause to love me, being Noldor.

 **Teler Maid** : [with suppressed intensity]

But you have _sworn_ to me, Edrahil, most solemnly, that you had not _any part_ in our deaths!

 **Steward** :

I have, and ever shall. But many were on those ships that had not wielded blade, and I had seen the sorrow of the Long-Haired Lady more terrible than the wrath of Feanor, ruining that which he had accounted more worth than lives, and with their destruction those lives as well.

[pause]

 **Teler Maid** : [taut]

They did consent, still. -- Though it be after.

 **Steward** : [gently]

And might I have been among them, had I not feared the Deep so much even then, full as much as I did trust Finarfin's son, and refuse the urgings of those that had been among that company you recollect, that smiled at you behind their cups, and praised me for my wit. And despite my innocence of blood, I dreaded that my unkindness to you and to your kin, and my contemptible thoughts of all your tribe, should be known to them of the Sea and I tarried in dread, while the tide ran ever lower, and I wished that the decision might be made for me without my making it, that a crashing breaker might sweep me from the rocks; but that might not be.

[he sighs; the Captain swats Huan preemptively again]

 **Teler Maid** :

But you did at last.

 **Steward** : [nods]

I did. As reluctantly as I had eagerly fled thence did I turn West at last, and yielded and cast myself into the mercy of your Lord, and the Sea took me, and all the tangled ambitions and regrets and certainties and remembrances dissolved as I had feared, and I was free, no shred cohering to be caught by grasping foe, nor caught upon that other shore, and there was peace, though I cannot well say _for me_  -- for where is difference, once the berg has melted into the summer wave?

[she is looking at him seriously, without her previous skepticism or hostility]

A time passed, and the tide washed upon this shore, and here did I remain, bodiless and broken, upon the land where I was born, blind, and without remembrance even of my names, that I might from that small coal of knowledge rekindle my self's shaping -- and thus might I have remained even to this instant, for all of mine own strength. None of my ability or wisdom or will should have sufficed, so far had I lost myself in my wanderings, had not _these_ sought me out most loyally and lavished their sorrow upon me and called me by my names and stayed me until I returned from my darkness -- all that endures, that is to say.

[as he finishes he looks now at Beren, who is watching him with an expression both grief-stricken and under control.]

 **Beren** : [whispering]

I'm sorry.

 **Steward** : [as softly]

I know.

[the moment is one of complete mutual acceptance, and recognition of that acceptance, and consequent peace, broken almost immediately]

 **Teler Maid** :

But for what does _he_ ask your pardon, that was taken in the same cruel punishment? -- Only --

[looking at Beren uncertainly, then back again]

\-- he did say he was the cause of your coming hither . . .

[she trails off; Beren starts to answer, but the Steward raises his hand commandingly]

 **Steward** :

Hush, child, she did ask of _me_.

[to the Sea-elf]

\-- The Lord of Beor begged aid and guestright of Earwen's son our King, that never should have needed to do the same, but such have the times become in the lands beyond, that news be scarce, and help scarcer. And he in his turn repaid his life-debt and kept his promised word to give such help, though the price of it be life as well as kingdom, robbed of him by faithlessness, though none should have prevented him from answering the mortal with silence, and barred doors, nor obliged him to honor pledged faith save his heart's honour.

[the detatched, factual tone is displaced by great intensity]

And _none_ did compel me, nor any of these our friends to follow, saving our own hearts likewise, though any could see, nor the King alone, that for this endeavor should be no likely ending save disaster. And so we were taken by the demi-god who now rejoices in a name of loathing, and but little more than half our journey made, though the way in end did prove far longer than any had guessed. And there we perished, that _he_ might not.

[she looks at him with a wide, fixed stare -- then suddenly springs to her feet]

 **Teler Maid** : [through clenched teeth]

I do not _want_ to pity you, -- nor to honour you!

[silence -- she turns to look at Beren]

I wish I could hate _you_. I wish --

[in a rush]

\-- I wish I had never to have left my home for Tirion, that never should I have known _any_ of ye, nor should I have perforce to cared, that had I been slain upon the Night yet would the Doom upon you meant no more to me than justice done, nor I to have stayed here when most all have long gone home, to wait for you that now are strangers all, for love and hate for him that ever was a stranger! I wish I were not _here_  --

 **Captain** : [reaching his free hand up towards her]

Maiwe --

 **Teler Maid** : [cold]

You are kind and will urge me peace regardless. Let _him_ speak, that I should stay, or go -- as he'd rule me.

[the Captain winces and looks away; she does not rescind her no-win mandate, but continues to stare down at the Steward, who does not flinch at her anger]

 **Steward** : [very simply]

Please -- don't leave -- like this.

[long pause]

 **Teler Maid** : [in bleak admission]

If I go, where _shall_ I go? Where is there for me to be, but _here_ , and beside you? If I go -- I shall only return, like fish to a bow-lantern, drawn to your light and your song --

[looking around at them all]

\-- from my shadows, for I cannot _unknow_ what I now know. Only might I stay hidden, that none might discern or touch me -- and I to affect none in my turn, silent as mist. Long enough was I quiet beside you! -- or would you have me in death as in life, Edrahil, silent in your shadow, when you would not have my _chattering_ to interrupt you nor shame you amid the wise?

 **Steward** :

Not though your words be harder than hail upon my soul.

[she stands with her fists clenched, then in abrupt, disjointed motions in succession puts her hands on her hips, folds her arms, and lets them fall to her side]

 **Teler Maid** : [tired and frayed-sounding]

I am much overset with all that I have heard and seen and learnt this day.

 **Beren** : [quietly, with the hint of a smile]

Join the crowd.

[he gestures to her place, and after a moment's hesitation she sits down again with a heavy sigh]

 **Teler Maid** : [to him, dispirited]

Moreover if I were to hate you then these all should hate me in turn.

 **Captain** : [in a good imitation of his usual tone]

We'd not hate you, Ternlet -- though we might toss you in the drink if you're too obnoxious, to be sure.

 **Teler Maid** : [startled]

Why?

 **Captain** :

Well, if _I_ were involved, it might be considered a much-belated revenge for the time you incited my sister to help you push me off of the sea-wall at your lady's parents' House.

 **Teler Maid** : [affronted]

That was not mine, that idea was hers!

 **Captain** :

That's what _she_ said.

 **Teler Maid** :

I tell you, it was Sulilote thought of it! -- First.

 **Captain** : [shaking his head solemnly]

Led astray by my perfidious sibling. And you didn't say, "Oh, that wouldn't be nice, when he's got his pack still on and all his gear there, think how long it will take him to dry it all out and clean the salt off and polish and wax everything so stuff doesn't rust (and the bowstrings are going to be ruined anyway) so why don't we let's _not_?"

 **Teler Maid** :

Um . . .

 **Captain** :

Of course not, never even crossed your mind, I'll wager.

 **Teler Maid** : [stubborn]

You _did_ think it most droll, as well.

 **Captain** : [raising an eyebrow]

And you think that excuses it, Sanderling?

[she makes a strange little exclamation, half-laugh, half-sob, and looks away quickly, scrubbing hard at her eyes with her hair]

 **Teler Maid** : [forlornly]

Not even _you_ can make me to be cheerful now.

[pulling herself together]

But why should you do so to me?

 **Beren** :

Apparently it's something they do on a regular basis. Only usually it just involves pushing unsuspecting hecklers into puddles or something. Nothing _quite_ as elaborate as all this.

[nodding towards the waterfall. Simultaneously:]

 **First Guard** : [wistful]

We never thought of doing _this_ before.

 **Captain** :

They tripped, I assure you, on my honor! All of them.

 **Beren** : [dryly]

Yeah, just like Prince Aegnor.

 **Teler Maid** : [wide-eyed, not sure if this is for real]

You flung _him_ into the water?

[they nod, and Huan's tail thumps twice before he remembers he is being unobtrusive and a Sorry Dog.]

Wherefore he spoke hatefully to your friend? -- And what said Lord Ingold of it?

 **Warrior** :

Oh, he said we could.

 **Steward** : [sighing heavily]

That is _not_ exactly correct. What he said was, _if_ you'll recollect, in essence, that he could not stop us. Which, strictly interpreted, is the truth -- but rather begging the question, if you ask me (which no one did) of whether or not he had any intention of trying. -- Which, as he had not, made it entirely impossible for him to do so, by logical necessity.

 **Captain** : [to the Sea-elf]

See? He can still manage a properly supercilious set-down when it's appropriate.

[she gives him a quick, forced smile]

 **Teler Maid** : [frowning suddenly]

Was not his brother angry with him?

 **Captain** :

I expect so.

 **Teler Maid** :

What said they following?

[he shrugs]

 **Captain** :

He wasn't here. -- Himself, I mean, not the younger one. -- You really are a bad influence, Barahirion.

 **Beren** :

Sorry, sir. I'm trying my best.

 **Fourth Guard** : [patronizing]

Yes, Beren, but that's the problem, you see.

[the Sea-elf ducks her head quickly, letting her hair fall forward to screen her expression]

 **Beren** : [aside to his neighbor on the right]

\-- If you made a pebble and gave it to me, do you think I could throw it at him?

 **Youngest Ranger** :

I don't see why not.

[obliges; Beren tosses it accurately though left-handedly at the Guard, who catches it without effort and goes to flick it back]

 **Steward** :

\--  _Children_. _Behave_.

[the pebble mysteriously vanishes]

 **Captain** : [bland]

How you do go on about nothing.

 **Teler Maid** : [harshly, still hidden behind her long hair]

Keep on with the telling of this tale of yours, for there must have been things to happen between your sojourn by this lake and your deaths, I think -- !


	106. Act 4: SCENE IV.xiv

[Elsewhere: a long hallway, perhaps the same one where the duellists were earlier, perhaps another one much like it. There are massive columns lining it, as large as those along the portico of the Pantheon, but more prismatic, (squared or octagonal) and the vaulting is subtly more geometric than rounded, where visible -- just enough to convey a distinctly not-human origin; in other words, as everywhere, the Halls should not look like they're modeled on any historic architectural style or styles, but the reverse.]

[Aegnor appears (literally) at one end of the corridor, still a bit bedraggled, and stands hesitating, looking towards Finarfin, who is pacing slowly down the hall with his back towards him. He makes an uncertain movement as if to draw near to him; seeing Amarie approaching from the opposite direction beyond, however, he ducks around behind a nearby column before either living Elf can become aware of him.]

 **Amarie** : [curtseying deeply]

\-- Majesty.

 **Finarfin** : [with equal politeness]

My lady.

[pause]

Is't not passing strange, this exchange of high formality that so late did customarily use other greeting?

 **Amarie** : [brittle]

Thou dost know well, this present state -- 'tis none of mine own doing.

 **Finarfin** : [meaningfully]

None?

[she doesn't answer. The camera turns to reveal that behind the column, Aegnor is battling surprise at finding it already in use as cover by not one, but two of his siblings -- Angrod on the further side wearing an expression of stoic dismay, while Finrod, now in the middle, is endeavoring to restrain laughter. His amusement at the absurdity of their situation is not appreciated by either brother, Aegnor giving him a glare as he pushes him to move over and give him more room.]

 **Finrod** : [manic whisper]

That's Father. _Not_ me.

 **Aegnor** : [whispering also, very caustic]

 _Really_. -- Any other relatives here?

 **Finrod** : [nodding]

Aunt 'Danel, too.

 **Aegnor** :

Not -- Mother?

 **Finrod** : [grim]

No.

 **Angrod** :

Shh!

[out in the hallway, Amarie is still looking obstinate, but not quite as haughty; Finarfin's expression is wistful]

 **Amarie** : [resigned]

There's naught to be said else upon the matter.

 **Finarfin** :

Belike.

[she tosses her head, folding her arms]

 **Amarie** :

Thou hast spoken, my lady Earwen hath spoken, _he_ hath spoken -- all the world and mine own kin have had their say thrice over. Should _words_ mend the world -- there'd be no Marring.

 **Finarfin** :

Thy certainty doth put me in mind of another Elf, upon another time, long gone past.

 **Amarie** : [hotly]

My lord, let thou not compare me unto Feanor!

 **Finarfin** : [raising his eyebrows]

Named I my brother?

[silence]

 **Amarie** :

 _I_ am no rebel -- nay, nor should ever be!

 **Finarfin** :

In truth?

[she gives the King a Look sharp but troubled]

Hast not even yet received petition from the holy Powers, to lay aside thy wrath, and dost thou not cling fast with both thine hands in their despite -- ?

[long pause -- behind the column Finrod's brothers stare at him, while he looks straight ahead, ignoring them. Aegnor gives an angry snort. Finrod does turn at that, and then frowns, feeling the other's sleeve, and then touching his hair before Aegnor shoves his hand away. Angrod shushes them again.]

 **Amarie** : [ice]

It hath not been commanded me.

 **Finarfin** :

Nor should e'er it be.

[she turns away, her mouth set. He holds out his hand to her]

Come, walk with me, an thou will't, -- daughter.

[Amarie turns back, startled, and her lips tremble -- there is, it seems, a chink in her armour]

 **Amarie** : [not letting it affect her voice]

My lord, there is naught that may be seen, the way that I did come. Nor have I met any other within, saving only thine own self, though betimes I have methought that I did glimpse, still were there none either of shade or spirit when I did go thence.

 **Finarfin** :

Then it shall matter not, the which direction we choose to take ourselves, is that not the truth? -- Or wouldst rather have thy solitude, my lady?

[she sighs, pulling her scarf about her as if cold again]

 **Amarie** :

Nay.

[sharply]

\-- Nor yet would I be adviséd.

 **Finarfin** : [in the same gentle way he has addressed her throughout]

How then, if thou shalt hear my heart's disclose, and _thou_ advise, rather than to hear counsel given?

[Again he gestures for her to accompany him, and this time, after a moment's hesitation, she begins to retrace her steps by his side, her posture very tense, until they can no longer be seen in the darkness.]

[Finrod looks at Aegnor, who is trying to look nonchalant instead of guilty, without terribly much success]

 **Finrod** : [innocently]

You're damp. How come?

 **Aegnor** : [grimacing]

I don't know. By rights it should have been as evanescent as any decapitation, but the condition remains regardless.

 **Finrod** : [reasonable tone]

Being wet is a much more common experience than being killed, hence the memory of it should naturally persist far more strongly. And you evaded my question. What happened to you?

[brief pause]

 **Aegnor** :

Your people are maniacs.

 **Finrod** : [still mild]

You were hassling Beren again.

[Angrod makes an exasperated noise]

 **Angrod** :

Would you _stop_ using that mortal slang?

 **Finrod** :

No. Nor will I let _you_ change the subject.

[to Aegnor, the same calm manner, only now it seems rather chilling]

Your behaviour is not only a disgrace to the family, it's utterly unreasonable. -- Why do you blame him for making the same mistake that his kinswoman made _long_ before he was born, rather than rebuking _our_ _cousin_ for presuming to be wiser than the rest of us, and showing us our folly as in a mirror?

 **Angrod** :

Brother, you go too far --

 **Finrod** : [ignoring him, fixing Aegnor with a Look]

Unless it's simple cowardice -- sorry, _prudence_  -- that so _wisely_ durst not challenge Luthien. You got off lightly indeed.

[they tense, and Aegnor glares at him, but he matches stares with the other calmly, until finally Aegnor breaks down and demands furiously:]

 **Aegnor** :

\--  _Why_ did you tell him we were guilt-ridden over the fact that our friendship with Cur and Cel led to your death?

 **Finrod** : [startled]

I did no such thing!

[narrowing his eyes]

Is it true?

[he looks at Angrod as well; they don't answer]

I see. -- Interesting. _That_  -- hadn't occurred to me.

 **Aegnor** :

It doesn't change a bloody thing! You're still behaving with a besotted obsessiveness that begins to rival our eldest uncle for self-destructive insanity!

 **Finrod** : [smiling faintly]

Is that the way you both see it?

 **Angrod** :

Yes! Can't you see that you're setting yourself on a headlong path towards disaster again, that you're bent on a course that will inevitably lead you into another conflict with the gods?

 **Finrod** : [shrugging]

Well, at least it will be all my own doing, this time.

 **Angrod** :

No, it's the same damnéd thing. Haven't you _learned_? You're going to let your softheartedness lead you into making the exact same mistake as before, throwing yourself away to defend those who have fallen prey to their own rashness and impulsive folly!

 **Finrod** : [slowly, cold iron]

They were _your_ people too. You claimed lordship to Beren only now -- and yet you will not defend him in his need.

 **Aegnor** : [sounding an awful lot like his eldest brother]

We know perfectly well that we are among those for whom you threw your own freedom and safety aside, by our wanting to carry forward with our cousins, after Morgoth, over the Ice -- we condemn ourselves equally and without reservation. If anything, we are _more_ qualified than any other, to warn you against this mistake. Isn't twice enough, that you must make it a third time?

 **Finrod** : [still more slowly]

Mistake or not, I will make it.

 **Aegnor** : [grabbing his shoulder]

No. We are going to _make_ you see reason, brother.

 **Finrod** : [mild curiosity]

And how exactly do you plan to do that?

[he takes hold of their wrists, ducks under and turns all at once, pinning their crossed arms against the pillar, and stands facing them with a look of extreme exasperation]

I should bang your heads together, but I doubt it would make any difference at this point.

[they try to pull free, but he does not budge, and when Aegnor raises his free hand to pry away his grip he speaks with the same tone of power that he used on Beren in Act II, with equal effect]

Be. Still. --  _Look_ at me.

[he stares into their eyes in turn, and this time his voice is extremely gentle:]

Do you think, my brothers, that I have not place enough in my heart for _all_ my kin? Must your jealousy bring you, too, to violence against the youngest? Or do you hold that I have loved you the less, that I have loved Beor's children also?

[Angrod doesn't speak and will not meet his eyes; Aegnor stifles a sob, flinging his head back hard against the pillar]

I did not forget you -- nor do I forget you now. But I must take care of my own. --  _Do_ you need such help as those two now? If there is anything you'd have of me, you know you've but to ask. -- But you've not.

[pause -- when he goes on it is in a slightly harder tone:]

Or is it that you need me to stay thus docile, that you may act as though you were _my_ elders, and slight me with your words as though I were a fool, and half-mad, and yours the turn to shepherd me, in private as in the multitude, as not even they that have earned the right to it do presume -- and strange it is to me, for all that you as much as I must surely know that I but do indulge you in it. _That_  -- I cannot give you.

[he pauses again, briefly, but they do not speak]

I have indulged you, because it did not trouble my peace, as to rebuke you should, as a father permits his children to make game about him, and set chains of blossoms upon him, and give him fond names of folly, while he muses in the garden's quiet. But that time is ended, as I knew it must, -- though I did not See it coming so soon, nor in such wise, I do admit -- and I must rise to be King once again, as I had not thought to do, neither for hope nor dread, though my realm be nowhere and my following but a dozen as mad as I, and my only ally one half-goddess and the other half madness as well, and all of us naught but air and dream and that divine spark that kindles all that is.

[fiercely]

And yes, I _will_ _stand_ as I must, against whomever I must, and you may continue your play, as you will, for none can make you cease, but you shall not impede me in my duty. -- Nor cross me, as you are wise.

[Angrod is crying silently, tears sliding down his averted face; Finrod lets go of their forearms and lays his hand along Angrod's cheek, turning him to meet his eyes. He flinches, expecting judgment, and finds something else entirely. In a gesture of acceptance he leans against Finrod's shoulder and lets his brother hold him while he regains his composure]

 **Angrod** : [raggedly]

\-- Sorry --

 **Finrod** : [smiling, if rather sadly]

\-- No lasting harm done.

[he pats Angrod on the elbow as the latter straightens, wiping his eyes, and turns to Aegnor, who is standing with his arms tightly folded, a far greater look of misery on his face. Taking hold of his shoulder:]

 **Finrod** :

Aegnor, it isn't hopeless --

 **Aegnor** : [snarling]

If you _dare_ speak _one_ _more_ _time_ to me again of your visions and your foolish hopes and your mad heresies, I will break your jaw, brother, elder, King, or not -- ! 

[Finrod lets go of his arm and steps back, with a very slight bow]

 **Finrod** : [ice]

As you please. But I commend you not to do so before the Lord of Beor. I warn you, I'll not intervene on your behalf in this case either. 

[the other snorts, shaking his head]

 **Aegnor** :

What do you think he could do -- even if he _tried_ to defend you . . .  _this_ time?

 **Finrod** : [ironic]

Come now, you've heard the echoes of the tale by now -- the air, the very stones are humming with it, born on the tide of whispers. Have you a wish to share Curufin's fate? I think our royal cousin will not intervene, even were she at hand -- she's much displeased with you at present, as I have warned you. 

[pause]

 **Aegnor** : [sullen mockery]

 _He_ had both hands, then.

 **Finrod** :

And Curufin was armed and ahorse. Take your chances, if you will. -- But do not count too much on my restraint, either. There are limits to my patience as well. 

[to Angrod]

 _You're_ coming with me, at least -- ?

[neither of the other two stirs]

 **Angrod** : [gloomy]

He will not be pleased to see me again.

 **Finrod** :

It would be better if you'd let _him_ decide that -- and forgive you your words himself.

 **Aegnor** : [sardonic]

Why do you think he'll be willing?

 **Finrod** : [coolly]

Because he is Beoring. -- Because he is _mine_. Do you think he will not?

[they don't answer this, either, but the defiance goes out of their expressions, leaving them standing there stubborn but forlorn as he turns on his heel and leaves them behind in the shadows.]

##  [Act 4: SCENE IV.xv](https://rustbucket.net/leithian/leithian_script_4b.html)

[the Hall.]

[Huan lifts up his head, and gives a soft, low noise somewhere between a bark and a growl, interrupting the conversation, a moment before the other Elven-warriors look over at the door, where a solitary figure is hanging at the edge of it, looking warily around the door frame. Seeing them by the remodeled fountain, he gestures urgently for someone to come over to him -- the Third Guard winces and covers his face with his hand.]

 **Fourth Guard** :

You should just vanish.

 **Third Guard** : [getting reluctantly to his feet]

That would only make it worse. Then he'd complain about that, too.

[he goes towards the door resignedly; as the camera follows, leaving the Falls behind, Beren asks:]

 **Beren** :

Who's that? 

**First Guard** :

His nephew. It's . . . a long story. -- And quite dull. You can ask him about if you really want.

[at the doorway, the Royal Guard stops and folds his arms a short distance off, looking at his kinsman with an expression of combined exasperation and pity. The other Noldor shade waves urgently for him to come the rest of the way]

 **Nephew** : [whispering]

Come _over_ here.

[he does so after a moment.]

 **Third Guard** :

Why can't you come talk to me in a civilized manner?

[the younger Elf looks around the Hall, and at the Loom and the Thrones, with a disbelieving expression]

 **Nephew** : [earnest]

We need you to help.

 **Guard** : [sighing]

I'm not interested. You need to ask King Felagund.

 **Nephew** : [getting exasperated himself]

Why won't you help? What's wrong, that you can't even do a favor for your relatives?

 **Guard** :

Because it's going to drag on and on into endless helping. I told you, I haven't any interest in your hobby and I'm not about to get caught up in it on your behalf.

 **Nephew** : [aggrieved]

That's most unkind of you.

 **Guard** :

It's most unfair of _you_ to try to coerce me into doing your work for you.

 **Nephew** : [his voice rising]

I'm just asking --

 **Guard** :

Just _stop_  --  _please_.

[the newcomer gives his uncle a dark look]

 **Nephew** :

One would think you'd be ashamed to push me off like this, after what happened to me.

 **Guard** :

 _Don't_ do this again. The fact that you were taken prisoner a yen and a half ago has _no_ bearing whatsoever on your confounded project.

[the other gives him an even more reproachful look, resulting in a still-more exasperated tone in response:]

Look, I'm sorry you were a slave. I've _said_ so. I don't know why you think that means I should be _your_ slave. It wasn't my fault you didn't listen to your commander and got cut off and captured, was it now?

 **Nephew** :

It isn't _just_ that.

 **Guard** : [sternly]

And _that_ you should not be bringing to me, either. Take it up with _your_ King.

 **Nephew** :

It isn't fair!

 **Guard** :

You knew the risks. You knew the rules. And you knew the reasons for them. Now, go work on your own things -- I'm busy right now.

 **Nephew** : [hurt]

So you don't care that I was a beaten thrall for ninety years, before I managed to break free, and find my way to safety -- only to be turned out to live in the woods like a Green-elf or a human, to live with those savages, until I couldn't take it any more?

 **Guard** : [meaningfully]

You _said_ you escaped.

 **Nephew** :

I did! You know I'm telling the truth!

 **Guard** :

I know you _believe_ what you're saying. It could even be true. That doesn't mean you weren't _let_ to escape.

 **Nephew** :

You don't really think _I_ would be a spy for the Enemy? Your own sister's-son?

 **Guard** : [quiet]

Can you honestly say that you _weren't_ bound?

[pause]

You _know_ , don't you?

 **Nephew** : [changing the subject]

You tell me not to blame my troubles on everyone else, but I've heard you say that it's the fault of the sons of Feanor you're here. And Sauron. And Morgoth.

 **Guard** : [patient]

Yes, but I've got the order straight in my head. _I_ refused to turn back at Araman. And I paid the price for it. If I hadn't done that I'd never have been in that situation, or fallen into the Terrible One's clutches.

[he looks at his younger kinsman expectantly,waiting for the obvious corollary to be made.]

 **Nephew** : [pounding his fist softly against the doorjamb]

It isn't fair. At least you _chose_ yours.

 **Guard** : [unsympathetic]

Well, you weren't very fair to the Teleri, were you?

 **Nephew** :

You don't understand -- you weren't _there_  --

 **Guard** :

 _Don't_ give me that. If you didn't know what was going on, the obvious thing was _not_ to leap in and start killing people, is that not right?

 **Nephew** : [sulkily]

It's easy for you to say.

[the older Elf half-turns, nodding towards the Waterfall]

 **Guard** :

I'm not going to stand here halfway in the door all day. If you want to talk, come in and sit down with us and do it in a civilized fashion.

 **Nephew** :

No!

 **Guard** :

Why ever not?

 **Nephew** :

You're going to get into trouble. --  _He'll_ be angry with you.

[from the lowered emphasis and awe in his tone it is clear he is referring to the Lord of the Halls -- his uncle shakes his head]

 **Guard** :

No. He just looked a bit annoyed, that's all. They're busy too, and we're not hurting anything. Now run along, would you?

 **Nephew** :

You're so selfish!

 **Guard** : [with a frustrated exclamation]

When are you going to stop thinking the Sun and Moon and the Stars revolve around _you_? There _are_ other people in the world. 

**Nephew** :

Don't talk like that!

 **Guard** :

Sorry. But it's the truth, and you know it. Go complain to the High King about the fact that he wouldn't change the banishment rule for you. I wasn't there, complaining to me now is as useless now as it would have been then. Why don't you gripe at your friends from Eithel, that would make more sense.

 **Nephew** :

 _You're_ no help.

[he turns away abruptly from the door back into the corridor beyond; the Guard sighs and returns to his companions, sitting down with a groan of despair and puts his head down on his forearms. The Captain leans over and pokes him with the flask, which offer is accepted quickly.]

 **Beren** : [sympathetically]

More crazy-making relatives, huh?

 **Warrior** :

There's never any shortage of them.

 **Captain** :

What's the lad want now?

 **Third Guard** : [capping the canteen and passing it back]

Same as ever. Trying to get me to work on their Theoretical Chronometer again. And throwing his Doom in my face when I won't. -- And our kinship.

 **Beren** :

What's a -- Theoretical Chronometer?

 **Captain** :

That's their imaginary clock. It's something that a bunch of Fingolfin's people have been working on, some of them for most of this Age, and it occupies them pretty thoroughly.

 **Third Guard** : [snorting]

Obsessed, some might call it.

 **Warrior** :

At least it keeps them quiet. Mostly. By comparison.

 **Beren** :

How can a clock be imaginary? Is it real or not?

 **Captain** :

It isn't real in any way that you'd think of _real_ , Beren. Moreover it's not going to become real without His Majesty's help, and they haven't got it. They're designing a clock that would allow them to know how much time has passed Outside, but they haven't got anything to make it out of, so all they can do is talk about how they would do it, if they had.

 **Beren** :

But that sounds like exactly his kind of project.

 **Captain** :

The Leaguer wore out his patience with fools. He thinks they're being stupid in insisting on doing it as they are, and he thinks it's all a waste of time additionally. Sometimes he does help them in discussing ideas, on a purely hypothetical basis, but I can't tell if he's doing it because he feels sorry for them, or because of the intellectual challenge, or just to bedevil them. Because usually the result is to require them to tear apart everything they've done so far and start over again, afterwards.

 **Steward** :

 _All_. No question.

 **Teler Maid** : [doubtful]

How can they take it apart if it is not real?

 **Beren** : [nodding]

That's what I was gonna ask.

 **Soldier** :

The equations and, er, mathematical processes.

 **Captain** :

\-- Plans. They have to throw them all out and redraw them. So to speak.

 **Teler Maid** :

Like to designing hulls and coming to see that the keel will not hold the height, before it is ever laid.

 **Second Guard** :

Yes. I suppose so, at least, knowing nothing about boatbuilding, really.

 **Beren** :

Why won't it work? I guess I mean, how could you tell if it would work or not, when it isn't something like a house, where you can say -- that's _not_ going to fit any _way_ like that?

 **Captain** :

Erm . . .

 **Soldier** :

That's part of the problem. Trying to figure out what would be a check on the processes is most of the designing of it so far.

 **Beren** :

So what do you mean, they won't ask for help? If they're asking him about it?

 **Third Guard** : [shaking his head in disgust]

They won't ask him _to_ _help_.

 **Captain** :

You see, there isn't any way to tell time without some connection to outside, because nothing changes here except us -- what we do. There's no regular pattern of light or anything to set it against, no day or night, no stars moving, no seasons -- so what are you going to measure? You understand the difficulty.

[Beren narrows his eyes]

 **Beren** :

It's not just a clock you're talking about. It's a _calendar_. You have no idea when it is for the living.

 **Captain** :

Exactly.

 **Steward** :

Though some argue that they are but the same thing, on differing scale.

 **Beren** : [decidedly]

Nah. A clock is a _thing_ , like the one in the City. A calendar is just --  _out_ _there_  -- it's something that's real because it comes from the Sun. The Chronometer, you could have that play whenever you wanted, it just breaks up the day wherever you want to, not like a sundial . . .

[trails off, frowning]

So is a sundial a clock or a calendar? And what about the days of the week? How do you know where to make them start? 'Cause when there wasn't any more people around me I didn't know any more what was what. So did we just _decide_ where they went? Or you guys, I guess, probably. -- Huh.

 **Steward** : [approvingly]

You begin to work out the problem on your own.

 **Captain** :

We started over with Sunrise, by the by. Then you changed it around some on your own. -- Or else you had your own and put it together with ours, I'm not quite sure.

[mischievously]

You'll have to ask Himself about that.

 **Beren** :

But what would the problem be that he would have to help them and won't? Or I mean, how could he, I don't think you could make a clock out of stone, that wasn't a sundial, could you? How would that work?

 **Third Guard** :

Water. It would be possible to turn one of the fountains into a measuring device, either simple or complex, since the water is constant --

 **Ranger** : [cutting in]

\-- Well, that's part of the whole argument, does _anything_ progress here as it does outside --

 **Third Guard** :

\--  _assuming_ that the water's rate of flow is constant, it could be calibrated, and then this could be correlated with known temporal coordinates, and the accuracy -- or constancy -- could be checked thereby.

 **Beren** :

So what's the problem?

 **Captain** :

He won't do it, they can't.

 **Second Guard** :

Or rather, they won't ask him to teach them, and they haven't been able to figure it out on their own yet.

 **Ranger** :

And the calibration process would require asking some of the staff for information, and they won't.

 **Teler Maid** :

Give it?

 **Ranger** :

Ask.

 **Beren** : [thoughtful]

You know, I thought _I_ was proud and stubborn.

 **Soldier** : [grinning]

Well, you are. Only we're worse.

[Beren glances up at the bas-relief behind the waterfall]

 **Beren** :

Couldn't _you_ do it? Or did he tell you not to?

 **Soldier** :

Oh no. We just won't, because they didn't ask originally and were obnoxious about it.

 **Teler Maid** : [frowning]

How can you be obnoxious about something you are not doing?

 **Soldier** :

They didn't _ask_. They just demanded.

 **Youngest Ranger** : [gloomy]

They said, "We need you to make this for us," and I said, "Why?" and they said, "You wouldn't understand," and I said, "No, I won't until you explain what it's in aid of," and they got more and more unpleasant about it, and I still wouldn't until they said what it was for. 

**Third Guard** :

Tell them what it was they said to you, _exactly_. 

**Youngest Ranger** :

I said I wouldn't do things without understanding why, except for someone I trusted, and I didn't trust them, because they were Kinslayers, some of them. Which was rather rude, I guess. But I didn't know if they were trying to do something to harass the Lord and Lady.

 **Steward** : [aside]

As opposed to us who manage it _without_ trying.

[the Sea-elf flashes a hurried look at him, looking away before he notices]

 **Youngest Ranger** :

So then they said -- some of them -- that they'd tell the Powers that I wasn't Noldor and shouldn't be staying here. And I told them, "Go ahead, and I'll tell them what you were doing as well," and that was the end of it.

 **Soldier** :

Only not really, because then they did ask the rest of us -- most politely -- who know how, only it wasn't any good, because we'd already heard all about it and that cruel bluff of theirs.

 **Third Guard** :

So now we get occasional bouts of complaining and guilting, like that just now.

 **Captain** :

They won't talk to Himself because they'd have to apologize, then. And for some reason they won't ask anyone who works here, which would be the simplest thing -- I think they're partly too proud, because they don't want to look like they care, and then there's this weird conviction that the answer is going to be no, and so there's no point in asking, though none of them will explain why they're so certain to be refused.

 **Steward** :

Guilt. -- It _is_ possible that the answer might be incomprehensible, you know. The Powers care not about time as we do, and I've always had the sense that they consider any of our efforts to measure it a little odd.

 **Warrior** :

And of course, they might be told, no, that wouldn't be helpful to you.

 **Fourth Guard** : [chuckling]

Yes, but they'll never find out, at this rate.

[two more visitors appear in the archway of the door, coming in a little uncertainly, and looking around. Huan starts wagging his tail vigorously, ears happily pricked in their direction]

 **Captain** : [a touch grumpily]

What _is_ this, the Crossings of Teiglin?

[Beren peers over at them, frowning uncertainly]

 **Beren** :

I think one of them's a ghost, and the other has red hair. I don't think I know them. Do you?

[the Captain straightens up, surprised]

 **Captain** :

As a matter of fact, yes. That's the King's aunt and one of the Greycloak's counsellors.

[he taps the Steward, who is looking morosely and distractedly into the spill pool, on the shoulder.]

More old acquaintances of ours -- do you want us to cover your escape? 

[the Steward looks over, startled, and then shakes his head, getting up with almost a relieved expression]

 **Steward** :

Best get through it now, than go on dreading it.

[waving off offers of help before they are made]

I need no assistance in this -- the lady is reasonable, and kind, and such pain as comes cannot be borne by another.

[the others look after him with a bit of worry, but not so much, knowing he's right, except for Beren, who scrambles up a moment later to follow him. Huan does not, but looks as if he wants to, his tail still brushing the floor softly]

 **Captain** : [to his former colleague]

You're awfully quiet, Ternlet. How come?

[she shrugs, not looking at him]

I see.

 **Teler Maid** : [hesitantly]

Are you much angered with me, then?

[he shakes his head]

 **Captain** :

Not much. He would never have spoken for himself if you'd not attacked us. -- And are you still angry with me?

[she shakes her head in turn. Looking after Beren:]

 **Teler Maid** :

They are _not_ very biddable, are they?

 **Captain** : [sighing]

No more than we, Sea-mew, no more than we.

[the focus shifts to where Nerdanel is receiving the Steward's greeting with a bemused, anxious smile, while the Ambassador stares past suspiciously at Beren who in turn is watching his friend with a worried look from a few feet off.]

 **Nerdanel** :

So, then -- what wouldst thou of me, Enedrion?

 **Steward** : [bowing]

I would offer my apology to your House, my lady, if you in turn would be so gracious as to convey such in my stead.

 **Nerdanel** :

What, dost deem a yen sooner matterest, that it should rather be half-and-three, than half-and-four, that might not proffer thine own words unto my father?

[he winces at the dry note in her words]

 **Steward** :

Please you, my lady, I entreat you to withhold your righteous indignation at my misspent years, for mercy's sake, not mine own, as I have had my fortitude sorely tried of late.

[pause]

 **Nerdanel** :

Never thought I to hear _thee_ seek for pity, youngling -- no more than witness thy granting of it.

[giving up on being discreet, Beren comes forward to stand at the Steward's shoulder once more]

 **Beren** :

Excuse me, but -- you really shouldn't give him a hard time, ma'am. He's had plenty already.

 **Steward** : [stiffly]

My lord, I said I required not assistance.

 **Beren** :

Yeah, but you were wrong.

 **Steward** : [nodding acquiescence]

\-- True.

[Beren touches his arm reassuringly]

 **Beren** :

It's okay, I'm not going to get hurt by words now.

 **Nerdanel** : [slowly, fascinated]

So, _thou_  -- art _he_  -- Aftercomer that hath undone Immortal design, and confused the counsels of the great of Arda. I must perforce confess I had conceived of thee as . . . other -- nay, _far_ more imposing of thy presence withal.

 **Ambassador** : [aside]

As had we.

[Beren turns and gives him a cool Look]

 **Beren** :

Do I know you?

 **Ambassador** : [unperturbed]

We were not introduced, milord. I was present at your -- introduction, to the court of Elu King of Doriath, but no doubt you were far too . . . preoccupied to remark or regard my presence among their Majesties' counsellors.

 **Beren** : [drily]

\-- Yeah. Just a bit.

[to Nerdanel, not mocking, but with a touch of humour:]

\-- Sorry to disappoint, my lady.

 **Nerdanel** :

Less that, than a marvel, that _thou_ shouldst find so light that which all mine own sons and spouse alike did strive for in vain attempt -- !

 **Beren** :

Er, light? --  _no_. Also, from what I know about the War, actually going and _trying_ did make a huge difference.

 **Nerdanel** : [frowning, confused]

All that, and 'twas not attempted? For what, then, yon wild pursuit, nor all this Age's doings?

 **Beren** :

After Feanor got killed --

[she winces, and the Steward shakes his head in dismay]

Sorry -- I --

[Nerdanel gestures him to continue, though her expression is grim]

Just keeping him contained -- Morgoth, that is -- so that he couldn't get out of Angband. Until he did.

[glancing towards the Steward]

He can tell you better than me, 'cause I wasn't born for most of it, or even him --

[nods towards the Sindar lord]

\-- 'cause Tinuviel's people weren't involved in most of it.

 **Steward** : [serious]

The tale is long, and all is yet not known, and my lady's nephews I believe hold the greatest knowledge of its finer points -- but my friend has told the heart of it: after hard defeat, no endeavor to break within and seize the stones was made, before the Beoring and his well-named love did undertake the deed.

[pause]

 **Nerdanel** :

So. That which was begun in fiery and utmost haste, did shortly end in slow and moveless state, as the flux will run cold to congeal that hath flown swift in blaze, that is not banked and channeled that the coals do catch.

[shaking her head, with a bitter half-smile]

A dreary tale, yet, but curiously apt unto the madness of it all. -- How it must gall them, that Secondborn hath mastered Morgoth's might!

 **Beren** :

"Mastered" is way too strong a word for it.

[she gives him an appraising glance and he shrugs. Reluctant:]

Ah. I have to tell you, ma'am, I -- I tried to pull your son's head off.

 **Nerdanel** :

Indeed -- and which?

 **Beren** :

C -- Curufin, my lady.

 **Nerdanel** :

Nay, forasmuch as he hath ever been the image of his sire, that doth little 'maze, then. -- For what offense? or any, or all?

 **Beren** :

Huh? Um, yes -- that is, he was trying to kidnap Tinuviel then -- or he had been, before I grabbed ahold of the bastard and got him by the neck -- sorry.

 **Nerdanel** :

For why? Surely such deed should merit answer, if any might -- yet, I gather, didst not gain thy way.

 **Beren** :

Oh. -- No, she made me stop and let him go.

 **Nerdanel** : [shaking her head]

This tale groweth more confused ever the more I do learn of it. Could any set it out in such wise that sense shall come of it? -- But I confess I have not apprehended all thy thought: what is yon word "bastard" thou didst name my son?

 **Beren** : [chagrined]

Um. It -- it's an -- it's a mortal insult. I mean, it's in our language. It's not necessarily mortal . . .

[trails off]

 **Nerdanel** : [dry]

Nay, and I had deemed it a laud, no less. For certes an insult, as thou dost aver -- yet of what its construing? For surely hath something of sense to signal scorn withal.

 **Beren** :

. . .

 **Nerdanel** : [interested]

Worse, belike, than even "thrall," else "deceiver" -- ?

 **Beren** : [giving up -- very rushed]

Please understand, ma'am, I didn't mean it literally and I wasn't even thinking about it when I said it and what it means is someone whose parents weren't married or not to each other only what we use it to mean most of the time is someone who goes out of the way to be a mean-hearted, envious, arrogant, troublemaker who deserves to be beaten into a bloody pulp. -- Sorry.

[she raises an eyebrow but says nothing]

Like I said it's just an expression we use and I didn't mean when I said it that you . . .

[he breaks off in embarrassment]

 **Nerdanel** : [frowning]

Thou meanst to say, that thy folk might 'get and give forth children into Arda, without ever to bind soul to soul in unity as parents? Even as the kelvar? That one might have a dozen mates, or choose anew with the tide of spring each year?

[completely humiliated, Beren nods]

 **Beren** :

We don't think it's a good thing, but --

 **Nerdanel** : [interrupting]

Then thou needst not to have remained by Luthien, for all she was thy true-love, nay, neither before nor after thee and she were wed, but might even have gone from her to another's love, without thy mind and soul reft by madness, nor she to needs must die first -- ?

 **Beren** : [adamant]

No. I mean -- yes, I did. Have to.

 **Nerdanel** :

But I think that such was th'implicit burden of thy former words, or am I greatly uncomprehending of thee?

 **Beren** :

 _I_ couldn't. _Me_. Maybe some other Man could've walked away from Tinuviel, but --

[he shakes his head]

 **Nerdanel** :

Thou, at least, had other choice open to thee, to find other match, than set thy life for hazard and thy house with House alike in forfeit for thine only love.

 **Beren** :

No. But yes. -- I know it sounds crazy.

 **Nerdanel** :

Dost speak to _me_ , of madness? Madness I have seen, a-plenty: thine is small, and thy lady's less, by mine own accounting.

 **Beren** : [uncertain]

You -- you _don't_ think I'm crazy, then -- my lady?

 **Nerdanel** : [raising one eyebrow]

That, I said not.

[Beren frowns]

 **Beren** :

Wait, shouldn't it be "Your Highness?" If Feanor's your husband, and he's the son of the first King, then wouldn't that make you a Princess as well?

 **Nerdanel** : [acerbic]

Dost deem _me_ mad, then, to care of this contention and striving after title, after aught of glory than work well-fashioned? My folk doth require none; _stone_ requireth none; how shall I require it, as though else might not ken mine own self's self?

[he is abashed]

 **Beren** :

Sorry -- I didn't mean to insult you, ma'am. I was just trying not to.

 **Nerdanel** :

Nay, then, neither doth offense be taken, that was not offered up.

[pause]

Elwe's daughter is far more blessed than ever she doth discern.

[she turns her face away, but recovers her composure quickly.]

I have heard rumour, that mine eldest hath suffered e'en such loss as thou, and would ask of ye, if thou'lt forgive the discourteousness of't, and blame me not for my presuming, if that be so or no? 

**Beren** : [answering first]

Er -- yes. I'm afraid that is true.

 **Nerdanel** :

I did not doubt it overmuch.

[she sighs]

Passing strange it is, that the first to wield blade amongst us should die first in battle, and firstborn should forfeit hand that did wield such blade, to blade's bite -- as though the earth itself were but a great balance and either land each pan, tilting across the Sea -- I speak mad fancies; I cry ye pardon, gentles. -- Of thy pity, lord of Men, canst thou say to me how farest thou, then, that I might ken yet so small a part of my son's life, for --

[lifting her own hands and looking at them]

\-- I cannot guess how 'twould be, to have naught save memory of limb, nor how I might easily compass all that should be needful, scanted thus, though I do confess I have oft thought upon it.

[pause]

 **Beren** : [awkward but sympathetic]

It's different for him. I mean, he's an Elf, and I'm not, and that was obvious and stupid for me to say. Ah. I mean, he's had a lot longer to get over it and your people heal better than we do anyway, and he's still a great warrior as well as leader of House Feanor in the east, kind of a legend. Well, not _kind_ of a legend, _a_ legend, and . . .

[looking disgusted with himself]

. . . both of those are things that you probably aren't too happy hearing about either. Sorry.

[she looks at him with an odd expression, as if struggling to maintain a precarious balance between tears and laughter]

 **Nerdanel** :

I do endeavor to comprehend how it must be for thee, that art so changed and forcibly set amid all that's strange to thee, and how it, and we, should all appear, that hast heard belike, yet not in same wise as we shall have heard of another here, and yet dost seek to comprehend in turn and maintain ever. -- I confess I cannot.

 **Beren** :

Not everything's strange, ma'am. I remembered what I was told about the King's aunt being wise and always willing to stand up for what she believed in.

 **Nerdanel** : [shaking her head]

'Tis given me to understand, that untruth's far from possible within these walls, so then alike must flattery e'en be: therefore thy sincerity, at the least, might not gainsay. -- I thank thee for thy courtesy, sir.

[to the Doriathrin lord]

Thy pardon, my lord, as well -- I fear I do leave thee daunted, thus forgrasping all this our discourse. Pray, do not hesitate thee from speech, but make free as thou wilt.

 **Ambassador** :

Less overawed, my lady, than _uncertain_ , at this juncture. I've had no choice but to see this Man through _her_ vision, and I begin to think, -- little as I most certainly like it -- that --  _perhaps_ we were in error.

 **Beren** :

There's a lot of things I could say to that, but I won't.

 **Ambassador** : [holding his own, with an ironic half-bow]

Thank you, milord.

 **Nerdanel** :

Yet a third way that differest from mine husband, that didst give aside Silmaril as second to the price of love, and strove not to lead astray, nor didst not care that any might follow in thy despite regardless, and that for love, not vengeance nor of hate; that now dost willingly hold peace -- !

 **Beren** : [whispering to the Steward]

What did she just say?

 **Steward** : [quietly]

That unlike Feanor, you know when to be quiet, sometimes.

 **Beren** :

Oh.

 **Steward** :

Also that you were neither indifferent to nor desirous of the fate of all who chose to accompany you. And gave up the Silmaril for your lady. 

[while Beren is still frowning]

All of which are compliments, given the circumstances and their source, since you're yet doubtful, Lord of Beor.

 **Beren** :

Okay.

[to Nerdanel]

Thanks.

 **Nerdanel** : [to the Steward]

How hast changed, and yet hast not, and yet art all other than thou wert, in the Wild world beyond!

 **Beren** :

Please don't insult him, ma'am.

 **Nerdanel** :

Nay, nor did I, or is't insult in thy speech to say but that one has changed, from harshness and vainglory to gentleness of heart? 

**Beren** :

No . . .

[the Steward bows slightly]

 **Steward** :

I believe that it is so, and do so hope, even as you speak, my lady.

 **Nerdanel** :

I confess I must hold it a good thing, that thy heart's allegiance was at the last given unto my nephew, and not my son, else I deem this conversation should ne'er take place, nor thou stand guiltless of murder, nor find peace from battle hither. 

**Steward** : [very dry tone]

Something of a most relative peace, my lady, I fear -- but indeed, your words, though sad, are in keeping with mine own thoughts as well. 

**Beren** : [breaking in]

Hey, how come you're here?

[as they all turn to stare at him]

I mean, what about the meeting? How come you're not _there_ , and what's going on?

 **Ambassador** :

 _Talk_  -- much talk, and little else.

 **Beren** : [ironic]

Well, yeah, it's a council -- that's what's _supposed_ to happen at them. Anything else, you got a problem.

[the Sindarin lord visibly bites back a return]

 **Nerdanel** :

Nay, 'tis much talk of sundry things, and not so much as might be thought, of thee and thine own concerns, forasmuch as the gods' concern of _all_ _that_ _is_ doth make the direction of the discourse to shift more indeed than e'en we Eldar at our conversing, and with less heed of time its passing.

 **Steward** :

That is but half his question, my lady.

[Nerdanel and the Ambassador share a wry Look]

 **Nerdanel** :

Thy lady is most obdurate, and requireth no further assurance of the rightness of her course, the which is all that I might well provide.

 **Ambassador** :

Our contributions were not considered relevant, milords.

 **Beren** : [dawning realization & growing amusement]

You got thrown out.

 **Ambassador** :

That is, I must say, rather an overstatement --

[Beren shakes his head, grinning]

 **Beren** :

 _You_  -- got thrown out.

[brief pause]

That's _great_. That's just great --

[he laughs out loud, then struggles to control his expression]

Sorry, ma'am, I wasn't being insolent to you, it's just that it finally happened to someone else -- especially from Doriath --

[with a sidelong Look at the Steward]

\-- About time, eh?

[unable to help himself, he starts laughing again, ducking behind the Steward's back until he can regain his composure]

 **Steward** : [without irony or embarrassment]

Gentles, I entreat you excuse my friend, in consideration of the trials of his present and recent situation.

 **Ambassador** : [mildly]

I endeavor to remind myself of his extreme youth, which renders it more comprehensible.

 **Nerdanel** : [very curious]

In truth, he hath so few of days?

 **Steward** :

Alas, yes.

[over beside the pool, Huan is wriggling and whining quietly, with his tail going nonstop, while the Captain looks at him indulgently]

 **Captain** :

You don't have to stay here any more. We needed you to be cover for Beren last time, but that doesn't matter now. Go say hello if you want. 

**Huan** :

[sharp yip]

 **Captain** : [pushing his shoulder]

Go on, don't be an idiot, you can go and greet her --

[the Hound gets up, but stands hesitantly, looking back at the Captain for reassurance]

Go on --

[as if loosed from a bow, the Lord of Dogs goes tearing across the Hall to where the others are standing]

 **Teler Maid** : [looking after Huan]

You do like him greatly, even.

[her former colleague nods apologetically]

But you shouted at him much. To make him answer me fairly.

[he nods again, and she puts her forehead down on her knees again -- it is clear she is crying, hidden behind her hair. He pats her on the head]

 **Captain** : [gently]

You're not up to being shouted at, Curlew.

[Huan comes skidding to a bouncing halt and looks adoringly at Nerdanel -- the Ambassador flinches back, though this is not noticed by his companions.]

 **Nerdanel** : [sadly but fondly]

Oh, thou Hound -- little had I thought to see thee so soon!

 **Beren** :

You know each other?

[realizing]

Of course you do.

 **Nerdanel** : [to Huan, seriously]

Alas, I have brought nothing -- I did not even ken thou shouldst abide here, ere I heard the story of thee and these thy rife adventures, hence have I neither dainty nor trifle for thy pleasing -- moreover I much misdoubt I might give unto thee, as thou presently art, withal.

 **Beren** : [trying to be helpful]

You could _pretend_ to throw something, he likes that -- then he pretends to bring it back, or he just brings back all kinds of stuff, like rocks or pine cones until you give up and tell him he's won . . .

[he trails off at the increasing grief visible in her expression despite her struggle to control it]

 **Huan** : [panting, grinning]

[attention-seeking whines]

[Nerdanel unthinkingly reaches out to pat him, and her hand goes through his muzzle, making them both recoil violently, the Hound flinging up his head in Very Startled Dog alarm]

 **Nerdanel** :

Oh -- !

 **Huan** : [wild-eyed]

[loud, repeated barking]

 **Steward** : [firm]

Quiet, boy!

 **Nerdanel** : [covering her ears]

Ai, yet else that hath not changed -- !

[Beren grabs the Hound's head like a horse's and pulls him down to shoulder height, making him stop for the moment]

 **Beren** :

Why don't you go run up and down the Halls instead and work off some of that energy?

[checking]

I sound like a parent. -- You go do that, and I'll whistle for you if we need you. Okay?

[he lets go and whacks Huan on the flank, again as though shooing a horse out into the paddock, and the Hound bolts out the doorway, running low to the ground, ears trailing like a mad thing.]

\-- Bet we're all thinking the same thing.

 **Steward** :

I trust were any immediately without -- we should have heard the cries of dismay by now.

 **Nerdanel** : [shaking her head]

I mind me not that he was even so vast, in th'old Day --

 **Ambassador** :

\--  _That_  -- is Huan? That --  _creature_  -- captured our Luthien?

[he looks very shaken]

 **Steward** :

I assure you he is Good and would not harm any of like mind.

 **Nerdanel** :

Aye, for all my son did most lamentably indulge him in his whims, yon Hound hath ever most mannerly and gently midst folk displayed his temper.

[she is still rather sniffly & blinking hard]

 **Beren** : [half to himself]

I -- don't expect you will, but, hey, might as well offer -- um, you want to come sit down with us, and talk more sociably instead?

[he gestures towards their encampment]

 **Ambassador** :

I -- I think not, sir; the Hound has greatly unsettled my spirit.

 **Beren** :

We won't let him jump on you when he comes back. Promise.

 **Ambassador** :

. . .

 **Steward** : [shrewdly]

Indeed, he is disquietingly like unto one, in seeming, at a glimpse.

[Thingol's emissary draws himself up in useless pride, but does not deny the implication]

 **Beren** :

Oh. -- I didn't think about that. Sorry. We're all just so used to Huan, but you don't know him, and you just got killed -- not long ago, at least -- by the Wolf. You did good not to run when he came charging up like that.

[silence]

 **Ambassador** :

Your accent grates heavily; less so your intent of courtesy.

 **Beren** :

Er -- you're welcome.

[doubtfully]

So . . . what are you going to do? -- Gentles.

[Nerdanel is not missing any of the way her son's former friend reacts (and doesn't) to Beren's presence, and speaking, including taking control of the conversation, watching them both keenly. Now she replies, having managed to swallow her tears, and turns to include the Sindarin lord in her address:]

 **Nerdanel** :

I, also, am even yet whelmed with the renewal of so many heart-deep griefs, and with such confounding news of the old land as ye have given to mine uncertain consideration -- if thou'ld be so kind, my lord, belike shalt companion me, and say unto me more, and fill the gaps of my comprehension with some measure of thine own informing; meanwhiles we shall but walk, and gaze upon the most strange and rare sights herein.

[with a dash of her ordinary dry wit, nodding at the Ten]

\-- Nor mean I _ye_ , nor else of yonder company.

 **Beren** : [dubious]

Well, okay, but -- there's not much here to see. Except the Loom, I guess.

[she shrugs]

 **Nerdanel** :

Then I trust we shall see it, shall not, upon our meanderings?

[she holds out her hand to the Ambassador, in a gracious, careful, gesture, not quite taking his arm, but very definitely walking with him, not evincing any fear or repugnance at his ghostly state, though clearly under so much stress right now that a little more or less would hardly make much difference. The Steward lays his hand on Beren's shoulder to turn him back towards their own group, then pauses and calls to the daughter of his family's hereditary liege lord:]

 **Steward** :

I must inform you, gentles, that the Lady of this Hall has most stringently requested that none should interfere with her Loom.

[pause]

 **Nerdanel** :

I confess myself much curious, whence such injunct be deemed necessary. -- My nephew must be sorely galled by the command.

[it is the Doriathrin Ambassador's turn to laugh out loud briefly, if much more temperately than Beren]

Doubt not, we'll meddle not.

[as they begin their walk, she looks back over her shoulder at the Steward, and says meaningfully]

\--  _Verily_ , youngling.

 **Steward** : [sighing heavily]

That could have been far worse.

 **Beren** :

Don't worry, I won't tell anyone you said that.

[sighing in turn himself]

Poor lady.

[as the Steward frowns curiously at him]

Saying Tinuviel was lucky, being married to me.

 **Steward** :

I assure you, she was not referring to the brief duration of your match.

 **Beren** : [shrugging]

Yeah --  _and_?


	107. Act 4: SCENE IV.xvi

[Elsewhere: the Council chamber. Everyone looks tired and serious and frustrated, in a let's-buckle-down-and-solve-this-now sort of way -- even Luthien has largely given up being sarcastic.]

 **Luthien** : [shortly]

Why do you think that having "fewer distractions" will help any? Nothing is going to change. You want me to give up Beren, I won't. There's no middle ground for us to reach.

 **Namo** :

What do _you_ think should be done? So far you've only stated negatives.

 **Luthien** :

Not true -- I want him to stay with me.

 **Namo** :

But you have no concrete suggestions for how that could be accomplished. Staying _here_ as discorporate spirits is not a workable solution -- for either of you, willing or not. It isn't _right_ , and it will end with him hating you, and vice versa.

[pause]

 **Luthien** :

All right, here's a concrete suggestion: consult your Queen and King for their advice. See what _they_ say.

 **Orome** : [incredulous, leaning forward in his chair]

You want us to ask Manwe and Varda for their opinion?

[pause]

Do you have any idea how long it would take to explain it all to them?

 **Luthien** :

Oh, I don't think it would be very long at all. Don't they watch and listen to what happens everywhere in the world? I expect any parts they missed, Thorondor and his family would have told them about already.

 **Vaire** : [amused & appalled]

Dear me, you really _do_ think the heavens turn about you, child!

 **Luthien** :

But you were all watching, mostly. Weren't you?

 **Aule** :

Do you really -- without any reservation -- think this is of the _same_ _magnitude_ as the crisis following upon the Treeslaying?

 **Irmo** :

 _Crises_.

[at the other Lord's frown]

There were multiple separate situations.

 **Luthien** : [simply]

It is to us.

 **Aule** : [to Irmo]

It's all part of the same mess.

 **Irmo** :

But there are distinct and several causes, though they _are_ connected causally as well as chronologically.

 **Aule's Apprentice** :

I fear I must agree with my Master, that it's a mistake to isolate and focus on selected incidents, without considering them as belonging to a centrality of causation -- namely, the sad case of Feanor.

 **Irmo** :

But there's no making sense of the disaster if you merely lump it all together and blame it on the Eldar.

 **Orome** : [in his most matter-of-fact, annoying tone]

Look, it's _very simple_. It all started when we let _him_ out. _Therefore_  -- we should never have let him out. I don't care what your sister says, she's just wrong.

[this sets off a chaos of fellow deities all speaking, or shouting, at once]

 **Vaire** : [raising her voice over the fray]

No, that's not true, Tav, Miriel's tragedy predated it --

[Luthien sighs, and leans her chin on her hand, not looking hopeful of any quick end to this. Accidentally she catches Namo's eye as he lurks behind his teacup, shaking his head at it all, and as he quirks his brow at her she snaps her head away, not wanting to admit to a commonality of any sort. After a moment, as if struck by a sudden thought, she scrambles forward and dipping a handful out of the light basin, proceeds to start finger-spinning it as if it were a ball of carded roving with the same intent, pensive look as someone doodling on a clipboard during an interminable board-meeting . . . ]


	108. Act 4: SCENE IV.xvii

[the Hall: beside the falls, where the story has apparently concluded for the moment]

 **Teler Maid** :

I still cannot fathom it that none of your families stood by you, but only _by_.

[pause]

My lady will be most put out with Lord Orodreth.

[the Captain chuckles at that, and she is affronted]

I know that she shall, and I am most certainly right!

 **Captain** : [dismissive motion]

Yes, yes, that's not why I'm laughing. I -- couldn't help but imagine the Prince's mother scolding him, and what they might say.

 **Steward** :

It isn't at all funny.

 **Captain** :

Oh, come on, can't you just hear Lady Earwen going --

 **Teler Maid** : [louder and more emphatic]

\-- But still less do I fathom it out that Lord Olwe's brother and his wife locked their child away -- has any one of ye _ever_ heard of such a thing?! What right _had_ they to do thusly?

[on the other side of the Hall, where Nerdanel and the Ambassador are surveying the Loom, the Ambassador turns and looks over at her, then quickly pretends he didn't hear]

If they did not approve of her chosen, then indeed had they right to say so, even as Lady Amarie's kinfolk, and make it clear wherefore they thought the choice not wise, or --

[looking directly at her ex]

\-- as my own family -- and perhaps yours, for all your denials to them of intent towards me -- did make it clear, but to set a wall and a ward against their own, as were an enemy -- or as if they were of the Enemy, keeping her thrall! What have Elves come to, in the time between!

 **Steward** :

In fairness, it was not until she threatened to follow Beren into Angband that the King and his counsel made such restraints upon the Princess, for her own safety.

 **Teler Maid** : [heated]

So, they set themselves above the gods, then! For it is little different, I think, between his lady seeking to redeem him from the Enemy in a far-off land, and your lord Feanor seeking to rescue his treasures from the Enemy in distant journey --

[several of the Ten protest her use of the pronoun "your", but quietly]

\-- and _they_ did not stop you, nor seek to do so by other means than persuading _words_ , and yet it was the same manner of dangers, that you did risk and she did risk, that they did lock her up!

[somber silence]

 **Beren** :

I hadn't thought of it that way. Her parents wouldn't like to hear it -- but Tinuviel would agree with you, absolutely.

 **Teler Maid** : [sharply]

And you do not?

 **Beren** : [dismayed]

I didn't say that.

 **Teler Maid** :

But did you not imply it?

 **Beren** :

Um -- no.

[aside]

Wow, someone who's even more paranoid than I am --

[at his unintentional remark she snorts indignantly]

 **Captain** :

Maiwe, calm down. Not everyone is out to get you. In fact, _no one_ , here, is out to get you.

[she looks away, scowling, just as the Youngest Ranger starts to attention and directs his companions' attention towards the door, through which now enter the Lord Seneschal of Formenos and the Lord Warden of Aglon -- but accompanied by some dozen or so extras, "gentles-at-arms," clearly looking for trouble. The Sea-elf freezes, looking ready to leap up and flee.]

\-- Not even them. Actually, they're after me, most likely.

[as the hostile shades approach]

 **Soldier** :

What should we do, sir?

 **Captain** :

Maintain a defensive perimeter -- that's what we're best at, after all, isn't it?

[there are dark grins and laughter from several of the other Elves]

 **Ranger** :

What about you, sir?

 **Captain** : [flexing his bad wrist carefully]

I'll manage, if I must. But we'll try to keep it from getting that far.

[he looks at Beren very seriously while the rest of the Ten get up and arrange themselves in a serried, if informal, rank against the intruders]

You're going to stay here, and you're going to stay out of it. No arguments. 

I don't know what will happen if you get hurt, and the more I've thought about it the less I like the notion. You're taking no chances. Understood? 

**Beren** : [unhappy]

Yes, sir.

 **Captain** :

In fact, call Huan back -- he can do his job and look after you now.

 **Beren** :

But --

 **Captain** : [setting his hand on Beren's head as if talking to a much younger sibling]

\-- You call him, or I will. The only options, lad.

 **Beren** : [nodding]

Okay.

[he whistles, several short, high notes, as if calling any ordinary dog, and remains kneeling by the waterside as the Captain rises, followed by the Elven girl.]

 **Captain** : [to his former colleague, just as seriously]

Curlew, this could get -- rowdy. You probably don't want to be around for it, and I certainly don't want you hurt, even if you'll not leave this Circle for it.

 **Teler Maid** :

Do not tell me what to do!

 **Captain** : [sad half-smile]

I didn't.

[turning away he goes to the center of the group, shouldering through to stand on the Steward's right, facing the Lord Seneschal. The Sea-elf tags along, hanging back a little, with a worried expression, but not willing to stay out of it]

Quick learners. -- Now why don't you learn even faster and stop this before you come out the worst again, eh?

 **Seneschal of Formenos** :

Shall we _hazard_ upon it, in your foreign custom, then?

 **Warden of Aglon** :

My quarrel's not with you, anyway.

[he is staring menacingly at the Youngest Ranger]

 **Captain** :

As a matter of fact, it is. He acted but under my orders.

[none of them appear to notice that the Doriathrin shade and the Noldor lady have left their sightseeing and come to stand at the side of the dispute, attending closely]

 **Warden of Aglon** :

Nevertheless I'll not fight you, my lord.

 **Captain** : [approving]

A prudent policy.

 **Seneschal of Formenos** : [cynical smile]

And a prudent _bluff_ , huntsman. The White Lady mentioned your clumsiness, and its consequences, and thus incidentally explained your carefulness to avoid outright combat at our last encounter. Thus -- we will not quarrel with _you_ : our numbers are but to ensure fairness, that none should interfere in what passes.

 **Captain** :

Then they will interfere with _nothing_ , for the responsibility for what transpired is entirely mine, and I will not allow it to pass to those who but followed my commands. -- Immortal or mortal.

 **Warden of Aglon** : [very proud]

That may be, but I will not fight you, for my honor's sake, while you are injured. _If_ you wish me to treat you as worthy adversary, restore yourself, and I will engage you, sir.

[the shade from Alqualonde edges between the two subordinate Rangers, standing with her arms folded and an imperious look on her face]

 **Teler Maid** :

What is this "honor" that I hear you speak so much of? Will it keep you from smiting _me_ , then?

[he makes a disdainful gesture]

 **Warden of Aglon** :

I don't fight children. Or maidens.

 **Teler Maid** :

 _I_ recollect otherwise.

 **Seneschal of Formenos** : [gallant & disarming -- if you didn't know better]

And who might _this_ charming creature be?

 **Teler Maid** : [defiant]

\-- "Collateral damage" -- I think that is what you have called us.

 **Seneschal of Formenos** : [shaking his head]

I've never had dealings with your folk -- I was the first killed in Middle-earth, after our noble lord was foully murdered by the same demons that slew me.

 **Teler Maid** :

False, false, _false_!!!

 **Seneschal of Formenos** : [frowning]

Are you not _his_ true-love, following him hither?

[he nods towards the Youngest Ranger]

 **Teler Maid** : [indignant]

I am from the Havens! Can you not tell the differences 'twixt us?

 **Seneschal of Formenos** :

Ah. My error: I do apologize, that I did not at once recognize you one of the Calaquendi, if Latecomer.

 **Teler Maid** :

You -- do make apology for misnaming me -- but not for killing me? What madness is this?!

 **Seneschal of Formenos** : [voice of reason]

Blame your elders, for their selfishness, _not_ us. Blame _your_ king, not ours.

 **Youngest Ranger** : [shortly]

You brought your troubles on yourself.

 **Warden of Aglon** :

Go back to your trees, Dark-elf. -- Or else fight me, if you wish to consider yourself truly Eldar.

 **Captain** :

Now then, what's wrong with tr --

 **Teler Maid** : [interrupting, sharply to the Feanorian lords]

Do not -- not speak so!

[she is so upset that she is stammering, but stamps her foot emphatically]

 **Seneschal of Formenos** : [bored]

Be quiet, infant, and return to the Hall of Play.

 **Teler Maid** :

Oh!

[in the background, Finarfin and Amarie enter the Hall via the archway, together, and taking in the scene of conflict, come quickly over]

 **Warden of Aglon** :

Well, _boy_ , if you will not give me satisfaction by honorable duel, then I must take it as I can -- if you've the courage for it: is it not _your_ people's way to flee from blows rather than return them, to fight from cover and to vanish before retribution falls?

[the Sindarin Ranger does not answer him, except to clench his jaw, standing his ground, the tension in his companions rising as tempers are held forcibly in check]

 **Steward** : [slow emphasis]

Leave -- him --  _be_.

[the Lord Warden smiles and moves forward threateningly; while the nearer of the Ten move to grab him, the Sea-elf darts in between to obstruct his path completely, scowling up at the taller Noldor warrior.]

 **Teler Maid** :

 _Go away_!

[the Warden of Aglon doesn't answer -- instead he takes her by the shoulder and spins her aside, continuing to push towards the Sindarin Ranger. Without another word, the Steward reaches to his right, rips the Captain's sword from its scabbard and runs the Feanorian through -- no flare, all business. The wounded Elf crumples to his knees as the blade is withdrawn, while his companions stare at the assailant quite aghast -- ]

 **Steward** : [cold]

You should have listened.

[several of the victim's friends kneel around him, trying to help him get up]

 **Seneschal of Formenos** :

But -- he had not drawn yet!

 **Captain** : [disgusted]

Sweet Cuivienen, can't you tell _us_ apart, either? That's _me_ , not him.

 **Seneschal of Formenos** : [shouting at the Steward]

Where is your _honor_!?!

 **Steward** : [calm & obnoxiously complacent tone]

If by _honor_ you mean a willingness to be cheated without complaint -- I fear _that_ remained with the rest of my belongings in Nargothrond.

[raising an eyebrow]

Anyone else wishing to try my patience? None?

[he reverses the hilt and returns the Captain's sword with a gracious nod]

\-- Much obliged, my lord.

 **Captain** : [loftily]

Any time, any time --

[to the hostile Elves]

\-- Dolts.

[to the Steward]

That was _better_ , but you still leave yourself wide open laterally when you lunge that way --

 **Amarie** : [outraged]

Ai, what hast thou done?!?

[giving up the effort, the Warden of Aglon vanishes with a final grimace of agony -- the Teler Maid shrieks, cutting it off at once by clapping her hands to her mouth.]

 **Amarie** :

\-- Minion of the Enemy thou art in truth!

[there is a moment of shock as everyone stares at each other, and the Ten realize who all was watching and what it looked like]

 **First Guard** : [to Amarie]

Milady, it wasn't what it seemed --

 **Steward** : [looking only at the Sea-elf's horrified expression]

Yes, it was.

[he shakes his head, laughing quietly and hopelessly]

\-- Of course.

 **Seneschal of Formenos** : [enraged almost beyond speech]

You --

[tries again]

Indeed, you were well-disguised as Morgoth's vermin! I wonder that you needed any camouflage at all!

 **Nerdanel** : [tense]

Thou seest the error of thy ways, then?

[he does not look at her nor otherwise acknowledge her words]

 **Finarfin** : [very harshly]

I am most grieviously disappoint in thee, young sir. 'Tis well thou art restrained, within these Hall's confine, and all such destroying souls.

 **Captain** : [earnest]

But you really shouldn't count this against him, my lord, as if he too were no more than a Kinslayer, because none of it was _real_.

 **Finarfin** :

Upon the contrary -- though thy loyalty aye deserveth praise -- nor thou nor he can answer me that 'twas not done in th'intent of the deed its fullness, nor that the wish and will of't was to act and it were most potently the very blade 'gainst yon rival's flesh, save merely that these phantasmic figurations must needs serve in place for ye.

[looking sternly at the Steward, who is still gazing in bleak dismay at the Teler Maid, who has recovered somewhat from her emotions at the mayhem and is staring at him with a very troubled expression of mingled revulsion and worry]

\-- Nay, _canst_ thou, Enedrion? For thou didst belie me with the truth, but not the full of it, when at our first meeting thou didst make of merest need but virtue, nor confess that thou might not speak _other_ than of truth, to set thyself higher in my estimation.

 **Steward** : [hollowly]

Indeed, your words are true, my lord Finarfin -- all of them.

 **Captain** : [still more earnestly]

But he wouldn't have done it, if it would have had any real effect on that nitwit.

[No one denies this assertion]

 **Amarie** : [tightly]

Mayhap -- yet still 'twas a deed most harsh, violent, and bloody --

[glancing at the entirely-unmarked floor, grimacing, and is forced to add:]

\-- in yon ghostly fashion.

 **Seneschal of Formenos** : [savagely]

I'll serve you now in kind, Enedrion --

[he draws his sword, advancing on the Steward, who does not pay any attention to him]

 **Nerdanel** :

Nay, _answer_ me, that didst answer to me in the Day, and wast even Keeper of our household stores, when yet was peace in Tirion!

[she moves to bar his way, her eyes flashing indignation, but he still ignores her -- even though refusing to admit her presence means he must walk right through her, (sfx) leaving her mute with shock and anger]

 **Captain** : [blocking the Seneschal of Formenos far more effectively]

You don't exist, my lady -- as far as they're concerned. Sorry about that --

[to the other warrior]

\-- Not you.

 **Seneschal of Formenos** :

I will not fight you unprovoked, and play into your games, King's Fool.

 **Captain** :

All right.

[smashes him hard across the face, backhanded, almost knocking him over]

How's that?

[with a roar of fury, the Lord Seneschal rallies, so quickly the Captain barely has time to get his blade free and parry -- but he does. If the hits taken in the last duel are bothering him, it isn't obvious, as they "have at it" in a flurry of blows in the suddenly-widening circle that forms around them. Beren leaps to his feet, but obeys orders, though his anguish at doing so is obvious; the Teler Maid covers her ears, wincing at each blow, just as distressed as the human, if not for exactly the same reasons.]

 **Finarfin** : [shocked but not at all uncertainly]

\-- Hold!!!

[there is Power in his word as well as anger: in momentary surprise the combatants stop, but only for a moment -- although the Captain obeys, the Seneschal presses the advantage, forcing him upon the defense again]

 **Captain** :

Sorry, Sir --

[they set to savagely again, no quarter on either side, just the same kind of ruthless fighting as against Eol earlier; the Captain stumbles, and this time it's no "accident" -- but as the Feanorian lord moves in for the kill his sword-hand is transfixed with a very real-seeming arrow, and as he tries to recover with his left, looking as all do to the source of the shot, his opponent regains his footing and presents once more no easy target. The Youngest Ranger is kneeling with another arrow nocked and already set to loose.]

 **Youngest Ranger** : [terse]

Next time, your eye.

[there is a pause, a sort of momentary truce, or rather recognition of impasse, and one of the other supporters of House Feanor comes up and sets about drawing the arrow, casting the pieces aside into thin air.]

 **Seneschal of Formenos** : [disgusted]

\-- Damnéd archers! No honor whatsoever.

[both the Ambassador and Amarie start to say something, but whatever it is is cut off by the baying from without, as Huan returns -- with rider. As the Lord of Dogs and the Lord of Caves make their dramatic entrance, five very bemused law-abiding Eldar alternate staring from each other to the newly-arrived to the denizens who seem to regard this as nearly, if not the height of normality.]

 **Nerdanel** : [aside]

Hall of Play, in truth!

[Finarfin gives her a surprised Look; explaining:]

Hath not any ridden Huan since of thine and mine the youngest were little more than babes.

[her brother-in-law nods ruefully, as his eldest son's ghost dismounts and strides over, looking around first to make sure that Beren is all right, as Huan plows through everyone else, still barking fit to raise the roof, to get to Beren himself]

 **Finrod** :

Would anyone care to explain to me what's going on?

[there is a chaos of everyone talking at once -- the Lord Warden of Aglon remanifests to make his case personally, much to the startlement of the living witnesses; Finrod waits until the roar dies down somewhat.]

Now, -- would anyone care to explain to me what's going on?

 **Steward** :

There were words, escalating towards blows. I struck first. All else followed from that.

 **Finrod** :

Whence the provocation?

 **Steward** : [before anyone else, and louder]

From both sides.

 **Seneschal of Formenos** :

No insult had been offered _you_ , you slave of a slave, but you cut him down without warning nonetheless!

 **Amarie** : [earnest]

Though little had I e'er thought, that I should speak in such as _that_ one's just defense, he doth speak truly: 'twas a blow most villainous and cruel -- if 'tis not falsehood in its own right, to imply withal that any might be otherwise!

 **Warden of Aglon** : [furious]

And I will take my recompense in the same way, d'you hear?!

 **Steward** : [chill calm]

I will accept such, if it is my lord's decree.

[the Teler Maid stares at him, her face frozen]

 **Warden of Aglon** :

As if he'd ever give fair judgment against any of his own!

[loud jeering and countering from the Ten, matched by their Feanorian opponents, with even a few barks from Huan added in; Finrod holds up his hand for silence, and there is instant attention from all, adversaries and supporters alike]

 **Finrod** :

The temptation is strong to take the way of water and avoiding resistance give you both what it is you wish --

[looking at the Warden]

\-- to you, satisfaction of your anger, and to you,

[turning to the Steward]

\-- expiation, of yours. But --

[smiling grimly, to the Warden]

\-- in no small measure is _that_ owing to the desire to let you make a poorer showing than you already have, disgracing yourself in the sight of the living and the dead, as well as the gods. Which is not justice, at all.

[he shakes his head]

No, it is too complicated. I cannot decide: I must defer this entirely to a higher authority.

 **Seneschal of Formenos** : [snorting]

I trust your uncle to give us fair hearing no more than I trust you, Finarfinion.

 **Finrod** : [still graciously]

Not the High King, I'm afraid -- I meant an authority that outranks all of us, living or dead, royal or no. Take your complaint of my people's conduct to Lord Namo or his Lady, and let them judge it, and whatever finding is theirs in this matter, we will submit to -- however little it is to our liking.

[he matches stares with the chief lords of House Feanor's supporters in Mandos, and does not give any sign of uncertainty, until finally after a long moment, the Lord Seneschal, still cradling his right arm, nods to his people and the hostile contingent storms out in a jostling, angrily-glaring mob. To the Ten:]

Sorry, that took a lot longer than I expected. I see you've got things under control, though. Good idea sending Huan for me right away.

 **Captain** :

Er, well, actually --

 **Finrod** :

Oh -- more of his own initiative, I take it?

 **Captain** :

He didn't tell you?

[his lord chuckles briefly, thinking it's only a joke. Beren, with Huan at heel, comes up quietly now that the immediate danger is past, not interrupting]

 **Ambassador** :

So easily you dismiss them, Sire, and have full confidence they will not return when your guard is down, to take the vengeance they hold to be their own? -- And yes, I am here, and would rather not be, whatever possible construction you wish to place upon that statement, and I have equal confidence in your Majesty's courtesy and intuition revealing my wish not to dwell upon any particulars of it.

[Finrod gives him a pensive Look, but honors his request, answering him only (while maintaining an aloof disinterest in his family members standing nearby)]

 **Finrod** :

Oh, they won't take it any further. They'd have to explain to the Lord of the Halls, in detail, you see, and even for them it would be difficult to justify their motivations, and so they'll simply drop it. -- They might bring it up again when the next trouble starts --

[looking at the Steward]

\-- and you'll probably _never_ hear the end of it.

 **Steward** :

My lord, I --

 **Finrod** : [putting a hand on his shoulder]

If they succeeded in provoking _you_ , it must have been bad. I trust -- that your conscience is more than equal to any reprimand I might bestow on you, my friend.

[he turns to look at the others -- and frowns in amazement]

What are _you_ doing here, Maiwe?

 **Teler Maid** : [bitterly]

Trailing about after _him_ , what else to be said?

 **Finrod** :

\-- Oh.

[he starts to ask further, then defers it for later. To the others:]

What's been going on, while I've been busy elsewhere?

 **Steward** :

Your brother Aegnor returned and provided us with some diverting moments, I fear.

 **Finrod** : [sighing]

Yes, I've given him a bit of a talking-to about that. I don't think it'll happen again. Anything else? What set that lot off?

 **First Guard** :

They came looking for trouble and found it. The Lord Seneschal's flunkey went to kick Beren for -- if you'll believe it, my lord -- discourtesy.

 **Finrod** : [with an angry snort]

What then?

 **Youngest Ranger** : [embarrassed at drawing attention to himself]

I -- Sire, I -- I knocked him down and bashed him in the knee. But the other way round. That's why he wanted -- wanted to challenge me.

 **Finrod** : [warmly]

Good job. Don't worry about it -- either of you --

[he looks at the Steward]

\-- they won't take it further, I'll warrant. And if they do, we'll deal with it then. I need a volunteer for a quick errand, now --

 **Finarfin** :

What dost thou presently, indeed?

[pause]

 **Finrod** : [very guarded tone]

Why do you ask?

Finarfin 

I had but concern, for these thine own concerns, that seeketh to fulfill its own lack by learning how all doth transpire, perchance to aid.

[longer pause]

 **Finrod** : [formal politeness, undercut by irony]

The concerns of the dead are not yours, Sire, nor, I believe, is there anything _your_ will may accomplish here. -- Unless you claim Lord Namo's role here in addition to your own _lawful_ title -- which I somehow doubt is the case.

 **Finarfin** :

Nay, my son -- I seek to compel thee not.

[they stare at each other for a brief moment, taut and unhappy; but this time their position is subtly reversed, with Finrod being the one giving stinging barbs and Finarfin the wary, restrained recipient of them.]

 **Finrod** : [turning back to his following]

All right then, who among us is worst at chess? All forms of it -- and doesn't _like_ it, either. It's no good if he can tell you enjoy learning, you'll never break free.

[the Third Guard steps forward, and Finrod gives an approving nod.]

Please go and ask my uncle to come here, without delay, as a favour to me. Phrase it as graciously as you can, but make sure it's clear that I need him to come talk to me now, _not_ six hundred years from now, and I do mean _here_. Er -- not in those words, of course.

[the Guard bows and hurries off, leaving Finrod to deal with his family and others. He looks at them a bit warily, recognizing that there is something going on, but not having any information as to the source of their (additional) tension. Polite:]

Did you wish to speak to me, father?

 **Finarfin** : [equally]

An thou'lt not converse upon thy present concerns, belike thou might willingly relate some account of thy kingdom, yon realm that thou didst found for thyself upon the other shore, and the workings of thy rule.

 **Finrod** : [bemused]

You want to hear about Nargothrond? I shouldn't have thought you'd be interested in the forbidden doings of a bunch of rebels, now.

Nerdanel

Nay, but ever must parents wonder and yearn for word of children's faring, doubt it not, though thou hast none.

[there is an awkward moment]

 **Finrod** : [clapping his hands together]

Very well, why don't we make ourselves comfortable over there and we can try to give you something of an idea, at the least, of what we've been up to on the other side of the Sea.

[he gestures towards the Falls, and there is another awkward moment, as the four guests look at each other, and at him, uncomfortable but not willing to be the first to speak.]

Is there a problem, then?

 **Captain** : [smoothly interjecting]

I'm rather afraid that milord your father is overwhelmed by our inability to recount tales singly and in good order, your noble aunt still very much unsettled by so many houseless spirits, your lady wife wishing us very much still at the other side of the Sea, or better yet the bottom of it, and your royal uncle's servant thinking nigh the same of the Beoring. Have I read the situation aright, gentles all?

[four rather chill Looks would seem to indicate so]

 **Finrod** : [wry]

This is as bad as diplomacy back home. I might as well not have died, for all the good it did me. Very well, then --

[he looks around, oblivious to the reflexive flinches of his family and the background collecting of a wager by the Youngest Ranger, and shakes his head]

I'm afraid there are only the two chairs, and I really don't dare move them --

[brief expressions of confusion are replaced by utter bemusement as they realize which "chairs" he is referring to]

\-- so it seems there is only the rather rustic alternative over there --

[pointing to the hill]

\--  _if_ you do not find that unacceptable.

 **Ambassador** :

Surely none of our race could ever object to the comfort of the greensward, but one must ask of direst curiosity -- whence comes a piece of the growing earth to enliven these sunless Halls?

 **Finrod** :

A gift, lent by the grace of Lady Nessa, I hear tell.

[with a polite, edged smile to Amarie]

It is both _real_ , and untainted by any rebellious craftsmanship, my lady --

[her lips tighten, but she does not retort]

 **Nerdanel** : [firmly]

\--  _Nephew_. Keep thy private quarrels to home. -- Thou kennst well what I do intend; moreover, herein lieth _not_ thy true home.

[he stops, forestalled before he can respond, a touch chagrined.]

 **Finarfin** : [soothing]

Ample accommodation, in truth, and a most pleasant spot, yon turfen hill -- to which, gentles, let us repair, that we may hear the wondrous and most strange news from the land of our Awakening.

[with a shepherding gesture he takes Amarie's hand and motions the others to accompany them, allowing no room for objection]

 **Beren** : [aside to Finrod]

Is this? -- I mean -- you --  _you_ know --

[looking over at Finarfin and the others, raising his eyebrows]

 **Finrod** : [blunt]

No, I'd rather be thrown off a cliff than deal with them, as you correctly surmise. But in courtesy, they can't be left to their own devices, and absent any higher authority to foist them off upon, it falls to me to entertain them. Don't worry, I'll survive -- so to speak.

[squaring his shoulders, he assumes a look of determined pleasant calm and goes to play the part of the lordly host among welcome guests, leaving worried companions behind]

 **Beren** : [alarmed, aside to the Steward]

Does he _know_?

 **Captain** :

Know what?

 **Beren** :

\-- He _doesn't_ , does he?

[narrowing his brows, the Steward shakes his head]

 **Steward** :

I do not see how it is possible he should.

 **Beren** :

I bet his dad's not going to say anything, either.

 **Captain** :

Oh -- h. 

[he grimaces, glancing quickly over to the hill]

 **Beren** : [looking across and back]

This isn't good. -- Do you think that _all_ of 'em know?

[the Steward follows suit as well]

 **Steward** :

Most probably.

[Beren & the Captain wince]

 **Beren** :

Except him. Nothing we can do about it, though, is there?

 **Steward** : [nodding towards the rest of the Ten & companions]

No, save trouble our friends to no purpose by our conversing on it.

[the Sea-Elf, suspicious, comes up to their urgent consultation and demands:]

 **Teler Maid** :

Do you talk of me?

 **Captain** : [gently]

\-- No.

[to Beren]

I don't think there's anything we can do, that won't make things more difficult than less all round.

 **Steward** : [shaking his head]

I see no discreet way of imparting the information to our lord at present.

[the Elven-maid continues to stand there, with a chafing expression, caught in the awkward state of bystanding a conversation without belonging to it and not wanting to go away in embarrassment or to cause a scene; she looks up frowning darkly at the Steward, who glances down at her in the same moment, and very seriously moves aside a little, leaving a deliberate place for her. After a moment she steps in a little closer, her arms folded, still wary and half-outsider]

 **Beren** : [frowning]

Hm.

 **Teler Maid** : [after another hesitation]

What would you have him know?

 **Beren** :

He doesn't know that they didn't know what happened to us and now they know, and they don't know that he didn't know they didn't know, and that now they know. And they said things to each other that they probably wouldn't have if they'd known -- mostly his dad. And Amarie. And now he's saying stuff back, and they're not going to know what to say.

[longish pause]

 **Teler Maid** :

I could go and say that someone needs him without, and then tell him myself when we are from here.

 **Captain** :

Yes, but then they're bound to ask him what the matter was, when he gets back, and it's the same problem, I'm afraid.

 **Beren** :

Good idea, though.

 **Captain** :

Nothing for it but to hope Himself doesn't say anything too sharp, before a chance to apprise him comes along.

[he shakes his head, sighing]

 **Beren** : [deadpan]

He might figure it out anyway. He's pretty smart.

[the Elven-girl looks at him strangely]

 **Teler Maid** :

That is a most simple and manifest thing to say -- yet I do not _think_ you are simple of wit -- so why say you what all well know, that Lord Ingold is most wise and clear-sighted?

[Beren shrugs, a bit embarrassed]

 **Captain** :

That's more mortal humor.

[pause]

 **Teler Maid** :

'Tis strange.

 **Captain** :

It is indeed.

[pause]

 **Teler Maid** : [frowning, changing the subject]

What is that matter of _chess_ Lord Ingold did speak of? For I think it must be a pastime, but I know it not.

[Beren and the Captain share a Significant Look, while the Steward covers his face with his hand]

 **Beren** :

I think we can find someone to teach you.

 **Steward** :

\--  _No_. That would _not_ be prudent.

[as the Sea-elf looks at him with an uncertain expression half between automatic outrage and wariness, Beren is the picture of injured innocence]

 **Beren** : [bewildered]

I wasn't talking about _you_. I don't know why in the world you would think I was meaning you, sir -- it's like you think I've got nothing better to do than cause trouble for you --

[the Steward gives him an eyebrow-raised Look of arctic frostiness, while he continues to protest disingenuously]

 **Teler Maid** : [to the Captain, decidedly]

'Tis _very_ strange indeed.

 **Beren** :

\-- I mean, we _all_ know how to play chess, I don't see why --

 **Steward** : [curious, resting his hands on the mortal's shoulders]

\-- Beren, _what_ would you do, if I did indeed answer you as from your tales _you_ would expect your cousins to have answered such incessant japery, by half-wringing your neck in jest or impelling you beneath the outlet of yonder cascade?

[pause -- Beren looks up at the much-taller shade thoughtfully.]

 **Beren** :

I'd win, on account of having made you respond without using any words again.

[brief pause]

 **Steward** :

\--  _Hina_.

[he brushes his knuckles lightly against Beren's cheek, almost smiling, and turns to the falls, going over to where Finrod left his harp -- instead of sitting down apart, however, he carries it to where their comrades are waiting, uncertain as to what's all going on, and takes his place in their midst, to their obvious pleasure, and begins to play very quietly.]

 **Teler Maid** : [troubled]

Why does it misgive you not, that he dismiss you as but a child?

[Beren shakes his head]

 **Beren** :

 _Kinsman_.

 **Teler Maid** :

No -- the word is _child_ , in _their_ speech --

[she nods sharply, including the Captain and all the Ten (& even Huan) in her gesture, all of her insecurities coming to the fore in her tone]

 **Beren** : [gently]

But it _means_ kinsman, when he says it to me.

[she looks back and forth to see if they're teasing her, and then across at the Steward, providing background music for the warriors' conversation and games, and appears distraught.]

C'mon, somebody over here can teach you how to play chess, if you really want.

 **Teler Maid** : [fretful]

I do not know what I want.

[but she accompanies them back to the waterside nonetheless.]


	109. Act 4: SCENE IV.xviii

[Elsewhere: the council chamber]

[Vaire, Irmo, Aule, Orome, and Aule's Assistant are all leaning forward in their chairs talking animatedly, while Namo sits back with an abstracted frown on his face, clearly thinking about something entirely different from their argument. Luthien is crosslegged on the floor next to the bowl of silver light, working intently on what looks rather like a cats'-cradle, except that when she lets go of the shining strands, they remain as if floating on water while she moves the other threads across them. She is not paying any more attention to the debaters than they are to her, at the moment . . . ]

 **Irmo** :

Yes, and doesn't that give you pause? The fact that someone who thinks that every problem can be solved by beating something up agrees with you? Ordinarily you wouldn't be claiming Tulkas' opinion as legitimizing your own!

 **Aule** : [growing impatience, waving his forefinger didactically]

I didn't say that the fact that _he_ _agrees_ _with_ _us_ proves that we're right. I only mentioned his support as an example of the fact that diverse opinions -- and diverse personalities, and diverse viewpoints -- were united against the opposing position. Which --

[another emphatic gesture]

\-- should indicate to some _small_ degree that Nienna's stance was untenable nd her overly-optimistic assessment of that wretch's state of mind should have been discounted by them from the beginning --

 **Vaire** : [speaking over him]

\-- Aule, it really isn't fair of you to characterize her position when Nia isn't here to articulate it for herself --

 **Orome** : [frowning]

\-- Why _isn't_ she here? I don't understand it at all -- this is exactly the kind of situation where one would expect her to be in the thick of it, trying to smooth things over and make everybody happy --

[Namo looks up at the door, just as Nienna's Apprentice enters, looking a little wild-eyed but not quite as stressed as before]

 **Nienna's Apprentice** :

You called me, Sir? -- Er, there's been no news from the search teams yet --

 **Namo** :

Forget about that -- for now. I don't mean that literally, either. I just have something else I want you to look into for me.

[he manifests a rolled scroll and holds it out to the Apprentice]

You wanted to go dig in the Archives, well, you've got your wish. Get to it -- I want everything you can find about what's on there, as fast as you can find it.

 **Apprentice** :

But --

 **Aule's Assistant** : [shaking his head, very much in imitation of his Lord's manner and tone]

Honestly, Olorin, I swear you're _never_ contented. No wonder you can't settle down.

[the other gives him a quick, disheartened look, but pulls himself together.]

 **Apprentice** : [to Namo]

Yes, my Lord. But -- what about keeping an eye on the stone?

 **Namo** :

Get someone else to look after it -- or why don't you give me that toy of yours and then we won't have to worry about you forgetting while you're doing something else.

[silently the Apprentice gives him the "sympathetic" version of the palantir and takes the list instead; Namo looks at the shiny bead doubtfully.]

It _does_ work, you're sure of it?

 **Apprentice** :

Erm -- I don't see why it shouldn't, at least.

 **Namo** : [flatly]

Great. Just -- take care of this stuff quickly. And don't get distracted and start looking up unrelated things, all right?

[turning back towards the door, his sister's student nods gloomily.]

 **Vaire** : [looking over from the discussion]

Oh, and tell that dog of Tav's to stop running up and down the Halls barking, there's a dear, he's making my headache worse than it already is.

 **Apprentice** : [to the room at large, with exaggerated patience]

Anybody want anything else while I'm at it? Cosmic harmony, anyone? The Silmarils? Just one, perhaps?

 **Luthien** : [bland]

Just my husband, thanks.

[she looks up with a raised eyebrow as his expression becomes briefly chagrined, but then he winks, quickly, so that her expression changes to a puzzled frown as she watches his departure.]

 **Orome:** [picking right back up where they left off]

Now, if you ask me, what Varda _should_ have done instead was . . .


	110. Act 4: SCENE IV.xix

[the Hall: the Ten and Beren are teaching the Sea-elf how to play chess, while over on the Hill Finrod is sitting on the grass with an air of assumed nonchalance in the midst a group distinguished by extreme discomfort, where none of the participants are at ease with each other for a spectrum of reasons, ranging from guilt to anger to distaste for witnessing family tension to conversing with the dead/the living, and the peace is extremely fragile --]

 **Finarfin** :

For how long didst thou hold sway over the Havens of Balar, then?

 **Finrod** : [shaking his head]

No, I thought I made that clear -- we were _allied_ _with_ the coasts, and maintained the defenses at Brithombar and Eglarest as well as as improving the shipyards in the south, but I never administered those areas. Lord Cirdan and I were friends, but he was never my subject; it would have been absurd for one as inexperienced as I, and a foreigner, to claim dominion over the Sea-elves of Beleriand on the grounds of being their former King's grandson!  I gave him counsel, sometimes, as he advised me well in turn.

 **Finarfin** :

Indeed, and wert thou not most singularly counselled in the course of thy reign throughout?

[they both glance at the group by the falls, briefly, and Finrod becomes very stern]

 **Finrod** :

I bestowed my trust on those who proved themselves trustworthy, and authority on those who showed themselves fit to wield it. If they are not the most easy-tempered of Elves, what of it? I know you consider them _responsible_ , like everyone else who didn't turn back with you, and a bad influence -- but you really don't grasp what things were like in the Old Country, how much work there was to be done, and how little ready resources to do it with --

[leaning forward, intense]

\-- and _especially_ what the Crossing was like. I needed every trustworthy and willing soul I could get. I used my siblings' help when I could -- but they had their own domains to administer and Work to do, and I couldn't go yanking them off that whenever I needed something looked into. And I never did figure out how to be in three places at once. Nor had I your option, of delegating or diverting delicate matters of negotiation and personal conflict to my partner and co-ruler. So I'll thank you, Father, _not_ to speak slightingly of those friends who did stay loyal to me.

[Finarfin looks down, not saying anything in his own defense]

 **Amarie** : [taut]

They are rebels, notwithstanding.

 **Finrod** :

Yes. _We_ are.

[she looks away, fiddling with her sash, and he does not pursue the matter -- instead he turns to his elders with an air of innocent curiosity:]

So -- were you engaging in yet another instance of sibling rivalry with _us_ , or was it purely coincidental that we've got the largest families of anyone in Valinor, at least as things stood when we left?

 **Finarfin** :

Thy query is past comprehending, child.

 **Finrod** : [to his father]

Of course it could simply be that Grandfather wanted a lot of kids, and you all simply took it for granted as something to strive for, internalizing it without realizing it, and nothing deliberate about it, _but_  --

[to his aunt]

When my cousins and I were -- not friends, as it after proved, but _friendly_  -- we started wondering, after Cur pointed out the respective ages and we did up a comparison table, and they remarked on how exceptionally pleased you two were when the twins were born, as if something had been definitively settled, that you'd gotten so far ahead that no one else could catch up.

[she gives him a very frosty Look]

 **Nerdanel** :

Thine other uncle hath also more children than most commonly is custom.

 **Finrod** : [blithely]

We know. I've asked him, but he just ignores the question.

[shrugs]

I _suppose_ it could just be coincidence, but there does seem to be something in the fact that there do seem to be these batches of cousins all right around the same time in our House.

 **Nerdanel** : [quellingly]

Nay, is it yet more of yon quaint fashion of speech from the Old Country? for surely thou dost not mean to speak of people as were loaves, else cakes -- ?

 **Finarfin** : [even more quelling]

Finrod --  _what_ , deemst thou, thy mother should say unto such malapert inquiring?

 **Finrod** : [shrugs]

I've no idea. That's why I'm asking, because I haven't any way of knowing whether it's the truth, and since she isn't here and you two are, I'm asking you instead.

 **Nerdanel** :

Thy manners improvéd not at all in the Old Country.

 **Finrod** : [cheerful]

I must have lost _them_ back there, too.

[silence]

 **Ambassador** :

Majesty, it is not gracious to make light of the matter of unhousing -- not all of us have had the same leisure to grow accustomed to the business, and such jests are most distressing.

[the living Elves look relieved that another shade has raised the issue where they might not.]

 **Finrod** :

Sorry. I meant my wits, as it happens. I hear so many witty remarks made concerning my lack of sanity on, for lack of better phrasing, a daily basis, that it seemed the obvious comparison to me.

[cheerful]

So --  _were_ you all having some sort of an artistic competition, then?

[the camera leaves them and moves to focus on the chess-lessons, where the Teler Maid is playing against the Captain, who is presently glaring at Beren, who is kneeling down next to the board watching]

 **Captain** :

 _Please_ don't tell me what I should be doing. -- Even if you're right. And nobody go quoting stupid sayings about things coming and going around, either.

 **Teler Maid** : [her brows narrowing as she stares at the board]

I do not care much for this game.

[the Youngest Ranger is sitting beside her, advising her on moves]

 **Youngest Ranger** : [encouraging]

You're doing quite well, for a beginner, truly.

 **Teler Maid** :

That is not my meaning. In this fashion of it, there is no way to win, unless another does die.

 **Beren** :

Yeah, that's . . . sort of what happens, in war. Which this is based on, I'm afraid.

 **Teler Maid** : [shaking her head]

But might it not happen, that from thinking _this_ so like to war, that one might come to think of other Elves --

[looks at Beren]

\-- or Men -- as but such small pieces to be set here and there, and in harm's way, and so to be knocked aside without regret, so that the purpose of winning be attained?

[dramatically she flips one of the pawns over with a snap of her fingers to reinforce the point, as if shooting a very large marble]

 **Captain** : [blinking]

Erm -- I don't see how. It's but a game, after all.

 **First Guard** : [disturbed but definite about his answer]

No, I'm -- sure, it -- isn't possible that any of us should come to such a point, where the loss of life meant _nothing_ _whatsoever_  -- that would be unthinkable, Maiwe. There would be no difference between us and the Enemy's minions at that point.

 **Teler Maid** :

 _You_ were not killed by your own folk.

 **Captain** :

Not _directly_.

 **Teler Maid** :

And does that not but go to show my sayings' truth, that you were set aside without regret by others, that did not care enough to care of your deaths as if they were their own?!

 **Captain** : [patient]

There was a Curse invoked, Curlew, and a great deal of other currents involved in that turn of affairs.

[at his words she tosses her head and looks over at the Steward]

 **Teler Maid** :

And what do _you_ say, my learnéd lord? Think _you_ my notion's but folly, as well?

[the Captain winces at her words; the Steward does not answer at once, but instantly stops the strings, making it clear that he's paying attention and thinking about it first]

 **Steward** : [carefully]

It is true that of those who rebelled against our lord, were many who favoured the board as a means of honing skills of strategy, beyond mere diversion; but at the same time it is no less true that the game was unknown, to those who first committed the sacrilege of murder against our people.

 **Teler Maid** :

That is _two_ answers -- which is to say, none at all!

 **Steward** : [nods]

Indeed, in former days I should have said at once -- Absurd, to think that a mere pastime might change the reasoning mind, a mere _thing_ that thought employs itself about, as though the wax might shape the burin that sculpts it equally, though it be soft and bronze or agate hard. But now upon reflection it comes to me that it is true, that what is carved does indeed chafe and shape the tool that works it, for its respective hardness and softness thereof, and perhaps in like fashion the mind should be affected, pendant upon the self's own powers and determination. For does not thought, which shapes speech, and gives birth to the words that the tongue utters, hold precedence and rule over the fleeting sound? And yet --

[absent-mindedly running his hand around the forepillar of the harp]

\-- having seen how varied speech may be, and how alike, and how unlike, are the ways and manners of thinking that each has that employs a different one, I wonder -- rather, judge it so -- that speech does truly shape the mind that makes it, even as the different densities of stones, and woods, and metals, do change the sculptor's very hand, both in pattern of gesture and by increase of strength. Yet this is but analogy, of course, and nothing definite.

 **Teler Maid** :

You still have not said yea or nay, but yea _and_ nay.

 **Beren** : [frowning]

Isn't that an Elvish thing? I thought it came from being Eldar.

 **Steward** :

Were I not fearful of giving offense, I should say that it comes of wisdom, which often accompanies years but does not inevitably follow upon them, but which may by the course of time and wide experience allow to overlook a great many things, as from the topmost branches of the tallest trees, and thus reveal that things in truth be other than at first presumed while in their midst, as a distance might be less great than seemed, or greater, or things thought far apart lie close beside, and only such slow and laborious ascent to such a height may grant the view, and also must require as well the courage to look so far and through so lofty a gap.

[raising an eyebrow]

\-- Or else, at other times, it comes but of mental sloth, that does not care to take the trouble to think on it, or possibly of simple ignorance, that is too proud to grant it.

[his ex gives him a wary look, and then an even more uncertain one to their companions, who are chuckling over this . . . answer]

 **Soldier** :

How _did_ you win, sir? Against His Majesty the High King?

 **Captain** :

I just assumed you cheated with the Sight.

[nods from several of the Ten]

 **Steward** :

No, I -- merely played kingstone, where he was playing chess proper.

 **Beren** : [frowning]

How could you do that? 

**Steward** :

I took the offensive to his side, by putting my king into play, and setting all my pieces in guard around as a doubled _nernehta_. At first he was so thrown by the unprecedent and seeming-madness of such a hazardous ploy, that he could not mount an effective defense -- and then as certain similarities to unpleasant past events became increasingly manifest, aided by the fact that he had drawn black, His Majesty's uncle became increasingly, as you would say, _rattled_. I nearly felt badly at putting him in check with my remaining knight. But I doubt the stratagem would work again, now that he has had time to study it.

 **Beren** : [solemnly]

I can see where making him play Morgoth to your Fingolfin might make him a tad upset and careless.

 **Teler Maid** :

But it is little like to Arda, after all's done, no matter how like your War -- for when one battle's ended, you but lay the pieces down for yet another.

[she gives them a slightly uncertain, challenging look, receiving only sad affirmation in return: only the Steward disagrees at all]

 **Steward** : [shaking his head]

It is not much like the world Outside -- but it is very like to _here_.

[he returns to playing, still quietly; beyond, the Royal Guard sent on errand to Fingolfin returns, and approaching the hill, comes up quietly and kneels down discreetly behind his King, tapping him on the shoulder to get his attention.]

 **Third Guard** : [aside to Finrod, in a rather frustrated tone]

Sir, your uncle's being gloomy over things again and wants you to go talk to him yourself. I did tell him you were busy with your father, but he's _not_ in the mood to listen.

[he notices the surprised expressions of the living Eldar and gives Finrod a worried look]

 **Finrod** : [very amused]

You're scandalizing my family with our informality.

 **Third Guard** :

Oh.

[bites his lip, straightening as he kneels, and begins again -- very formal tone]

\-- Sire, the High King would have your Majesty attend upon his presence most presently, and requests that His Majesty the King excuse your Majesty's absence for the whiles.

[spoiling it]

How's that, Sir?

 **Finrod** : [approving nod]

Good enough.

 **Third Guard** :

What do you want me to tell him next?

 **Finrod** : [cool glint]

Nothing. He'll be getting my response shortly, and regretting this game. He should know by now that I play to win.

[snorts]

\-- On the other hand, he won't be able to complain about being _bored_.

[to the Guard]

\-- Thank you.

[his follower nods and makes his departure with rapidity and relief, heading over to the much more relaxed, if still strained, gathering by the waterfall]

 **Finarfin** : [guardedly]

There is ill-will twixt thee and thine uncle?

[Finrod shrugs, shaking his head a little]

 **Finrod** : [a shade wearily]

He's not gotten over the fact that most people here think of him _as_ my uncle, rather than me as the High King's nephew. We try not to make an issue of it; but the fact of the matter is, I held more territory, and more followers, than all the rest of our family combined. -- For all the good it did me.

[Finarfin restrains a grimace]

 **Nerdanel** :

But tell me, was that not ever truth? Surely thy father's elder was not so blind to see it not?

 **Finrod** :

Yes, but it didn't matter to him then, because he never paid much attention to anything that happened in the south. All his concentration was fixed on Thangorodrim, and everything else was important only in so far as it related to the Leaguer. I might have ruled most of Beleriand, but it never registered saving insofar as it meant that I could guarantee deliveries of weapons and wine and gemstones and seafood and safe passage for all of that and his messengers and troops to the siege.

 **Nerdanel** :

Whence, then, this sudden and much-belated cognition of such state as did obtain o'er all for nigh well all this Age?

 **Finrod** : [wry]

Because -- an awful lot of them are _here_. And yes, technically we are all of us subject to him -- my people, including my brothers and their people as well, along with the Feanorian dead -- but that doesn't change the fact that an awful lot of them, including occasionally my brothers and some of the Feanorians, come to me first for advice. Which -- as I've tried to tell him -- has some little thing to do with the fact that he's spent much of the past decade moping about and playing endless rounds of chess with whomever he can conscript into it.

[increasingly exasperated]

I mean -- Grinding Ice! -- what _difference_ does it make any more? First of all, it's completely in the past; secondly, as you said, Aunt 'Danel, nothing _really_ has changed except that he's been forced to notice it. I don't understand why he's so touchy about it now. When I was alive my kingdom came close to _encircling_ Elu's, and _he_ never gave me such a hard time as Uncle Fingolfin is giving me now. Not even when he threw us out.

 **Ambassador** :

Yes, but _you_ freely gave him the one thing he did desire, you and your siblings and your following --  _respect_.

 **Finrod** :

I --

[stops, fights back a grin]

I give my father's brothers all the respect they are due. No less than I gave my grandfather's brother.

 **Ambassador** :

And thus His Majesty could but ever give his royal nephew hearing, whether the words were much to his liking or little, nor long stay angry with you, Sire.

[Finrod sighs deeply]

 **Finrod** :

\-- Too many Kings . . . !

 **Finarfin** : [very measured and slightly-mocking tone]

So, my son, --  _art_ thou King, or not? For first thou dost deny it, and yet thy folk aver it, and thou dost act in such wise ever amidst all, and now, in guardless speech thou eke averrest. Canst thou yet, in full cognizance, and all consideration of these things, deny me thus once more?

[they match stares for a long, intense moment, far too much between them to be said otherwise, and then Finrod sighs, yielding, but not weakening:]

 **Finrod** : [equally-measured, and very proudly]

For so long as my people do hold me such, for so long as any of them stand in need of my protection, and for so long as we abide within these Halls -- I shall be their true lord, as they are true beyond all my deserving, for how can I choose other?

 **Finarfin** : [coolly]

I had deemed no less. -- Glad am I in truth to find it so.

[Finrod is not sure what to make of his father's words; Amarie, who has up till now been very quiet and taut, now addresses him, in an edged, brittle tone.]

 **Amarie** :

Thou --  _thou_ dost not such things, in truth? To strike, with the sword's keenness, thy fellow shades?

 **Finrod** :

Not _usually_.

[brief pause]

Usually, --  _worse_.

 **Finarfin** :

Howso?

 **Finrod** : [shrugging]

D -- Fire-breathing serpent-monsters. Molten rivers. -- Things out of their worst nightmares to haunt them.

 **Amarie** : [sharp]

Then how mayest hold thyself superior to these thy -- foes?

 **Finrod** : [coolly]

They ravaged Swanhaven. They haven't regretted it. Now _I_ harry _them_. -- Not unprovoked, I assure you.

[she does not respond, but only stares at him with a strange intensity; he gives his living relatives a defiant look. In the background, the Feanorian contingent returns, strengthened by the addition of a few more bolder souls]

 **Nerdanel** :

My nephew, didst not assure that yon unquiet dead should ne'er dare to return and trouble ye?

[looking around, he grimaces at her dry words]

 **Finrod** :

Unwarranted optimism -- ever our bane.

[sighing, he gets up and goes over to the incipient conflagration, shaking his head wearily at it all. With unspoken accord, the other four rise and follow to see what happens. The confronted parties are in much the same arrangement as before, with Beren and Huan together remaining reluctantly by the falls, while the two followings face off without yet coming to blows.]

What seems to be the trouble, gentles?

 **Seneschal of Formenos** : [airily]

What trouble would you have, sir?

 **Finrod** :

None whatsoever, by my wish. But I fear you bring me some.

 **Seneschal of Formenos** :

No, you and yours brought it on yourselves. Your servant owes my friend a debt of pain, and we are here to see it paid.

 **Finrod** :

You know what my decision on that was -- that judgment should be left up to them that rightfully judge here, and I bid you go and make your grievance known to them. Have you not done so?

 **Warden of Aglon** :

Hah -- as if they'd judge honestly between you and yours, and us! You know what the truth of that is, I'll warrant.

 **Finrod** :

As I know the truth of what I say -- that I know not what judgment the Doomsman would pronounce, but that it be just.

 **Steward** :

My lord, they will not give you peace, until I yield. Let me --

 **Finrod** :

 _No_.

 **Steward** :

For the common good, and Beren's --

 **Finrod** :

\-- No. I do _not_ betray my own.

[the Steward bows his head in obedience, though not relieved by the refusal]

 **Seneschal of Formenos** :

So quickly you yield, Enedrion. I hardly recognize you these days -- you must have been at some pains to blend in over the years with House Finarfin's "meekness," as I believe you used to call it over dinner at Gatherings in the old Day, considering how much you said it _wore_ upon you.

[he seems somewhat disappointed and surprised that the Ten express no surprise nor dismay whatsoever at this revelation"]

 **Warden of Aglon** : [frowning thoughtfully]

No, it's the other way 'round, I think: he found his proper level with _these_ , who almost instantly forgot their Noldor heritage -- such as it was -- and "naturalized," I think they put it, when it's plants. None quite quite as much as the little sister -- but you'd swear they were all Dark- elves themselves, the way they've been running and hiding from trouble, these last few years. Of course, if he'd been _truly_ High-elven, at heart, and not just from birth, he'd not have held back and gotten caught up with these stragglers back in the initial stages of the Departure.

[the Steward does not respond, though his expression reveals the strain -- Finarfin gives him a surprised look]

 **Finarfin** : [darkly]

Is this ever their way and fashion of words unto ye?

[quick nod]

Yet thou dost not strike him down for such form of insolence?

 **Steward** :

Truly, my lord, I -- I seldom, if ever, permit my anger to rule my deeds. --  _That_  -- was a most uncommon exception.

 **Captain** : [apologetic]

 _I_ usually take care of any necessary violence, Sir.

 **Finarfin** :

Aye, yet -- he derideth not only ye, but my son the same, in his words to thee.

[another quick nod]

 **Captain** :

That's my jurisdiction as well.

 **Finarfin** :

I aver thy former actions seem less worthy of reprehensions -- the both of ye.

[to the Feanorian lords, impassioned:]

Wherefore ye seek naught but to feed this malice that doth overgrow thee like unto mossy greens o'ersliming rocks that do stand in water -- deem ye not that it shall be the more fitting employ of spirit and strength to seek an end, or some form of speech or form of service that shall give solace to thine injured mood, young shade, that doth not give to other injury? Nor that it befits thee better, that art his elder both in earthly years alike in death, to urge him peace, belike discovering of thine own wisdom such appeasement even, that shall be acceptable to all who now contend?

 **Seneschal of Formenos** : [shaking his head]

No one can stop you from talking, I suppose -- but I can't _imagine_ what you think you'll accomplish, Finarfin old chap. Your skills as a peacemaker and a leader haven't exactly been shining successes, what? After all, you couldn't even keep your own children in line -- though I'm not sure whether that says more about your parenting skills than your -- ahem -- "leadership abilities," eh? Not like your brother at all . . .

[he trails off, raising his eyebrow challengingly -- Finarfin only gives him a level Look, matching him stare for stare, while to the side Finrod's jaw hardens, though he doesn't say anything]

 **Amarie** : [outraged]

He is King of the Noldor, by right of descent that hath been confirméd full by Taniquetil's Powers -- and by desert, thou rebel, thou thief!

 **Warden of Aglon** : [bored tone, not even looking at her]

Go back to your Valmar birdcage and ring your bells, Firstling.

 **Amarie** : [to Finrod]

\-- And dost thou stand there, my lord, and hear, and do naught?

 **Finrod** : [shrugging]

What do you want me to _do_ , exactly? I thought you were against violence.

 **Amarie** :

It is thine own father he mocketh, nor I alone!

 **Finrod** : [bleakly]

I can tell him to be quiet, but you've seen how much good _that_ does. If I hit him, it's going to escalate, which is what I'm trying to prevent. A bit counter-productive, wouldn't you say?

[she snorts angrily; the Feanorians look on with malicious glee]

After all, it's hardly fair of you to condemn Edrahil for losing his temper at the same sort of thing, and then goad me into it, -- unless you're _actually_ trying to get me to do something to further justify your bad opinions of me --

 **Amarie** : [loudly interrupting him]

 _Hold_  --

[she grits her teeth as if biting down on any further imprecations, looking as coolly unaffected as she can, but there are tears in her eyes]

 **Warden of Aglon** : [affecting innocence, gesturing back and forth]

So --  _are_ you two married, or not? I can never get a straight answer about that, and my Lords weren't quite sure either.

[to Amarie first]

It's just as well, considering, that you stayed behind, Firstling -- you do know he was notorious for running off and not finishing things properly before getting distracted with something new. Saved yourself no end of grief, I'm sure --

[to Finrod]

\-- It's hardly surprising that nobody in Nargothrond followed you, when you couldn't even convince your own lady to do the same! Of course, _that's_ not really surprising either, considering you never stayed there long enough to unpack your bags. -- I wonder if they've even missed you yet?

[without looking around Finrod flings out his arm, blocking the Captain from moving forward; Amarie is white with fury]

 **Warrior** :

We finished the defenses of Barad Nimras, didn't we? And th --

 **Seneschal of Formenos** : [cutting him off]

\-- Yes, and from what I've heard, that was a _signally_ pointless waste of resources, wasn't it? They didn't strike _there_ , after all.

 **Ranger** :

At least we didn't just hang about on a perpetual shooting vacation enjoying ourselves at other people's expense!

[the Feanorian lords just smile, the baiting succeeding quite well]

 **Finrod** : [impassive]

Have you anything of _substance_ to impart, milords?

 **Nerdanel** : [sternly chiding]

Ye should stand ashamed, that have not learned aught of mercy else of wisdom for the workings of Doom.

[they don't even look at her, although a few of their following do.]

 **Ambassador** :

They are Kinslayers, noble lady, and one expects nothing else of them, if one is wise.

[the Seneschal and Warden give him a glance and then ignore him, as unworthy of attention, while Nerdanel draws herself up to deliver another rebuke.

 **Steward** : [urgent]

Do not waste your time and trouble, please -- it will only incur you needless grief, and insult.

[she gives him a a quick approving glance, and continues to rake those who formerly owed her fealty as well with an adamantine glare. Some of them display signs of clear discomfort, despite their affectation of her non- existence.]

 **Finrod** : [disgusted exasperation]

What do you want? I'm not about to let you hurt any of my people, and I'm not going to allow you to start a melee in _here_. Now you have the choice of letting it _stop_ , now, quietly, and taking it up with the Powers that are here, as I advised -- or of pressing it to open conflict. We are not, --  _have not_  -- and will not be the initiators of aggression. We do our best to keep the peace here, even in the face of your determination to break it.

 **Warden of Aglon** :

Oh, such pretty, _pretty_ words! What a pity they aren't _true_. -- Or have you forgotten how your vassal there ran me through when I had done nothing to him?

[the Steward lowers his head, but does not turn away or retreat; Finrod is unmoved by the retort, as are the rest of his friends.]

 **Captain** :

You hit the Sea-Mew.

 **Warden of Aglon** : [blank]

Who?

 **Teler Maid** : [loudly --  _very_ loudly]

 _Me_!!!

[he glances over, startled, and registers her presence]

 **Warden of Aglon** : [exasperated, to Finrod]

I did no such thing. I merely moved her aside as she was obstructing me -- all right, perhaps a _little_ too much force, but nothing to hurt her, really.

[she snorts angrily, giving him a glare to which he is quite oblivious]

 **Finrod** : [leadingly]

Obstructing you -- and _from_ _what_?

 **Warden of Aglon** :

? ? ?

[Finrod sighs, and looks at the Youngest Ranger]

 **Youngest Ranger** : [clearly, if with reluctant expression]

From trying to strike me, gentles.

 **Warden of Aglon** :

\-- Who had struck _me_ without warning and most unsportsmanlike -- with not even a proper weapon!

 **Finrod** :

\-- And, as I understand it, to forestall you from harming the Lord of Dorthonion. -- A Man unarmed, crippled, occupied in peaceful pursuits, and offering you no cause for violence. Not to mention a valiant enemy of our common Enemy.

[pause, in which everyone looks over at Beren where he is standing unhappily holding onto Huan's neck]

 **Warden of Aglon** : [sullen]

He provoked me.

[derisive noises and loud jeers from the Ten & Huan -- Finrod gestures them quiet]

 **Finrod** : [pleasantly]

Truthfully? I admit that Beren's social skills are not always employed, but tell me -- who spoke first?

[silence]

 **Seneschal of Formenos** : [patronizingly]

Finarfinion, you can't _really_ expect us to take such insolence from one of these yearsick Followers, behaving as though he were one of _us_ , our equal -- nay, our better -- and not a _thief_ , come of a breed of thieves, overrunning and taking all that's ours by right.

 **Warden of Aglon** : [nodding]

Indeed -- if he'd shown me respect, as would be appropriate for someone who owed _everything_ to our sacrifices in the Leaguer, I'd not have lost my temper with your Man servant there. Instead he behaved with less civility than the rest of your people usually do -- which I admit is a difficult thing to manage!

[simultaneously]

 **Second Guard** :

Don't listen to them --

 **Ranger** :

It isn't true, Beren, don't pay attention.

 **Amarie** : [amazed]

Still dost hold fast to this thy jealousy, that art not even earth enough to _hold_ to aught of earth, but like a shadow hast but swept 'cross the lands, until thy time of Doom hath swallowed thee as the night ever swalloweth all such transitory shadows? Wilt thou _ever_ grasp at that which thou canst not bear off, even as thy _true_ Master doth ever seek to clutch all within's own ever-increasing hunger?

 **Teler Maid** : [disdainful]

 _We_ might have preferred the Twilight -- but only to better see the holy Stars, and not to hide our deeds!

 **Ambassador** : [nodding]

Indeed, gentle maiden, they are but Orcs that can endure the Sun, as your words imply -- for so they have most clearly shown themselves to be.

 **Seneschal of Formenos** :

Small your sort's gratitude ever was, but it seems to have vanished altogether, Dark-elf.

 **Ambassador** :

What gratitude is owed, for a deed unintended, sir? You did not have any thought of our welfare when you assaulted Morgoth, nor beleaguered him -- it was but a consequence, and quite as fortunate for your interests as for those whose holding Beleriand rightly was!

[the Lord Seneschal ignores him]

 **Warden of Aglon** : [caustic, to Finrod]

I want satisfaction, _Your_ _Majesty._

 **Finrod** : [looking at him as though he were a beetle]

And I want you and your people out of here, or at least _quiet_ , if you insist upon staying.

 **Warden of Aglon** :

And that's unfortunate, since you can't enforce your will here any more than you could in Nargothrond.

 **Finrod** :

I _don't_ recommend you test that premise.

 **Warden of Aglon** : [smiling a knowing smile]

No, you wouldn't -- since the Powers won't let you actually _do_ anything any more. And, of course, like a dutiful little slave you promised to obey them -- sorry, _child_ , not thrall.

 **Finrod** : [patiently]

I gave my word because the Weaver was so upset, and it was a small thing for me, to give her peace of mind.

 **Warden of Aglon** :

Oh, that's right -- you're just too _nice_ for your own good. No wonder you lost every battle and contest you engaged in -- but considering you've but a quarter Noldor blood, it's perhaps more impressive that you ventured so far from home and even made the effort -- some sort of pity prize in order, I should say!

 **Finrod** : [raising an eyebrow]

The roads might have been different -- but haven't they led us both to the same prophesied place?

 **Warden of Aglon** :

. . .

 **Seneschal of Formenos** : [graciously, to his confederate]

At least _your_ Doom meant something, saving our kinsfolk in the Battle of Sudden Flame.

[Finarfin moves forward -- remembers -- checks, and turns to the Captain]

 **Finarfin** : [low and fierce]

Smite him, friend -- and my blessing for it.

 **Captain** : [regretful]

Gladly, my lord -- were I allowed.

 **Amarie** :

Is't within chance's bounds, that any should have seen yon Doom unfold, borne witness to all its direst workings, and seen the truth of't borne out, that all such unblessed efforts end in misery and ruin -- and yet offend thus blasphemously, and most unsorrowing yet mock at it!?!

 **Seneschal of Formenos** : [to Aglon and his supporters]

It's amazing how those who have caged themselves will continue to insist they're free, and better off for being slaves, than those who have escaped. No prisons like those of the mind, don't you agree? We might be held here against our will -- but at least we _have_ our own free wills!

[as his friends smilingly agree, a strange woman's voice echoes loudly through the Hall:]

\-- Whenever are you going to _learn_  -- Father?

[all turn to look at the new arrival, who is standing just at the edge of the dispute -- on the inner side of the Hall; clearly she didn't just come in through the door. Her appearance is striking: it's impossible to tell which Kindred this shade belongs to (hard even to tell what gender) as the disorder of her hair and ragged mismatch of her clothing makes Beren look well-groomed, and her expression makes Luthien at her most frazzled seem calm and sane. She stalks forward, stiff and awkward, as though not used to people, or to welcome, and everyone else draws back a little from this hollow-eyed, ferocious-looking madwoman -- with the notable exception of Finrod's following. Ideally Natasha McElhone from _Ronin_ would portray her.]

I _never_ thought to hear myself say this, but -- I am _ashamed_ that I am of any connection to you all.

[her voice is harsh, and her way of talking sharp and erratic like her movements. The Feanorians stare at her, stunned, most of them without recognition -- the Seneschal of Formenos stares at her in shock, completely speechless]

Not a word? After having been so glib in your own defense for so long!

[she folds her arms, wound up taut as a crossbow, staring at those whose primary self-identification is as Noldor, and waits for someone to respond, smiling without humor at their leader.]

 **Teler Maid** :

Who are _you_?

 **Ex-Thrall** : [ironically]

One of those who _consented_ , who stood by while you were killed. By my ill-fortune I was not drowned in the storm, the ship I rode on made the dark voyage to Losgar, and I lived to earn my Doom honestly.

[Beren shoulders through and comes around to face her, Huan at his side guarding him]

 **Beren** : [troubled]

But how come you're _here_?

 **Ex-Thrall** : [genuine surprise]

You recall me?

 **Beren** :

Of course I remember you. You gave me half your scarf.

[someone in the crowd makes a noise, quickly cut off, and he looks up. Earnestly:]

Don't laugh. From someone who hasn't got much, that's a kingly gift.

[to the Ex-Thrall again]

Didn't you go home? -- I didn't know you could talk.

 **Ex-Thrall** : [bitter laugh]

What was there for me to say? My _deeds_ were sufficient. I went to the City.

[she shakes her head]

 _Something_ went to the City, at least, and ate and bathed and walked in rooms that did not stink of decay and stared at every light like a witless moth. Until Sun-return, when there was no gift-singing there or joy, nor any way to hide from the truth: that I too, was an empty shell and nothing more, and that there would never be light again for any of us under that stone -- and I lay down upon my couch, and _left_.

[he tries to put his hand on her shoulder, but she shrugs off any attempt at comfort]

I did not speak to any here until I heard _your_ name, and knew that someone else that might comprehend what I might say was here, and came forth from the shadows to _ask_  -- and stayed to _tell_ instead.

[she flashes a glance over towards the Steward, who bows slightly in her direction, his expression lightening a little, though still grim and stressed]

I have found no other company here one-half so congenial, though 'tis thought I am aloof and care not for any.

 **Captain** : [easily]

No, -- I think most of us know you're severely agoraphobic and would be _present_ more if you could manage it.

[She closes her eyes and smiles a faint, brief, genuine smile, while some of the Ten look a little penitent. Emphatic:]

\-- You don't have to talk about it.

[at once she lifts her head again, defiantly, shaking her head. The Seneschal of Formenos takes a step closer to her, and opens his mouth to say something -- but she gives a terrible scream of rage and pain, drowning him out]

 **Ex-Thrall** :

Do not say it! I _have_ no name! She that had that name died long ago -- would you hear how? -- and only _I_ am left. -- Kinslayer. Murderer. Bloodguilty coward. -- Yes! Murderer thrice over, and more.

 **Seneschal of Formenos** : [in helpless protest, shaking his head over and over]

No --  _you_ were never a warrior --

 **Ex-Thrall** : [mocking]

I never wielded a _sword_. -- I did not need to. _Others_ always killed for me. First you --  _all_ of you -- and then the servants of my Master, so that I never might stain my hands with death -- only my heart!

 **Warden of Aglon** :

But you got away safely -- we died to guard the evacuation --

[he is just as horror-stricken as his friend]

 **Ex-Thrall** : [matter-of-fact]

No. There were wounded who were unable to continue; I was endeavoring to heal them enough to carry on, when we were overtaken.

[looking at her father]

After you were killed, as the War crept on, I vowed to honor you by saving as many of our folk as might be from the fighting, and became a Healer, as it's done in the Old Country -- but _I_ went beyond, and rode forth with the companies along the Northern Front, as very few other maids dared, or dared trouble their kindred's hearts by daring to do. -- But was I not _your_ daughter?

[gesturing emphatically]

How could _I_ be any less brave, nor any less concerned, than you who died in effort to end the War before it truly began? -- I never did believe that our lord had gone to the parley in anything but good faith, because I'd have had to think that of you, too. Not while I was alive.

[he opens his mouth, but doesn't say anything, and she keeps going, addressing them all equally:]

When the War broke out and broke our lines, and all the rest of it, and those of us who survived the initial assault on Aglon knew it wasn't possible to hold it, and we thought to pull back to Himlad and join our forces with the garrison there, and keep that, at least, firm against the invaders -- but you know all about that, you've argued it over for a decade now. But it wasn't possible, instead we were joined by a cavalcade from Himlad, where the Enemy had got round, and pushed past round Himring through the March as well, so that our lords were forced to lead us west with Prince Orodreth's company, down the Old Road where even orcs would not dare to follow, using their combined powers to keep off the Gloomweaver's spawn. But I never got so far.

[looking at the Warden of Aglon]

Your younger brother was badly wounded, by an axe-cut. -- And others, as well, but --  _you_ understand.

 **Warden of Aglon** : [anguished]

He --  _he's_ not a slave now too -- ?

[she smiles, a sinister, sinister smile, shaking her head]

 **Ex-Thrall** :

No. I'll get to that. I stayed back, with some others, trying with all our might and main to patch our friends -- and loved ones -- sufficiently for them to keep on, but in vain. The smokes confused us, and we ended up captives, like so many others, harried back across the lands we had once held as _ours_ , that now were reclaimed by their true Master. Two years I served in hell, two years -- but Time isn't the same there, as it wasn't the same here, after the Sun came.

[shaking her head]

It's always dark, there, always the same, and her seasons don't bring renewal or strength or plenty or peace by turns. Two years I struggled to stay alive, to avoid the notice, and the lash, of his fell Commanders, and their underlings -- and to stay others, wielding my skills in the domain of Death, for those burnt or broken in machinery, and doing it in defiance, though I knew it was tolerated as a useful thing, by our Lord and His people. Every little was an unimaginable gain, in that place that is Him, where the very air corrodes the lungs that breathe it, and the walls throb with His anger when you fall against them.

 **Seneschal of Formenos** :

But you're free now -- it's over --

 **Ex-Thrall** : [blunt]

\-- Never. I left there, in the company of many other slaves, for the south, a group given -- selected by what miserable fate I do not know -- to the victorious Commander who had just overthrown one of the last few bastions of Elvish resistance, and was working on consolidating the entire North from the Pass to the River. He needed workers to arm his troops, and serve them, and to repair the damages done to the fortress in its taking. And so we came to Tol Sirion, who had not thought ever to leave Angband again.

[she gives Finrod a significant Look]

It was . . . different there. For one, it was more depressing: Angband might be built in part by Eldar hands, but not originally, and nothing of its design says so. For another, there's no such thing as anonymity: you can't hide amid the herd, be just another number, keeping your self to yourself, so long as you keep your head down and stay lucky, in a place that small. I found that out very shortly, when I was summoned -- well, that's technically true, though most likely not what you'd first think of, for the word "summoned" -- to the presence of our new Doomsman, the Necromancer, from whom it was whispered that not even death might set one free, though we Light-elves, and most lately captured, could hardly credit such superstition.

 **Ranger** : [automatically starting to correct]

It wasn't --

[but is interrupted himself by the Youngest Ranger -- his junior in age, but superior in rank, silences him with a hand over his mouth and a Look; the Noldorin warrior is apologetic and shamefaced, but the Feanorian lady doesn't seem to notice the disturbance]

 **Ex-Thrall** :

The dread Lord of that Island gave me to understand that he understood very well, that there were many among the thralls who were not equal to their set tasks, whose strength had failed, or was failing, and who were covered for by their friends and dearest ones. I denied it; he laughed. "You heal them," he scoffed, " _you_ know it even better than I. So long as you get them back to work, it's all the better for my purposes. But when it comes to feeding useless drones -- no more, I say. What I want, is for you to take note of such, and inform me who is incapable, as you find them so."

[she looks at the lawful Eldar grouped together]

Not even pretense, now, when setting Elf against Elf -- raw and unvarnished, his mastering of treason. I said nothing -- he mistook me. Or so I thought. "In return for your services, I can assure you of far better treatment, not only for yourself, but for those you -- minister to," he pledged, offering improved medical care as the payback -- for the survivors, that is.

[shrugging]

It made sense, when he explained it: his staff had to eat, not just the Orcs and the Wargs, but also his couriers as well. They needed fresh blood, but it was always risky for them to hunt, the chance of being caught on the ground, and by culling --  _his_ word -- the slaves for those who were going to depart soon anyway, this meant less danger of messenger, and message, being lost; and of course the rest of the body would be eaten by his other minions, if it were not too wasted. A proposition triply beneficial -- to him, to me, and to the majority of us. And I refused.

[she smiles grimly, and pauses]

 **Seneschal of Formenos** :

You've not been here _eight years_  -- ?!

 **Ex-Thrall** : [impatient]

Haven't you been paying attention? No, he had me tossed in a closet for a week -- I _think_ it was a week, at least -- not wide enough to lie down in or high enough to stand in, pitch dark -- it had been a chimney-breast once, but was blocked off for more useful purposes; he didn't trouble much with keeping a cheerful atmosphere going throughout the place. But I held fast, and did not yield in the least, not even in imagining -- I sang against him, songs of Valinor, until physically unable, and still I _thought_ resistance at him, and finally they hauled me out of there and brought me into the Terrible One's presence. And then, I thought I'd won -- that either he'd send me back to my labours, or harder ones, or kill me then and there. No such luck.

[she looks sidelong at the Ten through veiled lashes, her expression more sneering than ever]

 **Finrod** : [very serious]

Is this going to do you any good?

 **Ex-Thrall** :

What does _that_ matter?

[to her father]

Oh, but I was defiant, I was strong -- I hadn't let them break me, and I _would_ _not_ be broken. No matter _what_. And he didn't say anything, not a word, just smiled at me, while I stood there shaking from hunger and cramped muscles, weeping in the torchlight, and telling myself, and _him_ , in my mind that it was purely physical reaction, and meaningless, and believed it. Some of his minions carried in a block of iron, by the rings set in its sides -- it was huge, the size of a wall-stone, too massive to be moved by any one's strength, not even one of _us_. I stared at it, trying to think what new torture it could be for -- I couldn't _see_ any moving parts, except for the circular handles -- but I didn't show them my fear. I _would_ not. And then they chained me to one of the rings, and I laughed inside to think that all this terror had been for but another beating -- that there was nothing so effective as the fearful mind for defeating itself, and all that was needed was true Eldar spirit, to withstand the vaunted Power of the Terrible One. I actually _pitied_ the Grey Kindred at that moment, for all their terror of him and his kind, poor weaklings without the resistance of our people.

[she gives a quick glance towards the Youngest Ranger]

I was such a fool.

[to the Lord Warden of Aglon]

\-- I told you there was more to your brother's story. They dragged him in -- and what a reunion _that_ was, when I hadn't known he was there -- or even still alive -- or he the same of me. His defiance, and challenges, and brave words in my behalf -- they would have made your heart _blaze_ with pride, I'm sure, as they did mine. It never occurred to us -- to me, at least, and I'm sure to him as well -- that we were nothing new, _nothing_ the Enemy and his followers hadn't seen a hundred times before -- our courage, or ignorance. We were so sure that the Dark was weaker than our love, that nothing could defeat us, even though they killed us -- even though they made hideous sport of us first.

[wearily]

I don't know what Sauron wanted from _him_. I don't know that he wanted _anything_ , and would have killed him whatever he chose. I've always assumed _that_  -- that he died simply because of me -- but perhaps that's but my arrogance as well. I don't know, now.

[pulling herself together, in her sarcastic tone again]

So there we were, both cuffed to this block in the middle of the floor, not enough length to the chains to reach across it nor around it and hold hands -- but by leaning over it as far as one could stretch, we managed to touch another way -- I must have looked as frightful and orc-like as he did, but that didn't matter. The soldiers applauded and made all sorts of comments, but we didn't care about that either. There was just _us_ , and the Dark didn't matter. Then --  _something_ _growled_ above us, and we broke apart so fast I split my lip on his teeth -- or mine, couldn't tell -- and tried to get away, crawling back as far as the chains would allow.

 **Seneschal of Formenos** :

Not -- not a _Balrog_?

[his daughter shakes her head, smiling a little]

 **Ex-Thrall** :

No. A Werewolf. The big silvery one, the captain of his elite guard. Oh yes. You've seen Wolves before, seen his minions out and about, fought them, fled them, killed them -- they're not so terrible, truly, no more than the Orcs, isn't that so? Stronger, swifter, a little more canny, in strange ways, harder to understand -- but not like the Fiery Ones, the commanding demons of our Iron God. Wargs can be answered with a spear, a sword, an arrow or a word on the wind to bear your scent elsewhere or blind them to you --  _Nothing_ like Balrogs, right?

[she looks at her former comrades and relatives with a self-mocking sneer, while they avoid her eyes]

 **Beren** : [flatly]

That depends. On where you are in relation to 'em, and if they know you're there or not.

[she doesn't turn towards him, but the slight lift of her chin acknowledges his words, while she continues to stare at her parent]

 **Ex-Thrall** :

Handcuffed on the floor, waiting for an execution order, looking at those dripping fangs, those glowing eyes -- it was, for me, at least. No fire left, not even embers of that blaze that was so bright -- both of us like grubs, dug up from their roots, writhing in the cold air -- no voice left to speak defiance, nor love, now. This was _his_ place, and _his_ power, and no other song is possible in his presence, far less than our common Master though the Terrible One might be. He strode through my shields as though they were not even there, and I realized that _nothing_ had been hidden from him, all along, and that _there_ _is_ _no_ _hope_.

[though she does not, others cannot help but glance at the Nargothronders -- who look sorry for her, but not particularly fazed, Finrod least of all, as the former Healer continues:]

"You know what I want," he told me. "If you will not serve me, you are no use to me as you are. Shall I reduce you to your component parts, and make use of them separately?" I was still, and did not answer -- the Wolf's breath down my neck, that should have been warm, but I was in a winter gale, ice all over me. "Which will it be?" he asked my soul again, and smiled at us. "Whose flesh will feed my servants -- yours, or another's?"

[smiling through her teeth:]

I didn't say _anything_  -- I didn't have to. It was that easy.

[the Lord Warden shakes his head in helpless protest -- then looks around suddenly with a wild expression as if he might see his brother here, too]

I hid my face, and didn't watch. While it was still going on -- but mostly over -- they unchained me and let me get dressed again, and I walked out of there, and did not look back --

[her father interrupts her, involuntarily, with a spastic gesture of his hand]

 **Seneschal of Formenos** :

 _You_  --

[he cannot go on, but she tosses her head scornfully, snorting]

 **Ex-Thrall** :

Of course. You don't feed people to the Wolves with their clothes on.

[lightly]

\-- What, you don't laugh? You don't find the idea at all amusing _now_?

[cold iron]

\--  _I_ _did_ _not_ _look_ _back_. Not then. Not after. Not _ever_  -- until the dark that we crawled in ripped open and the Night came pouring into our cells, our prison-rooms -- our tombs; and we _remembered_. We remembered -- things we had never known. Not truly. Not how precious they were, until we lost them -- destroyed them -- threw them away. All that time that I silently handed over my fellow prisoners for destruction, naming them as too weak to work, and telling myself that it was mercy, that they should die sooner, and kinder to be eaten quickly, than slowly by the Dark and the malice of our Master -- lying to myself, even as they thanked me for healing them and caring for them, while I gave them over in my stead, and _none_ _of_ _them_ _ever_ _knew_  -- I _had_ to do, it for my own survival, and I could not regret it, because if I _ever_ looked back -- I could not go on.

[shaking her head without stopping]

Only -- that High-elven lady whom you knew in Beleriand did _not_ survive. She too died in that hour, eaten just as surely as the other, and what walked away without regret is all that remains.

[with a mocking smile]

Will you call me your jewel, your songbird, your beautiful one now? Will you embrace me and call me your star, your sweeting, your treasure, _now_ , Father?

[she stares at him, daring him to reject her, but hoping against hope that he will not. With a cry of anguish he turns, clutching at his temples, and remains standing hunched over as if mortally wounded, his head bowed and eyes closed. She laughs wildly.]

I knew it -- I knew it! You too cannot bear the thought of me, murderess, Kinslayer, weakling --  _thrall_  --

[she reaches out her hands to the Lord Warden of Aglon, who is looking at her with an agonized expression, filled with embarrassment as much as horror]

And _you_ , my friend --  _all_ of you that were my friends, whose lives and limbs I saved, those many years of the Leaguer, whose hands held mine in dance and peace, even as for comfort when you lay wounded -- will you disown me too?

[they look away from her in shame, some of them lifting hands in protest, or in appeal for her pity, and she falls on her knees, bent over, weeping, but still defiant and challenging: as the Ten move closer to try to lift her up or console her she flings their hands away from her, and shouts at the Feanorians:]

\-- Only these -- who alone have the _right_ to scorn me, of all you ghosts and vainglorious shadows, who faced the test and did not fail it -- only they've not fled from me in horror! O robbers, brigands, thieves who struck down the helpless when they tried to resist us -- and yet even _you_ have not fallen so low that you don't see the poisoned aura about me, and shrink from it -- !

[she starts rocking back and forth, her arms clenched around her chest, trying not to cry out loud, gasping]

 **Youngest Ranger** : [very seriously]

I don't think it's that -- I think it's that you're plain crazy.

[she gives a hoarse bark of surprised laughter, but he goes on in the same way:]

That's what scares them. There's others have done worse things, you know. Or at least -- more of them. But they're not so plainly mad, as you.

[pause -- she chuckles through her tears]

\-- Or else they're worse, that they don't see that they _should_ be.

[the Ex-Thrall pulls herself together and looks up at the onlookers around her, first her own kin and people, and then at the watching faithful, living and dead.]

 **Ex-Thrall** : [defiantly]

What would you say to me, Finarfin son of Indis? That I should have turned back with you at Araman?

 **Finarfin** :

 _I_ am King of the Noldor now --

[meaningful tone]

\-- eke of them that do own me thus, even as them that yet do not --

[the Ten look down awkwardly, a little ashamed; the Feanorian contingent gives him startled looks, some angry, some wondering]

\-- nor be it meet that I should add one measure to the judgment that hath been given unto thee, presuming to greater wisdom than the Powers thereby. Aye, and thou hadst known less sorrow, hadst indeed returned home in that time, -- but this thou dost even ken, ere didst speak it.

 **Ex-Thrall** : [softly]

Like son, like father --

[the two Noldor Kings steal glances quickly at each other, before she goes on, this time to Amarie:]

\-- And _you_ , Fairest One, come down from your mountain -- what word for this bloodstained one? -- Or will you turn away in silence as well?

 **Amarie** : [calmly]

Thou art far from first, nor yet the last, that Feanor hath led astray -- nor indeed the mightiest. Bereft of the heartening strength of this Land, of Light, how might ye help but fall beneath our Enemy's sway in the Shadowed Realm?

[some of the Feanorians bridle at her words, but others look troubled and downcast; the Seneschal remains bent, anguished, where he has turned away]

 **Ex-Thrall** :

You speak of _him_  -- but what says she who would not be led, nor driven, but held firm in her resolve despite all persuasion?

[turning her head, she matches stares with Nerdanel, who draws near to her with an untroubled expression and kneels down a short distance in front of her while she addresses her:]

 **Nerdanel** :

What hast _thou_ done, child, that mine own children did not? -- And yet I love them, nor shall ever cease.

[the former Healer bows her head a little, closing her eyes, and then squaring her shoulders looks up coolly at Elu Thingol's emissary.]

 **Ex-Thrall** :

Well, lord of the Grey folk -- hold you still with _your_ lord's judgment on us? Or have you learned mercy in your own death?

 **Ambassador** : [in a detached, level tone]

You have acknowledged your deeds, Feanorian. Anything further that I might say would be both needless and cruel.

[they both sigh, recognizing that this isn't enough, and it's the best that he can give or she will get -- and then she turns to look at the shade from Alqualonde.]

 **Ex-Thrall** :

And you, Foamrider, who said but a little while ago that such a fate was no more than such as I merited -- what do you say to me, Kinslain?

[the Sea-elf stares at her directly, her eyes very wide, her face otherwise expressionless, for a long moment.]

 **Teler Maid** :

I think -- I think you have been tortured enough.

[the Ex-Thrall flinches as if the other had struck her instead, shaking her head a little in protest, and then looks at Beren]

 **Ex-Thrall** : [softly]

Now that you know the truth of me, traitor as much as victim -- will _you_ shun me, mortal?

[he shakes his head, very deliberately]

 **Beren** :

 _I_ _remember_.

 **Huan** :

[thin whines]

[the Hound walks slowly over beside her, tail dragging, and puts his head down by hers: she doesn't respond, but doesn't push him away either. Moving softly, as if not to startle a hurt animal, Finrod comes to kneel down directly in front of her, putting his hands on her shoulders and looking her directly in the eyes]

 **Finrod** :

Someday -- you will take up your name again, and it will be true again, and you will sing once more, under the Stars.

 **Ex-Thrall** : [disbelieving]

 _When_?

 **Finrod** :

I don't know. Someday.

[as he speaks, her father half-turns and looks at them, as torn between hope and remorse and doubt as she]

When you are ready, you will leave the shelter of these Halls, and you will walk under the sky, and your voice will give as much peace to your hearers as presently brings pain.

[The Ex-Thrall sighs . . . and vanishes from under his hands without another word. The Lord Seneschal flinches, bowing his head, and disappears as well, leaving his cohorts in disarray as well as dismay. Finrod gets up and turns to face the remaining Feanorian supporters, addressing them in a quiet, matter-of-fact, but uncompromising tone:]

Why don't you just go now?

[the living Eldar look at him in shock and dismay of their own, while a warrior of Aglon asks his commander anxiously:]

 **Feanorian** :

Sir -- what -- what ought we do now . . . ?

 **Nerdanel** :

But -- what of yon poor maiden?

 **Finrod** : [blankly]

\-- What of her?

[the Lord Warden makes a helpless gesture to his follower, struggling for articulate speech]

 **Warden of Aglon** : [shaking his head, struggling against tears]

I -- I --  _ah_  -- !

 **Finarfin** : [with a perceptive look at his son]

Such trouble is not strange to thee, but oft thou must give thy counsel to the broken of heart, is't not so?

 **Finrod** : [nodding]

Not infrequently. Sometimes we talk. More often I listen. Generally they just want to be _seen_ by someone who won't dismiss them, and then we just sit quietly, or I play --

[glancing over where the harp rests on the stones]

\-- until they're ready to speak to someone higher. That was a tremendous improvement -- usually you can hardly tell she's there.

[as the four lawful Elves look at him, and each other, and the stunned Feanorians with lingering shock and distress, Nienna's Apprentice comes in through the doorway in determined haste, sees the gathering and flings up his hands in disgust.]

 **Nienna's Apprentice** :

Oh, threnody, not _this_ again! _Would_ you people go away and find something constructive to do?

[he makes a sweeping, dismissive motion with his arm. Afterthought:]

\--  _Please_.

[the Warden of Aglon turns, welcoming this new challenge as a replacement for prior emotions, as do his companions]

 **Warden of Aglon** : [extreme haughtiness]

You _will not_ address me in that fashion, boy.

 **Apprentice** :

Actually . . . I will. --  _Ghost_.

[the Elven warrior shakes his head, standing his ground, his lip curling at the retort]

 **Warden of Aglon** :

 _You_  -- can't compel us to do anything. Can you?

[he sneers over at the Captain]

\--  _That's_ what _you_ were getting at, trying to be cryptic.

[to the Apprentice again]

\--  _Can_ you?

 **Apprentice** : [shrugging]

No, I can't. -- But I _can_ make things unpleasant enough that you'd wish you'd cooperated in the first place.

 **Warden of Aglon** :

How?

 **Apprentice** :

Erm . . .

 **Warden of Aglon** : [snorting]

You can't even _bluff_ properly, you fool.

[his followers and associates grin savagely at the put-down]

 **Apprentice** : [shakes his head, reasonable tone]

I wasn't bluffing, I was considering which option was the more appropriate one. I know which one _I'd_ like better, but I don't think my Master would like it at all. So -- I'm just going to annoy you by pointing out certain hard truths in the presence of people you're trying to impress, one of which is the fact that you feel you have to impress them demonstrates that you in fact respect them enough to care about their respect, deny it as you may. You can't just walk away from them, or leave them alone -- can you? But _they're_ indifferent to your good or bad opinion of them, and that's a second hard truth.

[ticking the points off on his fingers, and beginning to pace restively in front of them -- in the background several of the would-be combatants quietly fade from view]

Thirdly, you're blinded by your self-importance to the fact that you thereby make yourself ridiculous in the eyes of most of your fellow-dead, by pursuing these personal grudges beyond reason.

[he frowns, trying to remember, and more of the rival faction discreetly slip away]

Oh, yes -- and the fact that you always come off the worse in these little exchanges and yet you keep persisting in the same course says a great deal for your tenacity and even courage, -- but not a lot for your intelligence, I'm afraid.

[pause]

 **Warden of Aglon** : [ice]

I have better things to do than waste my time listening to your chatter.

[he spins about with a flourish of his cape and stalks off, followed by his remaining fellow-partisans.]

 **Apprentice** : [cheerful]

Success! Without having to hit anyone, either. Though I don't know I'll agree with his definition of "better."

[to Finrod]

I thought about the way _you_ usually manage to dissipate things without recourse to violence, and decided to try it myself, since people just ignore me when I ask them nicely, and laugh when I get angry.

[noticing that both Finrod and Amarie are both standing there glaring at him with identical expressions, arms folded. 

Ah.

[to Amarie, brightly]

 _There_ you are -- I was obliged to leave for just a moment, and when I came back, you were nowhere to be found.

[she raises an eloquent eyebrow; he flinches.]

 **Finrod** : [abrupt]

Have you _got_ _anything_ for me?

 **Apprentice** :

Erm -- oh. Right. _That_. Ah -- hm --  _becalmed_. _Lulled_ , so to speak.

 **Finrod** :

 _What_?

 **Apprentice** :

Circling on a thermal. _Stable_. Static. Or _stagnant_.

 **Finrod** : [piqued, to the Captain]

Have you _any_ notion what he's getting at?

[the Elven officer shakes his head, amused; the newest arrivals are giving Nienna's student some very strange Looks]

 **Apprentice** : [looking conspiratorially towards them]

But -- I mean, we'll be _overheard_  --

 **Finrod** :

Just say it. I'm tired, annoyed, and out of patience --

[the other looks alarmed]

\-- nearly.

[as the Apprentice glances meaningfully at the four bystanders]

Go ahead -- they're all my family, after all, to greater or lesser degree.

[bland]

After all, if you can't trust your kin, whom _can_ you trust?

[while Nienna's student gives him a very askance Look, there is a great deal of sudden throat-clearing and turning aside of faces among the Ten; the law-abiding contingent bridles somewhat at this, but manage to refrain from comment]

 **Apprentice** :

Well, if you say so -- your cousin suggested that recourse be made to the highest authorities, and was met with resistance -- but the subject of debate shifted again to other things, and . . . they're still arguing again over whether it was a mistake for our divine King and Queen to heed my Master's plea and release His Majesty's brother --

[in a rush, very forcefully]

\-- and _please_ nobody start arguing about that now, all right? -- and that's where things remain.

[Finrod looks at the Captain, frowning]

 **Captain** : [shaking his head]

That hardly seems worth the trouble of reporting, now.

[the disguised Maia shrugs, giving Finrod an apologetic look]

 **Apprentice** :

Sorry -- I'd actually come back to ask if you'd mind -- much -- doing me a favour.

 **Finrod** : [flatly]

 _You're_ asking me a favor.

 **Apprentice** :

Just a small one. Not you specifically.

[encouraged by Finrod's silence, he hurries on:]

I -- I've been given another errand to run, and I'm supposed to be keeping an eye on things, and I thought I had that situation under control, but then something unpleasant occurred to me: what if the system I set up to do that simply wasn't working at all, and that's why there hasn't been any alarm? And so I thought I'd better check.

[blank, suspicious looks from all around -- hastily]

You know the, um, the remote viewer over at His Lordship's throne -- that stone sphere, well, it's _made_ of stone -- you haven't noticed it, well, _doing_ _anything_ , have you?

 **Finrod** :

Such as?

 **Apprentice** :

Glowing.

 **Finrod** :

No. -- Of course, I've not been here.

 **Apprentice** :

I know. That's why --

[he glances around]

\-- if anyone had happened to see, I was hoping . . .

[the Ten share looks, headshakes all round]

 **Warrior** :

We've not noticed anything.

 **Apprentice** :

Would -- would you, let me know if you do? If you wouldn't mind keeping an eye on it?

 **Captain** :

We can try -- but I don't know that we won't get distracted and forget. Things have been rather -- well, distracting, lately, to put it mildly.

 **Apprentice** :

But --

[pause]

No. Never mind.

 **Captain** :

What?

 **Apprentice** :

I was going to try to argue that you owed me assistance in return, but that isn't true, even considering the rather-underhanded way you obtained mine. And this -- having several tasks assigned at the same time, each one having top priority -- that's something that preceded it, anyway, and it's quite apart from it. So I really can't claim any, erm, claim on your time as a result of that, either. It isn't as though it's your fault. And you did promise to do your best.

[raising his hands in a resigned gesture]

Just have to muddle through somehow, I suppose.

[frowning, noticing something about the falls]

I say, somebody's put that all wrong again.

[the apparent-Elf gestures towards the flame-illusions over the shallow end of the spill-pool, lowering them.]

 **Ranger** :

Stop that! That's someone else's work.

 **Apprentice** :

But they're all _wrong_  --

 **Ranger** :

So? You don't just come and change others' Art without leave.

 **Third Guard** :

You used to do it all the time, I recall.

 **Ranger** :

Yes, but I learned better.

[pause -- frank admission]

After the villagers complained to the King and it was explained to me. At some length.

[he looks at Finrod, who raises his eyebrows bemusedly]

Thank you, Sir.

[to Nienna's student]

I understand how tempting it is to remake something you think is flawed, but you really ought to ask first. And if they don't want to change it, you can't just correct it for them. That's just like Morgoth, really.

[the disguised Maia looks quizzical, but doesn't say anything]

 **Amarie** : [officious]

Nay, 'tis false -- the Dark One would but to break, and _not_ to build.

 **Finarfin** :

Yet dost thou not recall how our High King hath spoken of the Enemy's wish to shape all according but to his will, nor only after did so strive to wreck, that was not given over unto him? Of such matters Lord Ingwe hath most deeply questioned the gods, and hath knowledge most profound and widesome of us all, Vanyar, Noldor, or Teler, in truth.

[Finrod can't help but cast a quizzical glance at the Apprentice, who looks suspiciously blank]

 **Amarie** :

Yet is't not true as well, that such ill-making should be most rightly named _destruction_?

 **Finarfin** : [smiling slightly]

Thou art most resolute, my lady.

[she gives him an unamused Look]

 **Ranger** : [ignoring their argument]

Anyway, you _shouldn't_. It's our project, not yours. Go make your own light-display elsewhere, if you don't like this one.

 **Apprentice** :

But I haven't time, and I'll probably get in trouble for it.

 **Ranger** :

That isn't our problem.

 **Apprentice** :

Actually, it is -- only _you_ don't care.

[to the Ten, cajolingly]

But don't you _want_ it to be right? Surely you can see it's all wrong the way it is!

 **Ranger** :

But it _looks_ right.

[appealing to the bystanders]

Doesn't it look better the way it was?

 **Finarfin** :

I fear I did little mark the difference.

 **Amarie** : [sniffs]

'Tis a curious amalgam of sundries, the which might eke be little changed for better as for ill.

 **Ambassador** :

I must say that I prefer the brighter display myself.

 **Nerdanel** : [consolingly to Nienna's Apprentice]

Nay, I do confess thou hast belike the right of it, and most aptly so, for being of the coasts and seeing therefore most frequent th'effects of light on water. Yet, naytheless must I alike hold with all who hold it finer to the eye, to give thereto the greatest expanse of scintillation, the tallest of flames thereby.

 **Apprentice** : [glumly]

Oh, all right.

[he nods, putting the flames back as they were. Reluctant]

They do look prettier that way . . .

 **Teler Maid** : [muttering to herself in bewilderment]

\-- He is not Teler. He sounds not like to us at all! Why say they so, when clearly he is Vanyar?

 **Captain** : [aside to her]

People find what they expect to find. And don't find what they _don't_ , either.

 **Teler Maid** :

Your riddles are as poor as ever.

[she frowns, tossing her hair back, and stares critically at the Apprentice, who feels it and looks over to see her]

 **Apprentice** : [reacting with pleased surprise]

Oh! How nice to see you out and about, talking to people finally.

[she folds her arms and looks very prickly and put-upon]

Despite what reservations some might have about your choice of company. Will you be going home soon, then?

 **Teler Maid** :

Do not slight my friends!

[she is joined in her glowering by Finarfin, whose glare is perhaps more daunting due to recent events]

 **Apprentice** : [dismayed]

I was only joking.

 **Captain** : [sympathetic]

Good try, bad timing.

[Huan makes a sudden attempt to ambush the disguised Maia but is successfully thwarted and fended off, being obliged to remain at arm's length, held by his collar, grinning and panting -- next time, perhaps!]

 **Apprentice** : [mock sternness]

There you are, you -- wretched mongrel! Lady Vaire's quite put out with you, and so am I, because I've been wasting my time looking for you to tell you to stop. What were you racing around the Halls making such an uproar for?

 **Beren** :

I told him to.

 **Apprentice** : [staring]

Why in the Music would you do _that_?

 **Beren** :

He was acting kind of crazy in here so I told him to go run around outside for a bit. -- I didn't tell him to bark, though. I don't know why he was doing that.

 **Finrod** : [knowingly]

Echoes.

[to the Steward]

\-- Remember when he first came to Nargothrond and the tunnels unnerved him?

[wincing, the Steward nods; Finrod explains to those who were not there for it:]

He'd never been in such a large enclosed space, with such echoes, and they'd startle him, and he wouldn't stop barking until Cel took him out in the forest for a while. He was still rather unsettled in those days.

 **Captain** : [wry]

Everyone was, then.

 **Finrod** :

I think he rather enjoyed the ruckus as well, though, -- and the extra runs and treats it won him, until the newness wore off and he got bored of it and used to the City.

 **Beren** : [nodding agreement]

That sounds like a dog. We had one that got scared as a puppy by Ma's hand-mirror, used to bark like crazy whenever she saw her reflection, even after she was full grown, so we were always sneaking it out and bringing it to the dinner table or the hearth and trying not to get caught with it.

 **Nerdanel** :

I mind me of like happening, though indeed Huan swiftly grasped the illusion's truth and no more did raise alarm 'gainst the glass. But hounds do greatly take joy in singing, and oft and easily and with light excuse do lift voice in it.

 **Apprentice** : [bemused]

How did we get back to talking about the habits of dogs? Isn't there _anyone_ in Aman who can keep to the subject at hand?

[pause]

And now that I've managed to annoy _everyone_  -- I _really_ must be going. Good-bye.

[spinning on his heel, he all but dashes out of the Hall, leaving the remaining company shaking their heads and staring after him.]

 **Nerdanel** : [half to herself]

Who _is_ he? Ever and anon he doth put me in mind of another one, but _which_ , I cannot tell . . .

[she, Finarfin, and Amarie turn their attention now to Finrod]

 **Finarfin** : [beginning very low key, switching tone abruptly halfway through]

I trust and have no doubt of it, that I shall speak for us all, to enquire of thee -- Finrod, _what_ _matter_ is this, and what dost thou take upon thyself to meddle amidst, that seekst to interfere e'en with the deliberations of the Powers?

[pause]

 **Finrod** :

The Song, Father.

[long pause]

 **Amarie** : [slow emphasis]

\-- Thou art full as mad as all do say -- !

 **Finrod** : [offhand]

Oh, I doubt that. I don't think any dozen Elves together could manage to be as mad as report would have me.

 **Captain** : [aside]

All of us together, however -- that's another matter.

[there is a nonplused silence as the lawful Eldar struggle for meaningful expression of their thoughts/emotions . . .]


	111. Act 4: SCENE IV.xx

[Elsewhere: the council chamber]

[Luthien is still hand-weaving away, the pattern having expanded significantly in width and complexity since last we saw it -- still apparently paying no attention to the verbal battle in full spate over her head. At the moment the Lord of Dreams is upbraiding the Hunter with atypical acrimony:]

 **Irmo** :

No, the _real_ problem was the failure of you and your people to _finish_ routing out all of Melkor's beastly followers and properly destroy all of his property so he couldn't use it again. _That_ would have forestalled his ability to wage a second subversion of the Light by giving him no resources to fall back on.

[jabbing his finger repeatedly upon the arm of his chair as he declaims:]

\-- However, you didn't eradicate his support structures, and as a _consequence_ , he was able to wreak havoc without even having to be in Middle-earth --  _and_ he had a ready-made base of operations to encourage him to make such a move, which he wouldn't likely have done if he hadn't had any safe bolt-hole and servants to defend himself with. He was always a careful and cautious sort, _not_ the type to act if he thought he was likely to come out the worst of it. So _at_ _the_ _least_ your neglect is responsible for encouraging him --

 **Orome** : [slouching back, very blasé -- and calculated to annoy]

Pfft -- you think he knew that all his surviving cronies had survived and scuttled themselves away deep underground to regroup and rebuild? That git was in solitary confinement, and after he was released it wasn't like he had any Messengers flying over the Sea to bring him news. I didn't see any, at least. And I don't think any of the Sea's People would have been gossiping with him, do you? Not even Osse would give him the grace of the Hour, even after he "reformed."

[frowning, Luthien reaches over and helps herself to some more of the glowing dew, spinning more luminous strands from it to add to her project]

 **Irmo** : [agitated]

Of course he knew -- he's tied himself into everything he can reach over there, haven't you been following the news? Or did you just give up your job and retire to a country life when the Eldar embarked for this shore? I'm telling you, Tav, that you're being very, very, _blind_ if you go on insisting it's all Nia's fault, and ignoring the fact that _your_ failures contributed at least as much to the disaster as anyth --

 **Vaire** :

But you're forgetting the Spider, brother. --  _And_ the fact that logic and self-interest had very little part in anyone's response to the Silmarils. Rational or not, I am _quite_ _certain_ myself, that he would have tried to take them eventually -- even if he had been unable to enlist Her help in it.

[pause]

 **Irmo** :

Perhaps that's so. But even if it is, your negligence made it possible for him to re-entrench himself with minimal effort, whereas if you'd properly destroyed all of his Works he would have had to start from scratch, and then, regardless of what happened here, someone would have been able to deal with him over there -- whether us, or the rebels, or all of us together if there'd been no rebellion --

 **Orome** : [a slighly nettled tone creeping in despite his efforts]

\-- We spent _decades_ mopping up. Whatever we missed was impossible to find. Anyone, _anything_ that slipped through did so because of Fate. We pounded that place _flat_. There were no obvious -- or unobvious -- hiding-holes left when we finished.

[Namo shakes his head, gazing into his teacup with a melancholy expression as he gently swirls it about]

 **Irmo** :

Nonsense. You didn't try hard enough. Surely your specialists could have done a more thorough job of tracking the rest of his crew down -- combined with selective tectonic realignment --

 **Aule** : [sharply]

You haven't the least notion what you're talking about. I could explain it to you, if you'd pay attention long enough, but I think you can understand when I say --  _again_  -- that one doesn't --  _doesn't_ , do you understand? -- muck about with the basic structures of the world without _dire_ consequences. It would have been a fine thing, would it not, to eradicate the very people we were put here to protect, in the process of saving them from their enemies?

 **Orome** : [with a dubious look at the Smith]

\-- Though I do wonder how much of your concern was for the Firstborn, and how much for your own Children? Honestly, what _possessed_ you --

[Aule's Assistant leaps (figuratively) into the fray before it gets even uglier]

 **Aule's Assistant** : [urgent]

\-- Please, please, _please_! Noble ones, gentles all! We are not here to refight old defeats, really now, are we? --  _If_ you will forgive my impertinence in saying so, of course.

[abashed silence all around]

Now, we _are_ here, if again you will permit me to go so far as to state the obvious, for the purpose of solving the problem of this anomalous mortal presence. And -- though I am but young in the Song by comparison to you, my Lord -- my Lords, my Lady -- still, I might venture to say that it _seems_ to me that there might well be an acceptable solution, if you will graciously hear me out . . . ?

[Luthien looks up with a sudden eagerness that belies her apparent obliviousness and uninterest in all that's been going on, her eyes blazing, letting the threads of liquid light fall from her hands unheeded]

 **Luthien** : [fiercely passionate]

\--  _What_?


	112. Act 4: SCENE IV.xxi

[the Hall]

[now Finrod and his following (which now includes not only Beren & Huan but also his mother's former assistant) are confronting the law-abiding contingent, who look extremely worried, (as do some of the Ten, admittedly) and expressive of definite concerns as to the level of sanity at present]

 **Finrod** : [calmingly]

Strictly speaking, I'm not meddling with it in the sense of trying to _change_ it. None of us are.

 **Amarie** :

\-- Pray tell, of _what_ _others_ thou dost speak, that are set upon this . . .  _venture_ , with thee?

[she gives the Ten a cold, suspicious look]

 **Finrod** :

Well, _everyone_. Obviously. Only some of us are aware of it, and others aren't.

[pause]

 **Nerdanel** :

I confess I take not this declaration by thine ungarnish't word, all unavailéd of proof, child.

 **Finrod** :

It's quite simple, really. You just do whatever it is you do, and it makes a difference -- subtle, usually -- in the way the Song plays out.

 **Amarie** :

That is not by any chance possible, forasmuch as that which is done, shall be done only so that it is Sung, and must be so.

 **Finrod** :

So are you saying that choice is an illusion, then? That Feanor only did as he did because he _had_ to, because it was Sung, and had no other recourse than to deny the Earthqueen, defy the Powers, and summon all of us to join in his rejection? What does that make the gods to be, then, but hypocrites, or mad?

[looking at the Ambassador]

Or that my royal and holy aunt had no will nor options of her own, neither to betray my cousin's secret counsels nor to abet her in her escape, and that choosing the easiest road of unresisting silence was all that she might do -- rather than that the Lady Melian was as torn as any Elf or mortal might be in similar circumstance, caught between conscience and desire?

[the Ambassador bows his head, as Finrod goes on:]

\-- Do we say, then, that the Powers too are helpless in the torrent of the Song they helped to make, like chips of wood in a river -- all of them, that is, except for Morgoth? That's a lot worse than anything I'm saying, it would seem.

[silence]

 **Finarfin** :

Yet thou sayest not _what_ , most plain and simple-spoken, 'tis indeed thou dost, or wouldst -- ?

 **Finrod** : [very much the teacher]

The way I've come to see it, there is the Song, and the Song is full of discords, which weren't supposed to be there. Everyone knows this, it's what we're taught as children, is that not so? But _then_ what? How do we respond? Do we simply ignore them, and focus on the harmonious bits? Or do we join the discordant elements, which spread all too easily, and drown out the rest -- back the winning side, so to speak?

[Amarie tosses her head in open scorn]

 **Amarie** : [very haughty]

Indeed, but _one_ rightful choice betwixt yon twain, nor might any not Turned from truth countenance other choosing to be made!

 **Finrod** :

But who says those are the only options?

[pause]

Why not _increase_ the harmony? Wouldn't it be best of all to try to reclaim some of the ruined parts and rebuild them, so to speak?

 **Nerdanel** : [amazed]

Thou -- deemst self able to unwork the makings of the greatest of all the Powers, after Lord Manwe even, even to restore the Great Pattern as 'twere unbroken and ne'er was, ere the Marring?

 **Finrod** : [shaking his head]

Oh, no. I'm no match for a god -- nor even a demi-god, and who knows it better than I? But isn't that what was done in the first place, to stop the whole of Ea from being made a wreck like Utumno, like Angband? So, then, is it not a worthy goal -- even knowing it Doomed to failure -- to try to repair what one can, restore harmony even for a few notes out of the Age, to the best of one's ability?

 **Finarfin** : [mildly, shaking his head with a look of bemusement]

\-- And thou deemst thyself no wise ambitious?

 **Amarie** : [earnest]

Nay, this is true madness -- else _worse_ , that thou dost set upon such path as the Marrer's self did make, striving in truth to set all to thine own will, else other there be none, to overstrike the fashioning the Powers -- nay, indeed, the One! -- did adjudge at end to best resolve the Dark One's changes --

 **Finrod** : [interrupting her]

\-- No, you see, that's the difference, what _we_ do, knowingly or unknowingly, to restore harmony doesn't _replace_ what's been changed -- that's not even possible, without worrying about the right or wrong of it -- it's just _adding_ to it, the way you resolve a chord, turn a harsh note to poignancy, or a weak note glorious, by giving more sounds -- and the addition changes it, completely. Or like the story we all know about _ice_  -- cold being tried as a way of stopping everything, but instead, through constructive application of new notes, resulting in snow crystals and frozen waterfalls and icebergs and all sorts of beautiful things that have their own fitting places in the world. There might be _in_ _principle_ a better way to have composed it, but working with what we're given, it's an improvement.

[pause]

 **Beren** :

Maybe it's kind of like when part of the hall's been wrecked by a storm or a fire or just the posts getting rotted out, and you don't tear it all down, you just fix up what's there, maybe not the same way, but you still gotta live there while you're working on it, and maybe the new way works better for something else?

 **Finrod** :

That too. And sometimes it means going against advice, and even common sense, and even yes, breaking rules and disobeying orders.

[he stares defiantly at Amarie, who gives it right back to him, while Nerdanel looks thoughtful and Beren asks the Guard next to him:]

 **Beren** : [aside]

Is he talking about the Return?

[the Elven shade nods]

 **Finrod** :

And paying the price for it, of course. Always.

 **Finarfin** : [looking thoughtfully at the Ten]

And hold _all_ thy folk with these thy curious tenets, else theorems, whichever they be, or art the only proponent of such . . . strangeness?

 **Finrod** :

Not the only, certainly, but certainly not all. Some find it far too complicated or too troubling --

[the Warrior looks abashed, but Finrod gives him a sympathetic grin and goes on]

\-- and I grant it's much easier to look at it as just a matter of doing wrong and receiving the just penalty for it. Or _not_ breaking rules, and not doing wrong. Others find it far too optimistic -- and I can't deny that, either.

[he and the Steward share a meaningful Look]

 **Nerdanel** :

Nay, I confess it seemeth little of cheer, to hold that one needs must do that which is forbid, and that avisedly-so, and suffer after for the doing, and all for chance that good may come to pass of it, but little like, and how then may one know of surety which is good or which is ill, when all law be set aside as subject to disdain?

 **Amarie** : [sharply to the Ambassador]

Hast thou heard such heretical uttrances, my lord, of him in thy lands -- or did he perchance learn such justifying words of thy shadowed folk?

 **Ambassador** : [unruffled]

Many such deep matters are often spoken of, when my Lady Melian is present, and many thoughts put forward, and questions asked, to which not one, but many answers may be offered, and each but bear another riddle to the questioner.

[bows]

\-- Milady.

 **Finrod** : [disregarding Amarie for the moment]

No, Aunt 'Danel, it isn't like that, _of_ _course_ you can't ignore _everything_ and of course you can't just _do_ _anything_. But I did say it was too complex for many people.

[she looks rather miffed, as he continues:]

As far as being too cheerful, _that_ isn't what Edrahil's objecting to -- but there's more to it. You see --

[he is interrupted as a pair of Elvish shades enter (or as it proves re-enter) the Hall: the Youngest Ranger who is still rather twitchy and hypervigilant, quickly draws another arrow and sets it to the bow he has not reslung since the last conflict, but only keeps it trained on the latest arrivals -- even when it become clear that they are the King's brothers.]

 **Aegnor** : [snappish]

Oh, good grief! --  _Put_ that away!

[he ignores the fact that the Teler warrior doesn't, and with Angrod strides up to the ongoing family reunion.]

 **Fourth Guard** : [aside]

\-- Who's using mortal slang _now_?

 **Aegnor** : [with a bright, fixed, savagely pleasant smile]

Quite the little Gathering you've got going on here, Finrod. Taking over hospitality functions along with counseling and building maintenance, hm?

[to Amarie]

Hullo, dear sister -- you've met our newest cousin, I believe?

[he nods towards Beren, and she frowns, first curiously, then in sudden thought, but he goes on before she can say anything:]

You were right when you said we'd all come to a bad end, you know -- but I never expected to see _you_ here as well --

 **Finrod** : [sharply]

 _Why_ are you here?

 **Angrod** : [trying to calm things down]

We could tell you were in trouble so we came to help.

 **Finrod** : [snippy]

Well, it wasn't needful -- I could have managed it on my own, there weren't enough of you to make a difference if I hadn't, _and_ you're too late anyway. But -- I thank you for the intention.

 **Captain** :

Better late than later, what?

[the two siblings do not appreciate this at all; he gestures to his subordinate to stop covering them, and the Sindarin Ranger denocks the arrow, but doesn't put his weapons away.]

 **Finrod** :

If you hadn't been dithering about what you were going to say to Father et al, you might have got here in time to provide moral support. As it is you managed to get the worst of both outcomes.

[Aegnor is resolutely avoiding looking at Finarfin, who is in turn looking very sadly at his children. Nerdanel draws near and pats his arm consolingly. Amarie does not seem to have been successfully deflected by Aegnor's attempt to direct her attention to Beren. The Ambassador from Doriath is looking at his King's grand-nephews and shaking his head.]

 **Angrod** : [sighing]

 _Please_ don't be difficult. --  _We're_ trying not to.

[pause]

 **Finrod** :

Very well.

[he turns back to the conversation as if there hadn't been any interruption]

Anyway, Father, what I was saying was, it isn't an attempt to change the Song _from_ what it was intended to be originally, _or_ to make it back into what it was intended to be, either.

 **Nerdanel** :

Thou has returnéd upon thine own words most uncommon paradoxical.

 **Finrod** :

No, it isn't really that complicated, listen --

[Aegnor addresses Beren quietly, in a tone gruff, but surprisingly polite, considering]

 **Aegnor** : [aside]

Has he said the word "destiny," yet, Beor?

 **Beren** : [wary]

Uh -- not recently. I -- don't think.

 **Aegnor** :

Not in this conversation?

[Beren shakes his head, Aegnor elbows his other sibling and shakes his head.]

In six.

 **Angrod** : [a bit guiltily]

\-- Twelve.

[Beren gives them an uneasy look, and then glances at the Ten, who are either ignoring them or ignoring them obviously]

 **Finrod** :

\-- because it can't be put right without undoing the World, but it _can_ be mended. The gods can't do everything -- we just help them out a little. If we do good, that is, and not ill.

[Amarie closes her eyes, shaking her head in exasperation]

 **Amarie** :

Nay, thy pride surpasseth all no measure, for 'tis deeper than Osse's crests, wider than Uinen's tresses, and ceaseless as the restive Sea! Hast thou not _shame_ , to so set limits to the very Powers?

 **Finrod** : [baffled]

But surely you don't think _they're_ all-powerful, all-knowing? That's what I said before -- that if you think that, then you have to either accept that they're completely deranged, -- or just plain evil.

 **Finarfin** :

Why "plain" evil, indeed and how differeth such from evil of other kind?

 **Finrod** : [rolling his eyes]

It's an emphatic. It means _evil_ , and nothing more, no justification. -- The Song is too big -- there's _too_ _much_ of it for any one soul to understand, god or not.

 **Beren** :

Yeah, like the myth about the Earth-queen forgetting how she'd already made herself Children, too, until King Manwe reminded her.

 **Amarie** : [apalled]

Thou didst speak of _that_ to all-and-sundry? 'Tis not enough hast gossiped of _me_ , of us! but must e'en bruit about the private quarrels of the Holy Ones as well?

 **Beren** : [frowning]

You mean he _shouldn't_ have taught us the true stories, when we only had the foggiest ideas about Valinor? We thought it was in Beleriand, even. And we --

 **Finrod** : [a little too quickly]

And because of that, even if things _are_ Sung, it doesn't mean that freedom's but an illusion, because there's all the difference in the world between a piece composed and the actual performance, which is what _we_ are, this world, only we're also the performers, don't you see? and moreover there are so many competing and conflicting and just plain different things going on, that the results when they collide or overlap or run together are something no one, not even the Singers, could have predicted.

[gesturing animatedly with increasing enthusiasm]

\-- Or like waves, out against the coast, they don't come neatly up to the headlands in even rows, though logically they ought to always, and keep on so - but they cross, and divert, and set up overtones, and then there's the Moon, and _that_ rearranged everything! Because there are the _completely_ mysterious parts, that the Powers themselves didn't put in, and _no_ _one_ knows what they'll do, or how they will affect the Song -- and us, that are of it -- and all we know for certain is the destiny of Arda will be changed out of all expectation.

 **Aegnor** :

Told you.

[Angrod takes off the ornate torc around his neck and gives it to his sibling. Finrod sighs, tolerant but a little disappointed-seeming.]

 **Beren** :

What?

[pause]

What are you two betting on?

[now that everyone is looking at them, the Princes are unsuccessfully trying to hide embarrassment with nonchalance]

 **Angrod** :

Erm -- the question of how long -- or little -- time, how many exchanges, it would be before --

[he can't meet Finrod's gaze, and breaks off]

 **Aegnor** :

\-- Before he started talking about his visions and this cracked idea he has about how the world will be after the end of the world.

[silence]

 **Finrod** : [calmly]

Not visions. There's just the one. And I'm not mad.

[Beren glances around with a wary expression]

 **Beren** :

Um. I feel really stupid asking this, and maybe it's obvious to everybody here who isn't human, but -- isn't "the world after the end of the world" a something-or-other, whatsit, uh, _you_ know, a --

 **Steward** : [quick and unobtrusive]

\-- Contradiction in terms.

 **Beren** :

Yeah. That.

[before Finrod can begin to explain, his brother cuts in:]

 **Aegnor** : [caustic]

Hasn't he told you? You're supposed to save the universe or something.

 **Beren** :

\--  _Me_?

 **Aegnor** :

Well, obviously, since you've managed to pull off marrying one of the Firstborn. Luthien too, since she's managed the corollary. It's got to be the case that _you're_ the ones to bring about this _great_ _destiny_ , to carry out this vision of his, because otherwise you wouldn't have been any -- luckier -- than your aunt and myself. You're just pawns of Fate, you see.

 **Beren** :

\--  _What_??

[he looks around at them all, baffled and not a little disturbed; the Captain covers his face with his hands]

Captain 

Dear Lady, here we go again -- please no!

[Finrod glares at his brothers with smouldering anger, well under control, but appearing for the first time]

 **Finrod** :

I _thought_ you were _not_ here to cause me difficulty, _nor_ to harrass him, but to _help_.

[to Beren, rather helplessly]

There is a -- a prophesy, so to speak. But it's only mine. Not the gods'. And it -- it isn't a _definite_ one. Not like the one for my death. And you remember how --  _uncertain_ , that one was, how I told you it seemed as though it were about to be fulfilled at the Bragollach -- and _would_ have been, were it not for your kindred. I didn't only help you to somehow further my own convictions, as if -- as if you two were some sort of _experiment_.

 **Beren** : [shaking his head]

Have I _ever_ doubted you, Sir? I understood why you thought we were a bad idea when you talked about it with me in the City. Even before I knew about the problems in your --  _our_  -- family.

[at this last, Finarfin looks from them across to his other two sons, who hastily look away from his gaze]

I wouldn't have thought you protected me just to obey a prophecy or some ulterior motive. But if you thought that some great destiny had to be involved for us to get together in the first place, then it makes sense that you'd go along with it in spite of your doubts, and maybe for that reason let your judgement get overrode by enthusiasm. And I don't think it makes any difference one way or other for you helping me, any more than than your being dead or your debt to Da.

[nodding towards Aegnor and Angrod]

\-- I don't listen to these guys, anyway. It's not like I _know_ them or anything, not like you.

[the Princes look severely disgruntled, the Ten wickedly pleased]

Go on -- I'm not gonna get upset.

 **Finrod** :

All -- all right.

 **Amarie** : [aside]

The very Powers daunt him not a whit, yet this Follower child confoundeth him that ne'er did I see uncertain . . . !

 **Finrod** : [a little weary and flat, now]

It seems to me that all of us are Called to something, whether we know it or not, and perhaps we -- the Firstborn -- are helpless to work against the Song, the parts of it that are Marred or otherwise, with any real effect because we are too closely bound to it to change it, too close to see it properly, the way one must step back from any Work to judge it in its setting and overall. But the Secondborn are _not_ , and what we Elves have have thought of as weaknesses, to be pitied and feared, might be instead _strengths_ , to be used for good or ill to reshape the world. -- For good, of course, is _my_ hope.

 **Beren** :

You mean that we --  _mortals_ , us -- might have been put here to help undo the Marring?

[he looks around to see if the Eldar around him think this is a joke, but not even the Princes are smiling in derision]

And that my finding Tinuviel was supposed to be part of that?

 **Finrod** :

Yes.

 **Huan** :

[quiet keening, not quite loud enough to be obnoxious]

 **Beren** :

Huh.

[pause -- Finrod looks at him anxiously, but when he continues it is a bit sadly, but not anguished:]

I think --  _probably_ we already did it, only -- I botched it all up. -- The Silmarils.

 **Finrod** : [shaking his head, earnest]

You're still here. The story isn't over yet. You don't know that _that_ was the reason for your existence, the Great Work you were meant to do. It might not even be _anything_ , not a _thing_ like the Trees or the Silmarils, or a Deed like finding the Children and leading them West. I thought _mine_ was Nargothrond, and then I realized that it wasn't, and that was a terrible shock -- but I had to keep doing it, I couldn't just stop and do something else.

 **Nerdanel** :

And what, child, dost thou hold this Great Work of _thine_ to be, that thou dost strive for but makest not, if not indeed the mending of all that's Marred?

 **Finrod** : [faint smile]

I don't know, yet. If I tell you my suspicions, you'll have no doubts as to my sanity at all.

 **Finarfin** : [deadpan]

Nay, but _doubt_ after which fashion, absent or present?

[Finrod starts to share a grin with his father, and then checks himself; the living King sighs and looks away]

 **Nerdanel** :

Hast not fear to offend the Valar further, that hast been so gently pardoned and thy transgression set aside?

 **Finrod** : [blinking]

No. I . . . am already dead, I have no job nor place left to go back to in the world Without, and my lady doesn't want anything to do with me.

[Amarie spins half away, her arms folded tensely; he does not notice]

What _else_ could they do to me, assuming they were so inclined? But arguing the ins and outs of the universe with Lord Namo and his family isn't particularly stressful, in any case -- his Lordship gets impatient sometimes, but not offended. A little brusque, but that's just his manner.

 **Aegnor** : [grimacing]

No, Aunt 'Danel, he's just crazy, that's all.

[simultaneously:]

 **Beren** :

Hey, you shouldn't call Lord Mandos crazy --

 **Finrod** :

No, I think the Doomsman's _quite_ sane --

[Aegnor snorts in disgust, while other family members look on in disbelief or resignation]

 **Angrod** : [aside to Aegnor]

You certainly set yourself up for that one.

 **Finarfin** :

Thou speakest, son, with such little deference as the Powers were thy very kin!

[brief pause]

 **Finrod** :

Well -- they are.

[longer pause]

Yours too. All of you.

[the silence continues, though most of the Ten are finding it hard to keep from breaking it]

I'm not crazy -- am I?

[this to the Doriathrin lord]

 **Ambassador** :

Our Lady is most certainly of the Powers.

[with an apologetic glance towards Finarfin and Nerdanel]

\-- And as certainly kin to your children, so I am forced to conclude that the same holds true for you.

 **Finrod** :

See?

[before any of them can comment on this]

And it's been true all along, only we didn't know it, because we didn't know what happened to Mother's uncle. And now it's true three different ways -- by marriage, by blood, and by marriage again.

[the Ambassador winces; so do Finrod's brothers, but his father and aunt only look puzzled]

\-- Marriage, to Elu; blood, through their daughter our cousin, Luthien; marriage, by Luthien too.

[this does not dispel their confusion, but rather increases it all around]

 **Angrod** : [frowning]

No. That doesn't work. You can't count Luthien twice, Finrod.

 **Finrod** :

I can't?

 **Steward** :

I fear he is correct, my lord -- through Lady Luthien you may now claim kinship with Beren, for that prior bond of blood that unites your and her common ancestors; but that does not permit you to reckon the Princess as kindred anew, through that marital bond in reverse, as though _she_ were now her own sister-in-law.

 **Finrod** : [blankly]

Are you sure?

[his counselor nods, his expression quite sober -- but there is a faint twinkle of amusement to match Finrod's own]

 **Teler Maid** : [loudly]

Oh, he is being most silly, and all for to madden you, can you not see it?

[everyone stares at her]

Do not all look at me, or -- or I will vanish, I promise!

[she ducks back behind the Ten in an attack of shyness]

 **Finarfin** : [to the ceiling]

I do believe that here is one Maiwe, whose songs my hall long hath missed, and my lady as long withal and more of grief than merest echoes' lamentation. Oft hath Earwen asked of me, whether of deed, or of undoing, what wrong we did thee that thou shouldst rather gray death prefer, thereunto our House?

 **Teler Maid** : [calling from the background]

No! I mean, it was never your fault, good my lord. -- Or my lady's. Please do you tell her I am sorry from me.

 **Finrod** : [dry]

I think she's only accepting family apologies in person, Maiwe -- though she might make an exception, you only being a cousin six or eight times removed, wasn't it?

[Finarfin sighs, looking as though disappearing sounds like a very good option]

 **Nerdanel** : [to the Steward]

Indeed, it did clean fly from my mind, that I had meant to ask of thee: is this the same young Teler whose name was so frequent coupled with thine own, by many tongues, saving ne'er thine own? Is _she_ thy true-love, in truth, Enedrion?

[longish pause]

 **Steward** :

For my part, the answer should be _yes_.

 **Finarfin** : [sternly]

What web of words dost thou make e'en now?

 **Steward** :

None -- presently. Your question is nigh unanswerable, my lord: do I say _no_ , as it seems the present truth now rests, I shall most infallibly make it thus; but if on the contrary I declare it _so_ , then such presumption should, I deem, have but the same result in the end.

[while his hearers are trying to decipher this, the subject of their discussion emerges from cover again, her arms folded and a very impatient expression on her face]

 **Teler Maid** :

He would say that I will be angry with him no matter what he says, and then I shall not be, but he wishes that I were.

[she looks at him in amazement]

You have confessed your love for me, and before your own great House, and strangers -- ! Nor act you as if ashamed of that no more than of me for all my folly . . . and so did I ever hope for, and now you do _thus_ , -- and I am afeared of you for your readiness to strike, and more so for your cleverness, that even _here_ you might twist words to deceive and confuse, and belike you do so even now to win me subject to you once again, and how shall I ever know you are true then?

[her voice is almost a wail at the end, and she wrings the ends of her braids distractedly while he only looks at her seriously, saying nothing]

 **Nerdanel** :

Alas, poor child!

 **Teler Maid** : [drawing herself together in sudden temper]

I am _not_ a poor child!

[sullenly]

Well . . . perchance. -- Stop talking over me! You are here to harry Lord Ingold, are you not?

[Finrod's relatives look at each other askance, while the Ambassador shakes his head wryly]

 **Finrod** : [easily]

Just _my_ lady, as it happens, Sea-Mew. The rest of them are actually here to harry Beren's. It's merely happened to work out that way. But that's all right.

[to his family]

Of course she's correct, I was jesting -- except not to annoy so much as to anneal the conversation with humour before it fractured from the stress. You're all worried about the wrong things.

 **Aegnor** :

It gets better, you see.

[his eldest brother gives him a warning Look]

 **Finarfin** :

Indeed, and some such form of it hath reached unto the multitude, else some such _semblance_ of these discourses. -- But I had for my part rather hear it out most plain and free of mitigations.

 **Finrod** :

Don't worry -- I'll gladly incriminate myself further. The substance of it is this: the world is broken, the Song distorted past all hope of restoration -- even if it were somehow possible to overcome the Enemy and repair the effects of his destructive acts all in a moment, that wouldn't make it _whole_ , wouldn't undo what was done, nor make it other than a botched mess suffering from the lack of all those that were lost as a result. So. We either have to say the whole project was ultimately a failure -- which certainly _could_ be the case -- or that we're missing part of the pattern, and _that's_ what I've Seen. _This_ isn't the whole of it at all. Unless you're willing to admit that the One is a worse loser than I am, the hypothesis that there will be _another_ Song that will make the world anew is the only one that makes any sense.

[this has a predictable effect on his Vanyar bride, and not much less on his other hearers, rebel or not -- even repeated exposure to such heresies has not entirely dulled the impact. His father, not seeming as troubled by all this radical speculation as his companions, glances at Beren before looking at his eldest once more.]

 **Finarfin** :

Whence cometh thy certainty the Secondborn shall have part in this -- new Music, even as the Ainur, and greater verily than we?

 **Finrod** : [flippantly]

Well, they've got to be doing _something_ after the world ends, right? You don't think the Timeless Halls are just going to be filled with bored spirits playing pointless games like us here, surely?

[someone behind him snickers nervously -- Beren and his father however only look at him with sincere questioning, and he sighs, going on in earnest]

Because they are part of the correction, and so -- assuming of course the One is at least a little better organized than we are -- the ideal world is _not_ as some of our family have argued one in which there are no other Children than ourselves, but one in which _their_ music is not drowned out nor co-opted by either ours nor the Enemy's: they were made to answer the first Discords, so the only question is _what_ _shape_ does that purpose take?

 **Amarie** : [interrupting]

Yet even so are _we_ , and to _us_ hath been given understanding of the cosmos, that by virtue of our nature alike as our ceaseless days doth possess a greater breadth and potentiality than might any brief transient soul.

[he nods seriously]

 **Finrod** :

And that is _all_ we know. _We_ don't know how to give it up -- how to to look at it as the Powers must, as something apart from them yet dear to them, that they must outlast with sorrow as a parent who outlives children, and which cannot be grasped at nor held from death forever -- because we _can't_. In that way we're closer to Morgoth than we might think --

[simultaneously:]

 **Amarie** : [cutting him off]

Out on thee -- !

 **Ambassador** : [frowning, very perturbed]

Why do you say th --

[Aegnor has been endeavoring to contain himself, but the endeavor fails.]

 **Aegnor** : [talking over them both]

So none of it _matters_ , not Miriel, not the Kinslaying, not the killing of the Trees, not the torture and slavery of the ones left behind or the poisoning of the lands, because it's all going to be done over _properly_ , you see -- this is all no more than erasing out bits on a rough sketch --

[as his brother and several of his Following start to answer at once, and chaos is about to take over, Nerdanel interjects, raising her hand:]

 **Nerdanel** : [forcefully]

Be ye still, my kinsmen.

[to Finrod, her tone dryly meaningful]

Though the impulsive force of mine own speech be _haply_ less by some degree than thy brother's, as hath been given to me to understand these several years -- still it doth much incline upon the same direction as mine own, forasmuch as such a . . .  _recasting_ should most greatly disdain all that hath preceded it, and make no reckoning of the griefs eke the glories of the former Day.

 **Finrod** :

So all the many years of struggle and pain to perfect an art are _worthless_? The burns, the cuts -- the half-finished works that aren't quite right, but still have beauty in themselves, worthless? The efforts -- repeated -- to learn to play or sing in proper balance, weighing and subordinating individual perfection and sublimity to the whole and with regard to every performer's own abilities, _meaningless_ because directed to a greater purpose, mastering of beauty that encompasses all prior work? You wouldn't say that about anything made within Arda -- so why say that of the world itself?

 **Ambassador** : [guardedly]

From both your words _and_ the unspoken implication of them, I must guess, Sire, that you hold your vision to have come from a Source _other_ than either of the usual channels -- that is to say, neither Beyond the --  _this_ continent, as rarely if ever has been possible since the Dark One's Return, _nor_ from the currents and tides of Ea itself, bearing message and meaning either as cargo or riddle, freight to be unpacked or deciphered or set into the mosaic of days, as the early flight of birds in autumn. Do I take your meaning aright?

[clearly this means something significant to the gathered Elves, from their expressions, as Beren looks at them, trying to piece out the overtones and undertones of the conversation; the center of the intellectual storm is undisturbed by this challenge:]

 **Finrod** :

Yes, that _is_ rather the obvious conclusion, since working within a closed system doesn't usually give rise to variables and outcomes hinging on factors not part of that system. But surely you don't want to assert that such isn't possible -- ?

 **Amarie** : [hotly]

Aye, and for what shall it be given unto _thee_?

[Finrod shrugs]

 **Finrod** :

I don't know. I've no idea why a god spoke to me out of the night and told me to build a City either -- why _me_ , that is. The benefits of a hidden stronghold being obvious to even pacifists, I should hope.

 **Captain** : [reasonably]

You don't _know_ that he didn't Call anyone besides you and your cousin, as it's proven from the White Lady's words. It could be, Sire, that the rest of us were simply deaf to it.

 **Nerdanel** :

Ar-Feiniel is slain as well?

 **Ranger** : [aside, shaking his head]

We should just make a _list_ and hand it round.

 **Soldier** :

Out of what? _Stone_?

 **Third Guard** :

And think how _long_ it would have to be.

 **Aegnor** : [brightly, not looking at Beren at all]

Yes, she married some local fellow there under questionable circumstances -- and he killed her.

[predictably, they all look at Beren, who looks miserable]

 **Huan** :

[sharp growling bark]

 **Finrod** : [pleasantly, to his lawful kin]

Excuse me for a moment while I berate my sibling.

[turns and grabs Aegnor by the shoulder, furious]

All right, I've just about _had_ it with you. I've taken your guilting about Lady Andreth and about my failure to convince the High Command to invade Angband because I'm not completely free of blame and I feel sorry for you. But you know, I really didn't have the power to _make_ anyone obey me. You didn't _have_ to listen to me telling you what you wanted to hear --

[as his brother raises his hand]

Go on, hit me, that's part of my job, isn't it? -- to make the unpopular decisions so no one else _has_ to and take the blame for the consequences, because there are _always_ consequences, and never make mistakes, never be wrong, because _I'm_ _the_ _King_. -- How _dare_ I get myself into a situation I couldn't get out of, trying to save your lives? How dare I _lose_ the Northwest Passage, and the North, and Nargothrond? You might almost think it was Fated, now, mightn't you?

[Angrod tries to intervene, but doesn't get a chance]

\-- And when it comes to it, why weren't you able to convince your own best friends that an attack was in everyone's best interests? Hm? Why didn't _you_ work on getting Cel to push his brothers into going along? Though I gather you did -- so why didn't you _succeed_?

[letting go of Aegnor and gesturing widely]

I couldn't solve all your problems for you in Beleriand, and _guess_ _what_ , I can't solve them _here_ either. I'm sorry about that, that I can't fix everything that's gone wrong on either side of the Sea -- the Starmaker knows I _tried_ , as well as failed, even if you don't -- and I'm sorry I couldn't even avenge you -- but right now there _is_ a problem that possibly I can affect, and must at least endeavor to, and if it is a matter painful to us both, and cannot but bring to heart that sorrow afresh, still must we endure it.

[a little quieter]

I'm not asking you to believe me. Nor even to help our cousin and our friend. I only insist that you not cause any _more_ problems for them. -- But that is _all_ I'm going to say to you on the subject. One way _or_ another. Do you understand?

[snorting]

If you don't, or _won't_ , -- then get out of my sight. _Now_.

[Aegnor stares at him, his mouth working, but unable to speak; torn between hauling off and slamming his eldest, and vanishing, he flickers for a moment, then pulls away and stands a little ways off, his arms folded, his eyes closed in pain. Huan comes up to huff comfortingly in his ear, and gets a hard shove on his nose for his pains; meanwhile Finrod turns back to the conversation, and the horrified gazes of his family. Puzzled:]

\-- What?

 **Ambassador** : [warily]

You . . . displayed ill-humour, Majesty -- if I may understate.

 **Finrod** : [still slightly manic]

Yes, well, it does happen from time to time.

[his relatives are all still taken aback: ironically]

\-- It isn't as though I drew a blade on him, after all.

 **Teler Maid** : [almost whispering]

But -- you _shouted_ at him . . .

[their reaction leaves him a bit off-balance -- he looks at the Ten for reassurance, and gets it, if a bit strangely:]

 **Steward** :

Considering, my lord, that of all us that are present I have known you the longest, the latest, and the most continuous, and _I_ have only seen you mastered by anger four times in as many yen -- to your cousins, at Alqualonde; your father, at Araman; against the Enemy on the battlefield at the Sudden Flame, and towards Nargothrond at our exiling -- it is I believe infrequent enough to warrant _marvel_.

[with a shrewd look at all the Finarfinions]

There were perhaps other occasions when I was not present to witness, certainly, and I do _not_ reckon such situations where a severe rebuke was required and furnished with appropriate mannerims -- of which last I _incline_ to judge this latest outburst, at least in part.

[pause]

 **Finrod** :

Somewhere near half -- I'm not sure of the exact proportion, myself. I _trust_ there won't be another occasion for it in the near future, either.

[picking up where he left off again]

So, anyhow -- it depends on how you look at it, whether you see it as _contradiction_ , as _change_ , or as but a wider understanding of Fate than we've grown up accepting, unquestioningly. I don't think it's as radical or unsettling as everyone seems to believe: after all, I'm not saying that the Song won't end and we along with it -- only that there will be a _new_ Music, and everything made new in it. -- As we should have been.

 **Amarie** :

 _All_?

[he nods]

Dost reckon full the consequence of this thy claim? Even unto _Morgoth_ , verily?

[again he nods, seriously; clearly she wants to say more, but it's too much to be able to get out]

 **Beren** : [unfolding realization]

That's what you meant. _That's_  -- what you were trying to tell me when -- right before -- before you died. When you said . . . we might not meet again, but maybe it would be all right somehow. I thought --  _after_  -- you meant about --

[nodding towards Huan]

\-- that _they_ might win. Not that we'd meet like this -- or after . . . after the _after_ - _everything_.

 **Finrod** : [softly]

I didn't dare raise any false hope -- I owed you honesty, not comforting lies, but -- I couldn't leave you with nothing but my failure, when I might be right after all. -- I never Saw _this_ , though.

[worried]

Are you -- angry with me, for telling you no more of my vision than that "maybe" -- ?

[Beren looks at him fondly, shaking his head]

 **Beren** :

You spoke truer than you knew, then.

 **Captain** : [aside]

Thank you, my Lady!

 **Beren** : [hesitant, but earnest]

Maybe -- maybe _again_ , too . . . ?

 **Amarie** : [to Finrod, with a drastic gesture, very agitated]

Nay, this madness doth _far_ outpace thine eldest uncle's! Which shall be worse, I ken not -- to grasp even at eternity, nor rest content with all that hath been given us -- else to proclaim that such as _he_ shall stand beside the Powers as gods verily -- else to hold thou knowest better far than even holy Manwe _how_ this Ea is, and shall even be, withal, as thou wert Varda herself to grant such clarity unto the greatest of the cosmos? Hast thou not dread -- nay, I speak not of _shame_ to thee! -- concerning of their affront, to hear of this thy foolish pridefulness?

 **Nerdanel** :

Nay, dost _thou_ truly hold the gods ken naught of thy love's certainties? _Think_ , child!

[as Amarie gives her an affronted look in turn:]

\-- Whence came yon troublesome rumours, the truth of which we have so plainly heard outspoken?

[to Finrod:]

'Tis a most fair dream, to be sure, and the greater part of mine own counter to it hath fled like the molten flux before the most burning proof: that well indeed thou kennst this world its sorrow, nor recketh lightly of it, nor deemst it but foundation to the rest, as 'twere nay than the crushing of gravel fine to set beneath the footing of a lofty pergola. Yet still I may not but acknowledge it as _shown_ , that thine hope of Arda Envinyanta is aught other than thy _wish_ , from earliest days, that all thy kin might dwell together in peace and all their rivalries be given o'er, and now thou hast found to thyself more kinfolk even, and would of thy most generous spirit gather all these as well, about thee for ever more.

[as he starts to protest once more]

Nay, I confess I would most _gladly_ consent with thee, saving that my doubt, that hath seen all fair beginnings fall to wrack and ruin, and every clarity made dark, and how joy turneth ever unto sorrow, findeth it still nor ever too light a resolution. --  _But_ , youngling, thou dost self little service, to win thy theorem hearing, thus to make utterance in manner so short and prideful, as wert all ways plain and manifest, and only fools might not see it likewise.

 **Finrod** :

. . .

[she does not look away, and he turns after a moment to the Steward.]

\-- Edrahil --  _am_ I being proud and impatient about it?

 **Steward** :

Aye, my lord, and so should I declare even did I hold with it.

[Finrod looks towards the Captain, who nods agreement soberly, and then back to his relatives]

 **Finrod** :

Sorry. I suppose I was a _bit_ overbearing.

 **Finarfin** :

Such shall be ever hazard of this our lordly duty, I fear.

[his eldest gives him a wary glance, which becomes more uncertain when he sees the living King's expression is rueful amusement, not sarcasm]

 **Angrod** : [shaking his head]

For myself, I'd like to know what Galadriel would have said to all this. I can't imagine our sister wouldn't bring a measure of cold reality to temper the conversation.

[at Finrod's Look]

\-- I'm only saying what I think --

 **Nerdanel** : [interrupting]

\-- Indeed, and another matter that all that's followed did drive from recollection: wherefore the meaning-insolence of my former vassals in their words concerning thy youngest sibling, that she of all of ye did swiftest and most fully take to the other Shore?

 **Aegnor** : [over his shoulder, shrugging]

Probably they were talking about how she and her husband took off on that expedition retracing the March with a bunch of fellow lunatics. Or else just that she moved to Menegroth in the first place.

 **Finarfin** :

Artanis hath wed?!?

 **Finrod** :

Oh, that's right --

 **Finarfin** :

Or _when_  --

 **Finrod** : [frowning]

Hm. -- Edrahil, do you recall --

 **Finarfin** : [keeping going]

\-- Or unto _whom_?

[somewhat exciteably the Sea-elf points to Beren, with an "I know this!" attitude:]

 **Teler Maid** :

To one of _his_ cousins!

 **Beren** :

Uh, that's gonna conf --

 **Nerdanel** : [to her nephews, in greater astonishment]

\-- Thy sister also hath taken a mortal consort?

 **Ambassador** : [quickly]

\-- By marriage, gentles -- that is to say, one of li -- Lady Luthien's cousins, of royal Olwe's kindred, the Lord Celeborn.

[Finarfin looks more bewildered than relieved]

 **Angrod** : [reproachful]

You didn't _tell_ them?

 **Finrod** : [staring at him innocently]

No, somehow it seems to have slipped my mind, what with being preoccupied trying to save the universe, anger the Powers and oh, by-the-by, pack in four-hundred-going-on-fiveyears' worth of adventures into what seemed like half-an-hour, not to mention all the interruptions and --

[chastened, Angrod raises his hand in appeal, in a gesture and manner very typical of his eldest sibling]

 **Angrod** :

Ingold --  _please_.

[without any warning a banshee screech of unmitigated fury echoes throughout the entire Hall, startling everyone, though there is no visible source]

 **Beren** : [wild-eyed]

That's Tinuviel --

[before anyone can do anything beyond react in concern, Luthien herself appears, out of thin air, in a tearful rush, shoving anyone in her path aside and flinging her arms around Beren's neck]

 **Luthien** : [incoherent]

\-- Beren --  _Beren_  -- you're still _here_  --

[she steps back, looking at him as if she can't believe it, while Huan crowds in as though he hadn't seen her for decades and recognizes that she needs a dog welded to her side, even if she doesn't]

Oh, Beren, dear one, it's _no_ _use_ , there's -- you mustn't trust _anyone_ here, you _can't_ trust my family, it doesn't matter what side of the Sea they're on --

 **Finrod** :

Not even us?

 **Luthien** : [impatient]

Oh, don't be _stupid_  -- of course _you_.

[to Beren]

Don't -- don't listen to anyone --  _else_ , or let anyone talk you into anything, don't _agree_ to anything, no matter how innocent it sounds, or reasonable, don't --  _Oh_!

[she shakes her head in outrage, unable to keep going -- he catches hold of her forearm, trying to get her to calm down]

 **Beren** : [intense]

\--  _Tinuviel_. -- What -- did -- they -- say?

 **Luthien** : [with a convulsive shiver]

He said -- he said you could be -- be put in some sort of suspended animation, unconscious, as though you were someone who'd returned from Exile illegally and that way we'd still be married but I wouldn't have to worry about you and you wouldn't technically be in Aman, you'd be on some islands somewhere, and so it would all be _lawful_.

[he lets go of her wrist and draws himself up, shocked]

 **Beren** :

W --  _what_?!?

 **Luthien** : [nodding]

That's what I said. I -- I --  _yes_.

 **Beren** : [flatly]

Unconscious. For how long?

 **Luthien** :

 _Always_! I told them, it was bad enough, you were unconscious for a whole season, why would they think I would be happy with you like that _forever_?

[he is staring at her in disbelief, rapidly replaced by conviction to match hers that this is not a misunderstanding, while Nerdanel looks at Finarfin and her nephews incredulously and Amarie, frowning, shakes her head in disagreement.]

 **Finrod** : [disgusted]

Honestly. I should have _insisted_ on being present to help keep things in perspective. This is _ridiculous_  -- and I'm going to tell Lord Namo so myself as soon --

[Beren whirls to face them]

 **Beren** : [almost incoherent in his own distress]

No -- you don't understand. None of you! You -- I -- you _can't_!

 **Finrod** :

Beren --

 **Beren** : [shaking his head]

There's nothing -- look, my _whole_ _life_ I spend fighting against the Dark, and I lose everything, and when I ask the gods for even a little help, the only choice I get is between exiled to Death now or exiled to the Grey Country forever? What -- kind of _choice_ is that? Why can we not get even the least break? We've been patient, we've trusted the Powers to do right by us, _we're_ not the bad guys, but --

 **Finrod** : [trying to reassure him as before]

Beren, it isn't --

 **Beren** : [ranting]

Don't! Don't lie to me _now_  -- there isn't any hope, Tinuviel's right, nobody _cares_ , no one can help us and you _do_ _not_ _understand_ because you're _here_ and you don't have anything to lose, there isn't any place else for you to go and even if Amarie won't listen to you now there's _still_ hope for you, you _do_ have forever, and no matter what -- even if you're right -- and Ages down the road we do get to find each other again, that _isn't_ going to make the forever in between any less of a Hell for us!!

[as Finrod reaches out, upset, he flings him away and storms a short ways off, stopping abruptly to stand, his back to them, fist clenched at his side, shaking. No one quite dares to approach him -- except for Huan, who realizes that it's Beren who needs a canine shadow and additionally to have his ear snuffled and a dog nose shoved under his chin. The upshot of this is to cause the mortal to turn and hug the Hound, leaning against Huan's chest for a moment before wearily but resignedly rejoining the assembled Elven company, ghostly and otherwise (still with a divine Hound practically welded to his side.) After kissing Luthien quickly and she brushing the hair out of his eyes with an anxious caress, he faces the Nargothronders again.]

 **Beren** : [raggedly]

Sorry. I -- didn't mean to be ungrateful. I just -- lost it and said stuff that felt true but -- I _know_ you can't help it, and you would if -- I don't _mean_ any of that.

 **Teler Maid** : [sympathetic]

I do that sometimes.

[thoughtful]

At least I did before. It -- it is harder, _now_ , not simply _here_. Perhaps I am growing up.

[hastily]

I did not mean to call you but a child, my lord.

[to Luthien]

\-- Or you, for such a Doom would put any out of temper, I think. Would you not agree?

[this last, innocently put to the newcomers, evokes expressions ranging from pensive to taut to intensely so; Beren, with Huan still "at heel," approaches Finrod & stands before him looking up at him unflinchingly -- despite the circle of witnesses, it is an extremely personal moment]

 **Beren** :

I cut you awful bad, didn't I?

[sighing]

I'm sorry.

[the other shakes his head, smiling sadly]

 **Finrod** :

I've dealt with angry Men before. That -- wasn't the worst that any of your family has said to me.

 **Beren** :

 _An_ ' . . .?

[the Elf-lord nods, and he sighs again]

\-- Not so much angry -- as terrified. I haven't been afraid -- not _really_ , not since they said that Carcharoth was dead -- not even _here_ , even before he came --

[scratching under the Hound's jaw]

\-- but now? I'm scared out of my wits. I don't know what's coming, what to do, and it just keeps looking worse. And that's not going away. Actually --

[grimacing]

\-- yes, _angry_ , and that isn't going away either, but -- now I'm riding it and not the other way 'round.

[he looks around at the Ten earnestly]

Only there's nothing for me to fight or destroy here, and that's sort of all I know how to do. --  _And_ wait. I'm good at waiting a situation out . . . but . . .

 **Steward** : [shaking his head]

Oh, little one. -- Trust the people who love you.

 **Captain** :

\-- Trust our King.

[Huan's tail signals agreement, and Beren nods ruefully, losing more of the frenzied edge]

 **Beren** :

I guess I shouldn't understimate you all, either, huh?

 **Teler Maid** : [a little too loud]

But of course not!

[embarrassed, she winces, but Finrod smiles at her, and she perks up again]

 **Finrod** : [sincerely]

Thank you for that encouraging confidence, Maiwe.

[to Luthien]

What, _exactly,_ are they objecting to with regards to your marriage?

 **Luthien** : [flinging up her hands]

Everything! -- Nothing. No one seems to take me seriously! They all still treat me like I'm a child -- I feel like I never left home.

[her father's counselor looks away, downcast; Nerdanel reaches out to him before recollecting, and sighs]

Why doesn't _anyone_ pay attention to what I have to say?

 **Beren** : [reluctantly]

Well --

 **Luthien** :

 _What_?!?

 **Beren** : [ducking his head a little]

Look, it's not your fault -- but -- earlier, you know -- you _were_ coming across a little -- well, like my four-year-old cousin when we had to explain to her it was time to let her orphan squirrel go back to the woods.

[as she glares at him, with rather a betrayed expression, the Captain gives a sudden loud shout of laughter, instantly suppressed, and receives the full brunt of her redirected wrath:]

 **Luthien** :

What are you _laughing_ for? There's _nothing_ funny about this!

 **Captain** : [with a placating gesture, struggling not to lose control again]

Sorry -- I -- I'm sorry, Highness, I know, but -- I just couldn't help it, when he said -- just -- trying to _not_ think of that picture -- it's just too _wrong_ , my lady -- you as an angry toddler, holding on to Beren as -- as an orphaned baby squirrel, and scowling at Lady Vaire like _that_  --

 **Beren** : [completely serious]

No, my cousin was older than that, and so was the squirrel, that was the problem --

 **Captain** : [shaking his head]

I know, I know, humans age differently, and -- it --  _never_ mind, it was _foolish_  --

 **Finrod** :

No, it was _quite_ inappropriate.

[thoughtfully]

Now, if either of you had said a young _wildcat_ , instead . . .

[Luthien matches stares with her cousin, and cannot help it -- a reluctant smile forces its way onto her face.]

 **Luthien** :

All right. It is a funny picture. -- But them wanting me to -- to _set_ _Beren_ _free_  --  _isn't_.

 **Finrod** :

No. So we'll just have to make them see reason, somehow.

 **Amarie** :

\-- " _Compel_ " -- ?!

 **Aegnor** : [grim humor]

Yes.

[Amarie closes her eyes, shaking her head in disbelief]

 **Luthien** : [noticing the Princes properly for the first time]

 _You_! There you are! I'm _furious_ with you two.

[she strides up to them and starts building up to a fine rage, while her cousins realize that their earlier blasé attitude was misplaced and try to make their protests heard over her declamation and their father exchanges an impressed Look with the Doriathrin lord.]

\-- I felt _sorry_ for you when Dad punished you, you know -- but now I'm only sorry he ever let you come back! I'm sorry I ever helped _feed_ you, or made you clothes, or sang for you, I'm sorry I healed _you_ after that mistake with the boar, I'm sorry Mom didn't lock you _both_ out of the Labyrinth, I'm sorry you --

 **Angrod** : [raising his voice]

\--  _I_ didn't do _anything_  --

[suddenly, the Powers appear, Namo and Vaire before their respective thrones, with Aule and his Assistant to one side, Orome and Irmo on the other; there is no flash of light nor other dramatic signal to their entrance. As the Lord and Lady take their seats, the Valinorean Eldar make polite gestures of acknowledgement; the rebels merely stand to attention, which is somewhat ambigious; the Doriathrin Ambassador, noting watching all reactions, shakes his head knowingly. Rather hesitantly the Teler Maid waves to Irmo, then retreats behind the curtain of her hair. Huan gives a quiet, experimental bark, but stops at once at the Weaver's severe Look. Before any of them speak, Luthien strides up to the dais in a no-quarter manner and begins:]

 **Luthien** :

How could you _say_ such a thing -- or listen to it! -- far less expect _me_ to countenance it?

 **Vaire** : [matter-of-factly]

If you hadn't started shouting at everyone and stormed out of the room in a passion, Luthien, you would have realized that it was _merely_ a suggestion -- just one among all those already brought up -- and not a decision at all: that, in fact, it would have been rejected in short order, being merely a shifting of location, and not in _any_ way a new way of dealing with the problem.

 **Luthien** : [aside]

Somebody else say something, because I don't trust myself enough to talk right now.

[before anyone else can, the Sindarin Ranger comes forward from where he is lurking at the back of the group of Finrod's people, looking utterly Doomed, and drops to his knees in front of Namo's Throne, forcing himself himself to look up]

 **Youngest Ranger** :

Holy One -- my Lord Judge -- I beg -- beg leave, to speak --

 **Namo** : [puzzled]

Why are you on the floor?

 **Youngest Ranger** :

? ? ?

 **Namo** :

Do you see any of your friends kneeling to us? Anyone?

[the Elf shakes his head quickly]

So . . . why are _you_?

 **Youngest Ranger** :

Ought -- oughtn't I -- m -- my Lord?

 **Namo** : [shrugging]

If it makes it easier for you to speak, then yes. It doesn't look like it to me.

[doubtfully the Sindarin warrior gets to his feet and stands straight before the Throne, gripping his bow nervously]

What was it you wanted to say?

 **Youngest Ranger** : [hopelessly resolute despite his stammering]

My Lord, if -- if I am not -- supposed to be here, then -- and yet you -- your Lady -- al -- allow me, then -- why can't you make -- another exception -- for him?

 **Namo** : [curious]

Who told you you weren't supposed to be here?

[pause]

 **Youngest Ranger** :

But -- Sir, I -- I'm n -- not one of Your people. I -- that is, to say, I did assume --

 **Namo** :

Are you not Eldar?

 **Youngest Ranger** : [with a small flare of heat]

Not -- as _some_ tell it.

[bowing his head]

\-- Er -- yes, m -- my Lord. But not -- of these islands.

 **Namo** : [patient]

These Halls are _meant_ to shelter such as you. It isn't the same as for a mortal: there's no intrinsic hardship or difficulty with you remaining here. If you're crazy enough to want to be included in the Doom of the Noldor, then obviously you do belong --

 **Vaire** : [reproachful]

Darling!

 **Namo** : [turning to his wife, confused]

What? That's word-for-word what you yourself said.

 **Vaire** :

True, but -- I didn't say it _in front of_ him.

 **Namo** : [baffled]

That makes a difference?

[this gets him a Look]

I don't see why.

[his wife gives the Youngest Ranger an apologetic, embarrassed glance]

 **Youngest Ranger** : [uncertainly]

I -- I don't have to leave, then, H -- Holy Ones?

 **Vaire** :

Not before you're ready, dear.

[speechless, he bows his head and sighs in relief; his commander pats him on the shoulder]

 **Captain** : [aside]

Told you, didn't I?

[the other nods, too overcome to look up yet, unaware of the looks of gratitude and admiration directed towards him by Beren and his companions]

 **Youngest Ranger** :

Only --

 **Captain** :

\-- Don't worry about _that_ either. Trust Himself and look out for ambushes -- same as always.

[at that moment Nienna's student comes in through the doorway in a rush, hurrying up to the Thrones with the scroll clutched in one hand and something oblong and glittering, like a cuneiform tablet made from a prism, in the other, and wearing an extremely worried expression]

 **Nienna's Apprentice** : [looking around at the assembled crowd]

I -- was on my way up to see you, my Lord, and I . . . heard voices raised. Is -- everything all right?

 **Luthien** : [loudly]

 _No_!

 **Apprentice** : [starting]

Erm -- sorry.

[with a skittish, worried look towards her and Beren, he turns back to the Doomsman]

Is there anything I can -- ought -- do about it?

[Namo shakes his head]

Oh. Well. Sorry.

 **Namo** : [dubious]

Don't tell me you've found everything on that list already?

[the other shakes his head in turn]

 **Apprentice** :

I wanted to ask you, Sir, what if I find _some_ of it -- do you want me to bring it to you right away, I mean, or wait until I've gotten it all together and then bring it to you all at once . . . ?

 **Namo** : [sighing, in a don't-expect-much-and-get-less tone]

When you find something, _yes_ , bring it to me right away.

 **Apprentice** : [pleased]

I thought you were going to say that.

[with a bit of a flourish he hands over the crystal tablet, which the Lord of the Halls takes, raising an eyebrow, and glances at -- as he does so it vanishes with a flash; which part at least seems not unexpected]

 **Namo** : [curious]

What would you have done if I hadn't?

 **Apprentice** :

Apologized for disturbing you. -- And given it to you anyway.

 **Namo** : [nodding approval]

Good.

[as his sister's pupil starts to leave again he gestures with his mug towards Aule's Assistant]

Why don't you take _him_ along with you? Two minds researching it ought to be twice as fast.

[the two lesser Powers look at each other with equal enthusiasm, or lack thereof.]

 **Aule's Assistant** :

But -- my lord Judge, I was contributing to the discussion of --

 **Namo** : [cutting him off]

No, actually, you _weren't_. That's why we're _here_ now.

 **Assistant** : [appealing to the Smith]

My lord . . . ?

 **Aule** :

I'm sure you'll be able to make quick work of whatever Namo needs doing.

 **Assistant** : [modestly]

But of course, Sir.

[as he accompanies his disguised fellow-Maia, he can be heard complaining all the way to the door]

\-- You don't really mean to _walk_ down all those stairs, do you?

 **Apprentice** : [grimly]

Oh no --  _run_. Remember? "Fast."

 **Assistant** : [disgruntled]

I'm sure we could put in some sort of camshaft-driven lift, powered by water --

[the Lady of the Halls leaps to her feet as they vanish out the door]

 **Vaire** : [ominous (and making everyone else, Power or not, jump a bit)]

\--  _No_!!!

 **Aule** :

Don't worry, Vaire -- the lad's as responsible as he is creative. _He_ won't go tearing holes in the place without asking.

[as if only waiting for all attention to turn to him, as it does now, Finrod Felagund steps forward with a pleasant, lethal smile familiar to all who were at the last Counsel in Nargothrond . . .]

 **Finrod** :

Look here, my Lady, my Lords, you're demonstrating quite admirably that the art of endless debate has _not_ fallen into neglect during the years of our absence abroad -- and trust me, I've become something of a connoisseur of counsels -- but I'm afraid that it's slipped your notice how counterproductive such ceaseless discourse and infinite recursions of every possible outcome and all the niceties of distinction _are_ , when at the same time you complain of how much time you're being compelled to waste upon this matter.

[confiding, as between professionals]

One technique _I_ used for keeping debate to a manageable length was setting strict time limits for each subject -- of course, everyone found ways around it, but they wouldn't be Noldor if they didn't. If you want, I can recommend some people who could help design a device for the purpose -- would in fact be _delighted_ to do so. Or -- we _could_ just stop ignoring the important things and wasting time on trivial side issues and _resolve_ my friends' situation instead. -- Unless you really have nothing better to do and are merely complaining for the form of it. I've known _that_ to happen, too.

[Namo's expression is very wry, while the Weaver narrows her brows at Finrod, who refuses to be daunted; as the Lord of Dreams turns away hastily covering a cough, the Hunter and the Smith share significant Looks:]

 **Orome** :

Can't you _do_ _something_ about him?

 **Aule** : [sighs, shaking his head]

Unfortunately not. He hasn't been under _my_ jurisdiction for the better part of the Age.

 **Orome** :

Who _is_ answerable for him, then?

 **Aule** : [snorts]

Can't you guess? Who's conspicuous by his absence these days?

[brief pause]

Though if I didn't have direct information to the contrary, I'd be tempted to guess it was your brother-in-law.

[Orome chuckles harshly at that; Huan wags his tail happily]

 **Beren** : [whispering]

Who's --  _his_  -- brother-in-law? I can't remember . . .

 **Luthien** : [quietly]

\-- Tulkas.

 **Orome** : [cutting over her]

\-- Patron of brainless enthusiasts.

[Beren looks angry on their behalf, but Finrod only smiles.]

 **Finrod** :

\-- The patron of loyal friends, my Lord.

 **Namo** : [ignoring the repartee]

So what's _your_ solution?

 **Finrod** :

First of all, I think that instead of talking _about_ the Lord of Dorthonion, you ought to talk _to_ him; that rather than discussing mortals, you ought to learn about them by listening to one. Then, perhaps, you'll have a slightly better understanding of what is really best for him.

 **Namo** :

He didn't _have_ anything to say to me, earlier.

 **Finrod** :

Most of us find it difficult to speak at first, until some healing has taken place, or the shock at least has worn off. Surely you don't expect the Secondborn to be any different?

[the Doomsman quirks an eyebrow at his adversary]

 **Namo** :

I . . . have had _some_ experience dealing with mortals, yes. As I stated, he hasn't had anything he wished to tell me, beyond what was already said, before now.

[to Beren]

Has that changed? Or is he leading you into a situation you'd rather not be in but don't know how to refuse?

 **Beren** :

No. I mean -- yes. I mean --  _no_ , not --

[breaks off, looking at the floor]

It's -- no good. I can't do this.

 **Finrod** :

Don't you believe in what you'd say?

 **Beren** : [with an impatient shake of his head]

I can't -- I can't calm down enough to -- say it _properly_. I'm -- I'm -- damn' close to not being able to remember anything but the Old Speech.

 **Finrod** : [perfectly calm]

Then say it in Taliska, and I'll figure it out again and translate for you. -- Though I expect Lord Namo will understand your thoughts no matter how you organize them.

 **Namo** : [grimacing]

Your confidence in me is overwhelming, Finrod.

[to Beren]

\-- Yes, of course. You don't even need to use anything as clumsy as _language_ , but most people find it easier to do so.

[the mortal bites his lip, nods, braces his shoulders, tries again -- and shakes his head]

 **Beren** :

Whatever I say is going to sound dumb by comparison.

[Finrod starts to say something reassuring, but is cut off:]

 **Steward** :

Indeed, my lord, your diction is lamentably rustic, rivalled in its uncouthness only by the atrociousness of your accent, and with no more hope of ever being _polished_ than a cross-grained mass of splintered branches -- but in despite of that, the substance of your words is clear, and indeed refreshingly so. Or, to restate, -- you are a foreigner, and your fashion of expressing yourself barbarous: make of that what you will.

[everyone except the Nargothrond contingent look shocked at this ruthless diagnosis, but the subject of it just raises his eyebrows]

 **Beren** : [emphatically]

\--  _Okay_.

[to Namo]

Sorry about that, I wasn't meaning to waste your time.

 **Namo** : [dismissive wave of his hand]

Oh, that was hardly anything, by comparison.

 **Beren** :

I bet. Anyway, I just really wanted to say one thing, and that's not just to _you_ , Sir, but to all of you.

[he looks at the Powers, frowning at each one in turn.]

\-- I just want to know, _when_ is somebody gonna say, "Thank you" -- ?

[deafening silence]

 **Orome** :

What for?

 **Beren** : [shrugging]

Maybe for fighting against one of _your_ renegades without any help or anything, and doing actually a damn' good job of it, considering, that he had more power and more people than any of us did, and not just me but all my ancestors too, as far back as we can remember? Isn't that worth, oh, maybe at least a "Good job," huh?

 **Namo** :

Correct me if I have misunderstood the information that's been given me, but was not your family tasked to guard the southern border of Melkor's territory and prevent his followers from committing crimes in that area? Was that not the price of those lands which your people were given?

[after a moment Beren nods, conceding the point]

And was not the particular mandate of the House of Beor to guard your tribe against predation? You _were_ their lords, were you not?

[resigned, Beren nods again]

 **Finrod** :

But, Sir --

[the Lord of the Halls gives Finrod a Look which daunts even him]

 **Namo** :

Do you want him to speak for himself, or not? You cannot have it both ways.

[the King bows his head, abashed. To Beren:]

\-- Yes?

 **Beren** :

But I didn't _have_ to. I could have gone off someplace safer. Or I could have made peace with the Lord of Fetters, and ruled as _his_ vassal instead.

 **Namo** :

If it is one's duty to protect the innocent -- a _specific_ duty, beyond that common to all Good folk -- and it both given and accepted, then what is due to such a one who neglects that duty? _Blame_ , or _indifference_?

 **Beren** : [quietly]

Blame.

 **Namo** :

Do you really think that refraining from blameworthy actions is enough to warrant praise?

[pause]

 **Beren** :

No, Sir.

[his jaw tightens and he raises his head a little, defiantly]

What about the Silmaril? Is getting one of _them_ away from the Dark Lord just _nothing_ , then? 'Cause _that_ wasn't ever part of my family's job description.

 **Aule** :

Yes, but you didn't return it to Yavanna, so your actions scarcely can be counted as any different from Feanor's, with the exception of an additional -- but equally self-centered -- motive for them.

[Luthien starts to object, but the Lord of the Halls is ahead of her]

 **Namo** : [shaking his head]

No, you've got to be fair: bringing it back to your wife was not an option that was open to him, so he cannot be criticized for not having done nor attempted to do so.

 **Orome** :

No, but he _can_ be criticized for being stupid and greedy enough to try to take all three of them -- and losing the one he had in the process.

 **Beren** : [disbelief]

What?

[the Hunter glares at him: Beren gives him back an incredulous, mocking grin]

You're kidding, right?

[shaking his head]

You think I _shouldn't_ have tried to break them out of there? Seriously? 'Cause that's what it means, what you're saying, if you really blame me for trying.

 **Orome** : [extreme sarcasm]

So you think that making it possible for Melkor to get one of his Servants -- and not just _any_ minion, mind you -- through Melian's blockade after all this time, when nothing else could have, deserves congratulations? I don't get it. 

**Captain** : [exasperated]

Oh, come _on_ , my Lord! By the Devouring Dark, that makes as much sense as blaming him for the Gloomweaver's venom -- to wit, none at all.

[Orome glowers at his former follower, who isn't daunted, while Finarfin shakes his head and Finrod gestures for quiet]

 **Vaire** : [not amused in the least]

\-- Would you _kindly_ _endeavor_ to control your language while in my house? If you must speak of the Void and --  _that_ _person_  -- at least do so _without_ honorifics, child!

[slightly ashamed, he ducks his head at the Weaver's anger; her husband retreats behind his teacup hiding his expression -- surely not smiling . . .]

 **Huan** :

[short, but piercing, bark]

[the Captain grabs his collar and pulls him down as though he were a noisy horse, rubbing his nose]

 **Beren** :

\-- Guys, it's okay.

[to the Hunter]

That was an accident. There wasn't any way to know that would happen.

[as the two warriors stand glaring at each other, Finrod looks from the mortal to the deity and back, frowning thoughtfully]

 **Orome** :

Yeah? You couldn't have figured out that hanging around any longer than necessary was a bad idea? But no, you had to try to grab _all_ of them, you couldn't be content with what any normal human being would have considered more than enough either of treasure or of glory, and as a result you blasted it all to hell-and-gone. And now you want us to thank you as if you'd actually succeeded instead? You _idiot_. -- Why couldn't you just be happy with what you had?!

 **Beren** : [slowly]

Don't you understand?

[he looks at them all, shaking his head a little, lifting his hand and gesturing in place of words]

Don't you?

[pause]

They're _alive_.

[still more earnestly]

 _They_ _sing_. I -- couldn't leave them there. Do you know what that place is like? It's -- like being inside a cloud of smoke only instead of smoke, it's _hatred_. They -- they don't want to _be_ _there_ , in the Dark, they're not supposed to be locked up, no more than you'd do that to a wild bird. How could I not try? If -- if I'd left them prisoner there, not even _tried_ to save them, when I _could_ have -- how could I ever have faced my mother when my time came? How could I face my people? I _had_ to try to free them.

[his voice breaks, but he keeps on]

\-- And yeah, -- I failed.

[in the silence that follows he wipes impatiently at his eyes, but does not look away, and the Hunter continues to lock stares with him until the Lord of the Halls summons his attention]

 **Namo** : [gravely]

Can you truly say, young Man, that your intentions in attempting the other two stones were entirely disinterested?

[long pause]

 **Irmo** : [undertone]

That means -- done without concern for personal ends or gain.

 **Beren** :

I know what "disinterested" means. I'm thinking how to answer.

[still frowning]

I can't say it was totally without thought of any glory that I kept going -- to be the one who finally succeeded where all the kings of the earth hadn't been able to pull it off, -- instead of the guy who barely got one and lost it instantly afterwards, like actually happened. Any more than _revenge_ , the promise I made to Da's spirit over his cairn. I just don't know. There wasn't any question of _thinking_ about it at all. If you'd ever seen them, you'd understand --

 **Orome** :

Ahem.

 **Beren** : [laughing at himself]

\-- That's right. Sorry. -- Maybe they wouldn't have driven out everything else from your mind, since you all already seen -- saw them, before. Maybe I should have just cut our losses and run once the first one came off. Or maybe I shouldn't have hurried so bad and the knife wouldn't have slipped and got broke. Maybe it _is_ all my fault, in spite of what my friends think, and not just the fact that Tinuviel got mixed up in --

 **Luthien** : [adamant]

Beren, do _not_ start apologizing to me again. I'd rather hear my parents _scolding_ , actually.

[he nods, and resumes without further digression]

 **Beren** :

Could _you_ have taken one and said, "Well, that's all _I_ need, so what if all my friends got killed because of them, so what if these are what all the fighting was about, what all my family got killed for, what the whole bloody War and the Dark and everything was about, all of that wasted lives and destruction, but hey -- I got what I came for, so let some _other_ poor slob do the rest of it." I mean, it ain't like Tinuviel _risked_ _her_ _life_ or anything to get us this far, or, oh, like knives that can cut through _godforged_ _iron_ aren't lying around at every blacksmith's shop, it wasn't _that_ hard to get through noman's-land unspotted, like it took some kind of miracle to make it work, right -- ?

 **Amarie** : [to the Captain, wry]

Thou hadst right -- 'tis not possible to mistake.

 **Beren** :

But hey, I don't know, maybe you all _could_  --

 **Irmo** :

Sarcasm _doesn't_ help --

 **Orome** : [cutting him off, barely-suppressed fury]

\-- You little _punk_. Do you have _any idea_  --

 **Beren** : [interrupting]

\-- Yeah, I _think_ _so_  -- I've only been doing _your_ job since I was tall enough to pick up a stick and not put someone's eye out with it by accident, that's what I was _born_ to do, that's what I was trained to do, and that's what I _did_ better than any one Man in Dorthonion except Da, so _don't_ try to tell me that I don't know what it involves, or what failure costs, or how I think adventure's a game but it ain't all -- all _banners_ and glory and the rest.

 **Orome** : [through clenched teeth]

I didn't say that.

[Namo gives him a Look]

Yet.

 **Aule** :

 _Whatever_ your intentions, the fact remains that the _consequences_  -- taken as reason demand swe must, as a whole -- were nothing but disaster on every hand --

[too late he catches himself, as there is a collective flinch all around: Beren raises his wrist, smiling as he glances at it in a very vulpine way, and looks at the Powers coolly.]

 **Beren** : [solemnly]

Yeah, I kind of noticed that.

 **Vaire** : [ice]

Young Man, a little courtesy never hurt anyone.

 **Beren** : [dry]

I'll take your word for it, Ma'am.

[before any further escalation, the Judge of the Dead raises his hand for silence]

 **Namo** :

None here disputes your deeds, nor will challenge the truth of your valour, nor the intent of your efforts.

[Beren looks at him, at first skeptically, then somewhat at a loss as he recognizes the factual sincerity of the statement.]

Besides _recognition_ , what else do you demand from us?

 **Beren** : [quietly]

Tinuviel.

 **Namo** : [resigned]

And now we are right back where we started.

[he rubs his temples wearily; Finrod steps forward again on Beren's right]

 **Finrod** :

Let them have what was taken from them, at least.

 **Namo** : [flatly]

You want us to rehouse your friend and your kinswoman and give them both a home here in Aman.

 **Finrod** :

Yes.

 **Namo** :

And _then_ what? I tried to explain this to your cousin already, but none of you listen very well. You of all people should know that, far better than she -- how swiftly Time passes on this Shore: what is a year in Tirion or on the Shining Plains? You spend twenty on the curve of a gate, or the bridge of a song -- and what is a score to the Secondborn? Three score years fly by like the days of the Sun to you Outside, and you _know_ what they will bring to him, and then what? We cannot keep him bound here in an endless cycle of waning and rehousing. Would you make Luthien watch him fade while all else thrives, and have that passing all the bitterer to her for it, and this same parting once again, for him? Wouldn't a clean break be better than _that_?

[brief pause]

 **Finrod** :

At least it would be more than _nothing_ , which is what they've had.

[Aegnor gives a long, shuddering sigh, but does not speak or leave the Hall or otherwise disrupt things.]

 **Namo** :

But would it be any _better_?

[silence]

Giving him life here in Aman will not change the fact that she has immortality, and he does not.

 **Finrod** :

Then give him mine, for I've no use for it.

[utter silence -- because Finrod's relatives and friends are too aghast and taken aback to say anything to this]

 **Namo** : [sighing]

 _What_ _you_ _are_ is not a thing apart from _you_ _yourself_. You know this. Could you give your name away to some one else -- wait, that's not the best example --  

**Finrod** : [talking over him]

Actually, mortals do -- usually once they're done with them --  

**Namo** : [interrupting in turn]

I said it wasn't a good example. But it's not the same in any case: there's no exchange, is there? No _loss_? 

[silence]

Your nature is not something you can give away, like . . . like a ring. Think about it: how could you cease to be _yourselves_? And don't say "possession," either. You are not the _matter_ of your selves, or else we wouldn't be having this conversation, and that's one reason why it doesn't work properly, apart from the right and wrong of it. What is it that makes you Elf, and not Man? 

**Finrod** :

Less than than we thought -- not that we are _Quendi_ , for mortals speak and hear even as we; nor that they _perish_ , for so indeed do we. 

[facing the Thrones, he misses his relatives' reaction completely]

 **Namo** :

Truly? You understand then what it is to be born a stranger under the Stars, to be forever doomed to departure? You understand, as a human would, _mortality_?

[silence]

 **Finrod** : [fiercely]

I understand it better, at least, having been --  _Exile_.

 **Namo** : [nodding]

As he understands better than any who is _not_ Eldar, except perhaps Melian herself, what it is to be _of_ _the_ _earth_ , to be such as you. You can recognize what is _the_ _same_ , in each other, because you are aware of the limits of those differences. Is that not it?

[Finrod is silent. Beren turns to face him directly.]

 **Beren** : [blunt]

He's right. We simply _are_ different. And it can't be otherwise.

 **Finrod** : [absolute intensity]

But it _doesn't_ _matter_.

 **Beren** :

I know. But even if I was somehow immortal -- forget about how if you did give it up I couldn't live with myself knowing you'd given up _everything_ for me, or what everybody else would say about it -- I couldn't be at home here. No more than I was in Nargothrond. All my born days, I was human, if a strange one: can the pattern of my life be unwoven and made into something else? I should always be remembering Ladros, and a roof that was ancient to me, and voices I'd never hear again. And if somehow I was made to _forget_ , so as to be happy here, like one newborn, -- what would there _be_ of me? Would I still love her, and she that one, who didn't know her real name? It can't work.

[he looks down, shaking his head, gesturing as he struggles for words]

The place where I was born is dead now, my family destroyed, even my own _language_ is dying or dead, because there is no people left to sing the old songs or make the old jokes we couldn't ever translate into yours.

[Finrod is weeping silently]

Don't -- don't.

[putting his hand on Finrod's shoulder]

You did your best. No Man ever had a better friend. You tried --

 **Finrod** : [harshly, refusing consolation]

And -- ?

[pause]

 **Namo** :

Are you ready to go on, then, Beren?

[he turns back and looks at the Judge in silence; Luthien raises her hand in anguished protest]

 **Beren** : [meaningfully]

For myself -- I would say yes. _For_ _myself_.

[Luthien makes a small hurt sound, but Finrod gives Beren a keen, comprehending look, and touches her arm reassuringly as he continues]

But I am not --  _just_  -- my own self: I belong to another. And that part of me cannot leave. If it weren't so . . . perhaps this -- nothing like this would have happened, but maybe not. You say this world isn't my home, but -- it's the only home I've ever known. The taste of it, earth and air and water, all wakened under the Sun's bright fire, clear and gold as honey from the comb, or crisp and shiny as mica under the frozen Stars, and the Moon's light like a pail of milk splashed over all -- what else _am_ I, apart from them, still though I'm no more than the echo of those days of my life?

[shaking his head]

It might have been as _hard_ for me to leave it, as it was for me to leave Dorthonion, lingering past all reason, when a sane Man would have fled long since -- not waited until winter was on before, or till there was no way out but through a little slice of Hell, first. Even knowing better all my life, I -- might have fought to _stay_ , among the trees and stones and streams that had welcomed me, the _memory_ of a lost hunter in the forest, or maybe the forest's memory of a stranger, until the world and Neldoreth was no more.

[he looks at Luthien then, finally, and reaches his hand to her -- she takes it, clinging to him protectively]

But then we met. And I am _hers_ now, and I can't change that, no more than I can stop being myself. I left my homeland, for all I was harried out, of my own free will -- but it took a demon's jaws to drive me from her side, and only the word from her lips to await her _here_ , that I left -- or else I should have stayed no matter what, as I lived four houseless years in the heather, the ghost of the land's true lord, until my land was no more. But my lady is immortal, and I won't forsake her. I _can't_.

[they stand looking at the Lord and Lady of the Hall without uncertainty or defiance, only resoluteness]

 **Finarfin** : [aside]

A certain fine rude poetry his speech encompasseth -- and a finer lesson, that might _we_ well have taken to heart, ere the Night fell.

[Amarie is looking steadily if somewhat tearfully at Finrod, who turns his head and returns the look defensively -- only to lower his head first under her gaze.]

 **Vaire** : [most reasonable]

Then, if you love her, do you not want what's best for her? Do you not want her to experience bliss with her real family here?

 **Luthien** : [taut]

Beren, -- remember what I said.

[he gives a quick half-smile, and doesn't answer]

 **Vaire** : [extremely exasperated]

Luthien, hasn't _any_ of this conversation sunk in? I find it hard to believe that you're really that _dense_ , given your parentage -- but the alternative is that you're being willfully obstinate in refusing to admit the truth, and that would mean _so_ much self-delusion that I would rather not credit it.

[as the Lady of the Halls is speaking (and the recipient of her lecture returns a mutinous glare) her spouse taps hopefully on the palantir, frowning at it as if sheer willpower might make it come to light with a summons]

After all, we're only telling you what your cousin's tragedy has _amply_ demonstrated about the impossibility of Elven-human relationships -- as we have been repeatedly informed ever since his arrival.

[as Luthien, and others, turn to stare at Aegnor, she goes on rather acridly]

He -- and his sibling -- have taken up _quite_ a disproportionate amount of my husband's time, and his sister's, complaining about it, as _if_ there were no one else here whose problems warranted consideration.

[Aegnor looks thoroughly embarrassed, though still angry and resentful.]

All we want is for you both to have what is best and most appropriate for you.

[Luthien releases Beren's hand, lifting both of her own in furious appeal]

 **Luthien** :

It isn't _fair_. We had no time together.

[the Lord of the Halls straightens and levels an attentive Look at her, belying former apparent distraction]

 **Namo** :

 _He_ is mortal, and receives a brief allocation here, and eternity beyond the confines of these Circles. You are _Eldar_ , and receive a full portion -- in many more dimensions than mortals as well as in Time -- in Arda, and it balances out. Unfortunately --

 **Beren** : [interrupting]

Actually, I have a problem with that, too.

[pause]

 **Namo** :

Do you also have something to ask? Or did you only want to express your dissatisfaction?

[Luthien is affronted, but Beren takes this in the direct spirit it was asked]

 **Beren** : [pointing to the Youngest Ranger and the Teler Maid in turn]

What about people like _him_? Or _her_? They didn't do anything wrong, _they_ never listened to the Dark Lord or told you off or disobeyed you.

[to the Sea-elf]

Maiwe, how old are you? When you were alive, not counting ever since, I mean.

[she frowns a little]

 **Teler Maid** :

But you do not think of the same thing when we speak of Time as I.

[the First Guard leans over and whispers something to her, and her expression clears.]

Four twelves less -- two. -- But _nearer_ one.

 **Beren** : [amazed]

You're almost forty-seven!? I thought you were maybe _fifteen_ and that was why you got treated like a kid. But you're not that much younger than Ma -- would be -- you could have grown children and grandkids, if you were mortal, by now --

[she looks a little dubious, as if he might be making up another preposterous story, and looks to the others for confirmation]

 **Orome** : [with a grim smile, very sarcastic]

Perhaps a little _more_ thought along these lines would show where the problems with your marital situation lie, what do you think?

[Beren gives him a dark Look]

 **Beren** :

 _Don't_ go changing the subject -- I'm gonna get distracted, and that's not the point of what I'm trying to say, and you know it.

 **Amarie** : [aside, amazed]

\-- Doth _ever_ this Man conduct himself thus, respecting of no Power?

 **Luthien** : [sharp]

Only when people like my Dad or Sauron try to push him around.

 **Beren** : [frowning still more]

\-- Nobody calls _Tinuviel_ young, anyway.

[she rolls her eyes sardonically while he returns to the topic]

\--  _They_ didn't get any more time than mortals, and they didn't get _bliss_ , and not even all the Noldor deserved what happened to them, and I'm not talking about my friends, they know what I mean whether they agree or not, but what about them?

[pointing at the Princes]

\-- because they weren't Kinslayers, and yeah, they broke the rules, and they knew it, but does that mean that that whatever horrible things happened to them are all right and proper, because that doesn't sound like it to me, like the time Uncle Brego had to solve a dispute between Gildor --

[aside to Finrod and his following]

\-- Gildor of Ladros, obviously, not the Gildor you said he was named after who went with the Princess and her husband -- and his neighbors over a set of good iron chisels that got borrowed without asking -- actually, without _permission_ , after asking and getting a _no_ when his neighbor was away -- and then in retaliation the owner busted down and burnt the gate he made with 'em and the herd got loose and one of his best milkers got into a swamp and drowned, and my uncle was so furious with Gildor because he expected better from his own household than dumb stuff like that that he wanted to say it was just fair -- but if it would've been anyone else he wouldn't have, see?

[confused silence]

 **Finarfin** :

I fear talk of young Inglorion did distract my thought from talk of the rivalries of strangers.

 **Amarie** : [giving her brothers-in-law a hard Look]

For my part, _amazement_ , that after all that's passed he doth speak favouringly of twain that hath given unto him no kindness that I did discern.

[Angrod and Aegnor try to appear as oblivious bystanders, not very successfully]

 **Namo** :

I see you understand the tension between determining levels of accountability, based on individual competence. -- I'm not sure how this relates to your situation.

 **Beren** : [shaking his head]

I'm not just talking about us. I'm talking about _everybody_. I want to know how it's fair to punish all the Noldor for what some of them did, and to keep on punishing them, when some of what you're blaming them for has gotta be your fault.

[the only people present who do not express any dismay or surprise whatsoever at this bold declaration are the Lord of the Halls and the Lord of Dogs -- and Beren's wife.]

 **Steward** : [quiet but urgent to Finrod]

My lord, -- can you not do something?

[Finrod sadly shakes his head, yet there is something of pride and approval in his expression as he looks on]

 **Namo** : [bemused]

 _My_ fault?

 **Beren** :

Well, _yeah_  -- you put a Curse on them, that would make it your fault, right? I mean, I hate to admit this, but even Curufin and his brother aren't completely responsible, are they, if you made it so that the Noldor are Doomed to betray each other? And plus you let them do it -- leave, I mean -- so if you didn't want them to, why didn't you just _stop_ them instead?

 **Namo** : [narrowing his eyes]

So. You think that because I Foresaw and foretold the inevitable consequences of their choice, the results are my responsibility?

[Beren nods, frowning]

Really? Then let me ask you this: when your -- niece? cousin?

[he manifests the glittering tablet for a moment and glances at it before putting it away and continuing]

\--  _cousin_ , kept on climbing up that birch tree beside where you were, what, "pegging out a deerhide" -- ? and you told her not to do that, as she was going to fall and break her ankle, and you weren't going to stop what you were doing and carry her back to the hall, and that was in fact what happened, -- was that your fault?

 **Beren** : [amazed]

\-- That was a long time ago. That was -- that was before the Bragollach.

 **Namo** :

Did you in fact, "put a hex" on her, as she later told her parents, or in any other way cause the tree to dislodge her or her to lose her grip, or to land so as to break her ankle?

 **Beren** : [snorting]

 _No_  -- birches aren't any good for climbing, mostly, and there was rocks all around, and I told her it was going to happen because I done -- I _did_  -- the same thing myself at that age. I didn't _make_ it happen.

 **Namo** :

Even the fact that you correctly named the specific injury doesn't change that?

 **Beren** : [shrugging]

Could have been her arm or her collarbone, too.

 **Namo** :

But you did not _cause_ it, despite your foretelling.

[he shakes his head]

But you did not prevent it, either.

 **Beren** : [shaking his head]

Like I told Bara, she wasn't listening, and she wasn't a baby any more, and I couldn't get her down safely by force, and like she kept telling me, _I_ wasn't her Da after all -- !

 **Namo** :

There was, in fact, no way for you to stop her from willfully going into a dangerous situation, either lawfully or without causing greater harm. But your decision to keep working, instead of taking her home at once, _was_ in your control, was it not? Why did you do so, if not from vindictiveness at her disrespect towards you?

 **Beren** : [patiently]

Because if I stopped then it would've dried all wrong and been spoiled, and I'd already bargained it to somebody, and you don't let any of your take go to waste, not if you want to have any luck on the trail ever again. -- If one of the other little kids was around I would've sent one of them up the hill to get help, but the only reason she was out at the skinning rack was that she didn't want to play with Rian, so there wasn't anybody around that I _could_ send. It wasn't like it made any difference, really: I splinted it up tight and made her sit still with her foot up . . . and after I was done I carried her back and they said I done a good job and made her sit still with her foot up.

[scowling at the recollection]

 _After_ I got yelled at for letting her get hurt, until Aunt An' stepped in and scolded the grownups for blaming another kid when it was their job to keep the little ones out of mischief, and not mine really.

[snorting]

You know what that brat _did_ , banged her head against mine the whole way home, until I finally said I wouldn't ever take her fishing again if she didn't stop it, all because she was mad at me. -- Kids. -- And yeah, I get the point of what you're trying to make me see, but I don't think it works because if it was really serious, if she'd been _bleeding_ , if the bone was sticking out or she hit her head or something, I would have had to take her home right away and take the loss of the hide and just deal with it. "Told you so" wouldn't cut it.

 **Namo** : [gesturing with his mug]

No analogy is perfect.

 **Beren** :

This one's not even close. I mean, you were supposed to protect them, right?

[the Warrior winces visibly, as do others of Beren's companions; Nerdanel laughs a little, with a knowing expression on her face: deja vu, perhaps.]

And you didn't, and the Dark Lord took over, and we didn't rebel, and the Sindar didn't, and that didn't help _us_ any, on account of how the Enemy was out to get us all even before we existed, so it wasn't like it was our fault for getting involved with the Noldor, either, and what else _could_ we do? It wasn't like we even knew they -- some of 'em -- had done hamsoken --

[simultaneously]

 **Orome** :

 **Teler Maid** :

Done _what_?

[overlapping]

 **Angrod** :

Taliska for illegal entry and mayhem.

 **Luthien** :

\-- Breaking into a home and committing violence --

[the cousins exchange suspicious, rather jealously-territorial Looks]

 **Namo** : [sighing]

\-- The Kinslaying.

 **Beren** :

Right, so what's fair about _us_ being caught in all of that, and nothing for all our pains except a that was what you should have been doing, fighting the Enemy, there isn't any other legitimate option" -- ?

[he gives Amarie a frown at this last]

I mean, we don't get help, we don't get gratitude, all we get is _chaos_ that _we_ _didn't_ _make_.

 **Ambassador** : [not _quite_ aside]

\-- Hear, hear.

[The Hunter addresses Beren in the tones of one explaining something to a very small child, or while at the cutting edge of patience]

 **Orome** :

The Teler chose to split up and some of them chose to remain Overseas. Others of the Eldar chose not to join us at all. That was their _right_. By exercising that right, they also chose the consequences. _We_ _can't_ _help_ _that_. -- Or do you think I should have _forced_ them to come along whether they wanted to or not? Not sure how I could have _done_ that, given how stubborn and resourceful the Firstborn are -- or wait! I know -- I could have destroyed their minds and set permanent states of Command on them the way Melkor does. Then _none_ of this would have happened!

[Vaire rolls her eyes; Huan starts a continuous snarling growl; and Aule gives the Hunter a troubled glance]

 **Irmo** : [weary]

Might we _please_ have some civility around here?

 **Aule** :

\-- Can you _do_ that, Tav'?

 **Orome** : [shrugging]

Beats me. Never tried it.

 **Beren** :

Oh yeah? I never heard about you coming around looking for _us_. I heard it was the other way around -- that _we_ were looking for you guys, on our own, 'cause we heard about you from some of those people you don't care about because they _chose_ not to come with you, those " _Dark_ - _elves_ ," that _Turned_ , and we found our own way over the mountains, and --

 **Orome** :

Don't blame your friends' snobbery on _me_ , boy --

 **Beren** :

\-- Huh?

 **Orome** :

Just because they waste their time and energy coming up with class distinctions instead of --

 **Vaire** : [cutting him off, gently chiding]

Tav', I know they've disappointed you, but really --

 **Orome** : [growling at Beren]

\-- Self-righteous little _git_ , too good to hunt for yourself now --

[Huan starts to bark again, and is valiantly shushed by several of the Ten]

 **Vaire** :

\--  _Tavros_! _Huan_!

 **Beren** : [loudly]

Hey! I'm trying to ask something!

[the Steward covers his face with his hands; Aegnor stares at the mortal with something of awe.]

\-- Lord Mandos, didn't you say it was _my_ turn to talk?

[raising his eyebrows, Namo gives him a nod over his mug]

All right, then. Anyway. We heard about you from them first -- and then from him --

[pointing to Finrod]

\-- even if he was a rebel and Doomed, he still told us the truth about you. At least, I used to _think_ it was the truth --

[raising his voice as he goes on]

\-- that the gods were good, that you weren't like Morgoth, who just wanted to enslave us and kill everybody he couldn't control -- and not only that -- that you were _better_. That you _cared_. That you made the world for _disinterested_ reasons and you tried to protect it, and us, against the Enemy and that you were responsible for all the good stuff and not for the bad, and that we owed you gratitude for that, but I'm not sure about that any more, and you know what, I'm wondering if maybe Feanor wasn't right -- not that about making the Elves all your thralls, but about not having a clue and not doing a thing to protect them and maybe leaving everyone who wouldn't follow you behind where it wasn't safe was your way of dealing with us instead, until we Men are out of the universe and out of your way. What about _that_?

 **Namo** : [aside, resigned]

I hate being right all the time.

[simultaneously to Finrod]

 **Aule** : **Orome** :

This is _your_ fault --

[Finrod lifts his head proudly, giving them a stern Look, not denying responsibility in any way, audible or not]

 **Beren** : [shouting]

No it isn't his fault, and I'm not scared, you can do whatever you damn' well please to me, because if you can't answer me except by clobbering me that just goes to show that I'm right and you're not _really_ any better than Morgoth --

[he scowls defiantly at them, while Vaire stares up at the ceiling and Aule shakes his head, grimacing; Orome folds his arms angrily and turns half-away; the Lord of Dreams only sighs, looking wounded]

\-- and I'm not saying this just because you all wanted to fling me back into that nightmare world or out into who-knows-what, for all I know that's just as much the end permanently for us as you all think the end of the world will be for the Eldar -- mostly --

[with a quick, apologetic glance at Finrod, he goes on, increasingly indignant:]

But I'm asking because of my people, because I _am_ their lord, and I'm the only one left to ask -- my father and mother served you, through _them_  --

[pointing to the Finarfinions and their supporters]

\-- and so did my Grandda, and my cousins, and their Da, and all my aunts and uncles and grandparents all the way back to Beor, and we lived, and died, to keep _your_ _kinsman_ under control, in an effort that it turns out was Doomed from the start, and my parents got split up trying to do both of our tasks at the same time, and poor Eilinel disappeared and got used to destroy her true-love even after she was dead, and Gorlim was tortured into betraying Da, and you can't tell me that either one of them deserved that because it isn't true and you can't tell me that _eternity_ makes it okay because that's a piece of tin covered with foil and bits of glass, that's something shiny that looks nice so long as you don't look at it too close or poke at it too hard, but that doesn't make what happened to them all right!!

[he stops, shaking with emotion, daring any of the Powers to say something]

 **Namo** : [unfazed]

You said you had a question. What is it?

[for a moment Beren is too thrown to respond -- then he pulls himself together, his eyes blazing, and asks it:]

 **Beren** : [gesturing fiercely]

Where is the _justice_ in it? --  _Is_ there any, or is the whole thing just a stupid muddle, and us stupider still for trying to do right by it? I want ANSWERS, dammit!!

[growing angrier by the word]

What's _fair_ about it? _You_ got an answer? -- And if you don't -- WHO DOES?

[long silence -- and the Lord of the Halls sets down his cup with a bang and slowly rises from his Throne, with a terrifying expression of anger, so that the effect of a dark thunderhead-like aura that gathers about him, dimming the glow of the sconces, is almost unnecessary]

 **Namo** : [stifled growl of fury]

You _dare_ ask me that? You DARE to _ask_ _that_  --  _of_ _me_?

[Beren is speechless -- but returns a defiant nod. The Doomsman stands there equally speechless with rage, and then grinds out the words:]

\--  _Wait_ _here_.

[with that he vanishes, leaving confusion and consternation behind -- the Weaver gives Beren a most reproachful look]

 **Vaire** : [sadly]

Child, did you _have_ to do that, really?

[abashed, the mortal bows his head, but his posture is as stubborn as before]

 **Luthien** :

Oh, _Beren_  --

[he turns to her, and she smiles, anxious -- terrified, rather -- but without disappointment or condemnation]

 **Beren** :

Tinuviel --

[before he can say anything else the Lord of the Halls has returned, still glowering, but without quite the storm of anger surrounding him as before as he stands on the dais before his high seat:]

 **Namo** : [without preamble]

Beren Barahirion, self-called the Empty Handed: you have demanded to know the reason for suffering, for injustice, for the workings of Fate --

[he raises his hand, pointing to the floor behind them, between the grassy hill and the waterfall, and in the same way that the garden gate appeared for Finrod earlier, a portal manifests out of the dimness -- but this one is both far taller, reaching all the way to the ceiling, and far _realler_  -- there's nothing ghostly or suggestive of illusion about this massive, though narrow, carven stone doorway.]

If you will it, then go ask your question of my Lord and Lady, and learn from them the same truths that were given to me, when _I_ asked it, many Ages ago as you would understand it, and again, when this Age began. Go through that door, and receive your _answers_  -- if you dare.

[Beren stares at it, wide-eyed, and then looks back at the Thrones. Behind him, the Captain seizes Finrod by the arm]

 **Captain** : [desperately imploring]

Sir, you've _got_ to stop him --

 **Finrod** : [shaking his head]

I can't.

[frowning, Beren gives the Powers a critical, measuring look, and lifts his chin]

 **Beren** : [cold]

You say that like it's a trap. What's going to happen, if I do?

 **Namo** :

I don't know. That's why I'm asking you this --  _do_ _you_ _choose_ _it_?

[pause]

Because once a thing is _done_ , it is too late to undo it. Are you truly willing to endure the consequences? It is not _yet_ too late to turn back.

[Beren looks at him steadily]

If you find knowledge of things beyond mortal ken to be too great a burden for any Man -- remember this, and that you chose to ask, before you blame the answerer, and that you did so against all advice and counsel.

 **Beren** : [quietly, without any bravado]

I understand.

 **Namo** : [with a sigh]

You will go forward, then.

 **Beren** :

I will.

[the Doomsman bows his head in answer, and the portal swings open, revealing a black, starlit sky and a staircase of wide, shallow steps ascending from the doorway, seemingly of black stone or perhaps glass, reflecting starlight on their edges. Beren stands frozen, looking at the opening -- and then makes a small movement towards it. Luthien catches at him desperately]

 **Luthien** :

Beren --

[she shakes his shoulders, making him turn to her]

It _is_ a trap. If you go --  _out_  -- you'll never be able to come back --

 **Beren** :

It isn't the Void. There are stars there.

 **Luthien** :

No! Stop -- somebody, _stop_ him -- Huan, don't let him --

[Huan comes close and puts his head against Beren's face, like a worried horse, but does nothing else]

 **Beren** : [stroking the Hound's muzzle]

I have to.

[he looks at Luthien, trying to reassure her]

I will come home to you. I promise.

[she doesn't say anything, staring fixedly at him]

I always have.

[he puts his hand on her cheek, very gently, and kisses her, before turning quickly and striding through the dark gateway without looking back. The postern closes, seamlessly, and dissolves into nothingness, leaving all the rest standing there in silence.]


	113. Act 4: SCENE V.i

**Gower** :

That boldness dareth, that none other might,  
to venture past known travels, seeking sight  
of sights more proud and dear than word shall say,  
resisting that fell arrest that none may stay,  
neither for vainglory, nor increase of store,  
but only for the cause of faith forsworn  
and wrongful sway o'ermastering captive good,  
whose tyranny, like Time's oblivious hand, would  
crush all makings and their memory as well --  
'gainst which should death seem rest from hell  
of life's lost fortunes; were not that selfsame rest  
a parting wretched, from that which holds most blest – 

[The Hall]

[as the shades of Eldar and Immortal, and the living Elves, stand in dismayed uncertainty, the Lord of the Halls looks grimly at his colleagues]

 **Namo** : [sounding very tired and fed-up]

Let's take this debate to the proper venue.

[he vanishes at once, his preemptory departure followed in short order by the other four Powers, after somber and disappointed Looks are conferred upon the remaining individuals, who give each other worried Looks in turn -- except for Luthien, staring straight in front of her at where the apparition of the Door had been, and the Youngest Ranger, who drops down to sit on the floor with a massive sigh and a shaken expression, as though overwhelmed by reaction. Huan takes a moment from shadowing Luthien to give him a comforting huff along the back of his neck, since everyone knows that there is nothing more reassuring than having a giant carnivore looming over one with half-bared fangs -- at least, that's the impression conveyed by the Doriathrin Ambassador's dubious glance.]

 **Luthien** : [distantly]

And so it begins again.

[shaking her head]

It never _stops_. It's just like before.

[she moves in a sleepwalking manner towards the steps at the foot of the Thrones and sits down on them, looking lost]

He's gone away and left me again, and here I am _waiting_ , trying to keep from flying apart, like smoke on a windy day, and it's dark, and I can't breathe, and no one else can feel it but me. -- How many times can I go through this, before there's nothing left of me -- ?

[the other Elves move to encircle her]

 **Finarfin** : [concerned]

What wilt thou do presently?

[she wraps her arms about her knees and rests her head against them. Huan flops down in front of her and puts his head on her feet.]

 **Luthien** :

 _Wait_. -- If I must wait till the end of the world, I'll wait for him.

[Aegnor's expression fills with pain; Angrod puts his hand on his brother's back, and for once Aegnor does not fling offered sympathy away.]

 **Teler Maid** : [anxious]

What will happen? Next, I mean to say.

 **Luthien** : [almost in tears]

How can I tell? Who can say what he's going to do next? If I'd thought he was going to take Horse and go by himself to hell, I'd never have gone to sleep. I don't think I _have_ , since then. If I -- I'd known he would -- would insist on going out to let Carcharoth finish the job, I'd -- I'd -- I don't _know_ , what could I have done, except cage him and I couldn't _do_ that --

[she starts crying, bitterly, as Finrod sits down next to her and puts his arm around her shoulders, letting her lean on him]

 **Finrod** : [sounding as tired and helpless as after the defeat in Nargothrond]

I'm sorry, Luthien. -- I know that doesn't help.

 **Teler Maid** :

What will happen to him, Lord Ingold?

 **Finrod** : [shaking his head]

I don't know either. I'm sorry. I can't See anything concerning Beren. -- I wonder if even Lord Manwe can.

[pause -- mild sarcasm]

How strange. None of my relatives are chiding me for blasphemy. Indeed, the times are out of joint -- !

 **Finarfin** : [pained]

 _Son_.

[the Steward kneels down on Finrod's other side, looking him in the eyes]

 **Steward** :

My lord, please -- alas, there is no other way for it, awkward though it shall be, being as we now are -- but I must say this plain in the thought of all. Neither your father nor any of your kin did truly know what befell us in Beleriand, not even in elemental form -- no more than yonder rival lord knew the truth of what his child suffered. Only the merest tracings of it, these past months, have reached them in Tirion and beyond; doubtless in mercy as much as mayhap in carelessness, there being naught that knowing might accomplish, save greater sorrow. And thus it was when first we all did speak, this . . . late-passed time, and thus it would have been even yet, had not her Highness spoken freely, and disclosed the specifics of our fate.

[pause]

 **Finrod** : [blank]

Ah. That would make sense of it, then.

[wry]

I was beginning to wonder if the Powers had replaced them all with much nicer and more gentle-voiced substitutes, but I've only ever heard of the Dark Lord doing anything like that.

[Finarfin winces; Nerdanel sighs, while Amarie looks like a very elegant statue; the Ambassador looks ashamedly at his Princess, who lifts her head at the change in conversation.]

 **Luthien** :

What? _What_ did I do?

 **Finrod** :

Nothing. No matter. Just my own family squabbles.

[he shakes his head, grimacing, and pats her reassuringly on the back. Beyond them the Captain kneels down beside his younger follower]

 **Captain** :

Are you all right? 

[the other nods]

Really?

 **Youngest Ranger** : [shakily conceding the point]

No, sir.

 **Captain** : [gently, but definitely a command]

Go off duty for a while.

 **Youngest Ranger** :

Are you sure . . . ?

[glancing anxiously at the doorway]

 **Captain** :

The King's here, and between Himself and the rest of us, that should be enough to keep me out of trouble, even without you.

[embarrassed at this recognition, the junior officer starts muttering about doing his job]

There's nothing we can do now for Beren -- except worry.

 **Youngest Ranger** : [deadpan]

I do that really well, too, sir.

 **Captain** :

We'll just have to manage it without you for a bit. Take your rest -- you've earned it.

[he helps the Sindarin lieutenant to his feet and grips his elbow; the younger Elf manages a wan smile]

 _Very_ well done.

[the other is abashed but straightens unconsciously under the burden of praise, and goes over to the level boulders beside the Falls he made, where he stretches out on the rocks, watching the light effects on the water. Among the group of troubled onlookers, his subordinate turns to the nearer of the two Princes:]

 **Ranger** : [stern correction]

You did, you know -- your Highness.

 **Angrod** : [completely confused]

Do what?

 **Ranger** :

"Anything." You called him a disgusting parasite. And you said a lot of other stuff, too.

[Angrod looks down guiltily]

 **Luthien** : [through her tears]

 _Ten_ _years_ he did your work, trying to keep the Enemy out of the North, starving and cold and with all of his friends dead, and he never thought of giving up or switching sides or calling in your brother's debt. And you cursed him for being defeated. I almost _hate_ you.

 **Huan** :

[thin whines]

 **Finrod** : [consoling]

Shhh . . .

[looking up at his brothers]

Considered another way -- you got off easy. So did I. It was fast for you, and we didn't have to watch it happening, but for him, the Bragollach lasted ten bloody years.

[Finarfin clenches his teeth, but says nothing]

 **Aegnor** : [starts to say something, stops]

. . .

[enter Fingolfin, approaching measuredly, if not with outright reluctance, this family reunion -- certainly not with enthusiasm. He is accompanied by another shade, this last a very ghostly figure, whose appearance shifts frequently between two guises, every time the camera includes her. Sometimes the High King's companion is a very elegant Elf-lady closely resembling Amarie in her attire, but sometimes her flickering manifestation is that of a heavily-swathed, booted and gloved figure whose ice-pale hair blends into the blowing fur-fringe of her hood. Something about their bearing should indicate that Fingolfin is rather being herded here. The High King stands in front of his nephew with an expression of annoyed affection.]

 **Fingolfin** : [wry reproach]

'Twas ill-done, nephew, to set my son's lady against me.

 **Angrod** : [astounded]

You sicced _Elenwe_ on him?

 **Aegnor** : [equally]

How did you convince her to come out of seclusion?

 **Finrod** :

Not me: I was just the messenger.

 **Aegnor** : [glancing in wary surprise at his cousin-by-marriage]

But . . .

[he can't think of anything that wouldn't be more embarrassing to say, and shuts up]

 **Amarie** : [very acerbic to Elenwe]

Well, my kinswoman -- thou didst make much of thine own will, nor shouldst be swayed by any words of wisdom else duty, nor let thy faithful family claim thy just loyalty, but must forsake thy heritage and home for rebel waywardness -- and lo! _thus_ art thou rewarded, that hast neither consort nor kin, nor any house whatsoever, for thy folly's meed, that didst reproach _me_ for choosing other.

 **Elenwe** : [serene]

Nay, 'tis true -- but I stand closer to my beloved than thou to thine, for all of that.

[the living Vanyar woman exchanges a quick, unwilling Look with her dead husband, and does not make further retort.]

 **Fingolfin** :

You've commanded my attention, lad -- what specific task would you have me undertake now?

 **Finrod** : [flatly]

It doesn't matter now. Go back to your table, uncle, and finish your game in peace -- I could have used your help earlier, but you weren't willing, and now it's moot.

 **Luthien** : [sniffling]

Don't _you_ give up now too --

[she wipes her eyes on a corner of her skirt and tries to pull herself together, but occasional sobs keep breaking through; quietly and unobtrusively the Steward withdraws from the group and goes quickly to the Falls, where he kneels down briefly at the water's edge, exchanging some word with the Youngest Ranger meanwhile.]

 **Finrod** :

I haven't. But what happens now to Beren is out of _our_ hands.

[she gives a short, unsettling laugh, shaking her head, and sniffles again.]

 **Ambassador** : [stern and rather suspicious, to the Valinorean Eldar]

For what should the Doomsman warn against _truths_ , that should harm him more than swords or wolves ever did -- what secrets are held in the West from us beyond, for I who have known the Lady Melian for all my life, can think of none.

[The Steward returns, bearing a goblet set with gems and kneels down in front of Luthien, saying to Huan as he does so:]

 **Steward** :

Mind your ears, my lord.

[to Luthien, as the Hound prudently moves his head a little bit over]

If it please you, my lady -- that which some have termed, "the echo of Ulmo's theme," but even so, more refreshing than merest longing.

[with a forced smile she accepts the cup and takes careful sips, still hiccoughing and blinking; he remains before them on on knee, waiting patiently for her to finish.]

 **Finarfin** :

In truth, I fear I ken not what might prove harsher to the spirit, than what already hath been revealéd -- nor endured.

 **Finrod** : [dark irony]

You can't? I wish I had so little imagination. -- I can come up with several, without even trying.

[to his uncle]

You _really_ needn't stay behind on our account -- this time either.

[his father's lips tighten, and the two sons of Finwe exchange an awkward, half-wary, half-apologetic look.]

 **Fingolfin** :

Nay, lad, will you not make introduction between the noble Luthien and we more distant kindred, before any preemptory dismissal?

 **Finrod** :

A little late, isn't it? You could have taken a little time off from staring at the Gates and paid a courtesy call on her family, you know. I know it would been a _terrible_ waste of your time, but at least you could have provided moral support when we had to explain how it was _we_ weren't really Kinslayers. Trying to repair the damage from that took _decades_ , and you know the fact that you were too busy to give any official statements did absolutely nothing to build confidence. I mean, at least Fingon did ap --

[his family and friends are increasingly discomfited through this exchange of acrimony, regardless of who particularly is coming under fire at any given moment]

 **Angrod** : [pleading]

\-- Ingold, that's all old _history_ , it doesn't matter now that we're dead -- isn't that what you're always saying?

 **Finrod** :

And _you're_ always saying I'm crazy and too soft for my own good. Shall I take a page out of your book then?

[to Fingolfin]

\--  _All_ I asked for was a small gesture of support today, just for you to lend your presence and weigh in on the side of the Edain -- I wasn't asking for any complex arguments, after all, just the loan of a little bit of that awe and respect your Deed commands even from the Powers, to assist me. -- What is wrong with our family that we have to make an issue over ever single little thing?

[the High King of the Noldor (in Beleriand) gives the High King of the Noldor (in Aman) a pained Look before answering his nephew:]

 **Fingolfin** : [heavy patience]

You asked me, Finrod, to come before my wiser kinfolk in this ruined state, and challenge the gods once more by thus abetting you. Please, let us make _no_ mistake of what it was you demanded of me, ere you mock me for making much of it.

 **Finrod** : [bland]

So asking the Weaver to please consider the deeds of the Edain in closer detail -- is more difficult than hand-to-hand combat with the Lord of Fetters?

[Fingolfin looks away with a still-more pained expression, and Finarfin's glance towards his elder brother is a little softer and more sympathetic; Nerdanel shakes her head a little, not approvingly.]

 **Nerdanel** :

Kinsmen, can ye not contain such outbreak of strife yet a little at the least? What of poor Luthien here, that doth mourn amongst us e'en now?

 **Luthien** : [with a careless wave of the cup in her hand]

Oh, go ahead and fight, it doesn't bother me one way or the other.

 **Elenwe** : [slight smile, distantly amused]

'Tis most like to old times, is't not?

 **Amarie** :

And _naught_ learnt since!

 **Fourth Guard** : [aside]

I hate politics.

[he sits down leaning against Huan's flank and begins scratching the Hound's ribs as the latter thumps his tail twice in sympathy; several of his friends also settle down gloomily on the steps or floor nearby]

 **Elenwe** : [cool disbelief]

Amarie, _wherefore_ , deemst thou, thy House would fain have had thee set sights elsewhere than Indis' flowering, fair indeed though they be? Did not _our_ example lesson thee enough, of the perilous vaunting of the House of Fin' -- ? Or judged thee thy lord might by mere _will_ alone step free of all contention, as mine own did will it, most like his brother -- nay, more so --

[giving Angrod and Aegnor a keen Look]

\-- in mood and temper than these younglings of his nearest blood, but still and yet they too are Noldor, and the flame of rule doth burn in them no less than in these others.

 **Amarie** : [sharply]

Lesson me not, that art rebel and unhoused.

 **Finarfin** : [with a touch of sternness]

Daughter, and thou pleasest --

 **Captain** : [sighing]

No doubt but we're home again.

 **Amarie** : [extreme frustration]

Nay, stands there _none_ that dost not but presume to harry me, howsobeit here, else under Ezellohar's shade, else to Everwhite's pinnacle?! For what, I perforce wonder, did I bide here loyal, that meet with naught but rebuke, while law-scoff wayward thankless fools do warrant such tenderest concern?

 **Finrod** : [raising an eyebrow]

 _That_ was what you stayed for, to be praised, then? And here I thought it was something nobler than that all along.

[her expression suggests that it's a good thing her self-control is so strong -- or else he might swiftly find out what damages, if any, a living Elf's will might possibly inflict on a shade . . .]

 **Elenwe** : [to nobody in particular]

Is any yet that still 'mazeth, that I should mine prefer mine own companioning to such kindred as do share these Halls with me perforce?

 **Aegnor** : [grimly]

All right, brother, you've made your point, everyone here understands what you're trying to convey. -- Several times over, in fact.

 **Finrod** :

What?

 **Nerdanel** : [severe]

Aye, 'tis _ill_ thou dost thus to trifle with thy loved one's hearts and fearing.

[Finrod looks up at them, bewildered]

 **Finrod** :

What are you talking about? What point?

 **Angrod** :

That --  _volunteer_ _statement_ of yours.

[the Ten brace themselves, or try to look absent as possible without actually leaving]

 **Ranger** : [aside]

Skirmish coming.

 **Warrior** : [replying in undertone]

No, _that_ we could deal with.

 **Finrod** :

I wasn't making any statement.

 **Angrod** :

You -- you weren't just trying to make them listen? Just raising your voice at council, so to speak? You --

[he gives a worried glance towards Luthien, who is apparently oblivious to the discussion, absorbed in contemplating the decoration on the remembered Noldor vessel (which should look like a cross between a Grecian kalyx and the Armagh Chalice.)]

\-- really meant what you were saying to Lord Namo, you weren't just trying to make them pay attention?

[Finrod gives his nearest relations a long, narrow Look -- there is some reflexive flinching in response]

 **Finrod** : [quietly]

You doubt me, then?

[pause]

You don't know me well at all, do you?

[he is looking at Aegnor now]

You don't think that I consider the Followers fully as precious as we, or do you still think that I fear the unknown?

 **Fingolfin** : [mildly]

I seem to recall, Finrod, that you particularly admonished me against my rashness during our traverse of the Helcaraxe, and advised me to take better heed to my following, while you and your sister took charge of that passage. Have you given up caution, altogether, then?

 **Finrod** : [shortly]

I told you _lots_ of things, uncle -- most of which you ignored -- over the past four-and-a-half-centuries. There's a difference between rushing in heedlessly and without preparation in the certainty that willpower and innate superiority shall, together with the justness of one's cause, carry one through despite lack of provisions, equipment, or proper information -- and taking a calculated risk, even when the odds are against one. But that's a somewhat-sophisticated distinction, I grant.

[the onlookers wince]

 **Fingolfin** : [not getting angry, simply incredulous]

You would really venture beyond this Circle, trusting to nothing more than these glimpses of insight which you think a true Vision, then?

 **Luthien** : [with a hiccoughing laugh, not raising her head]

Of course he would. Just as of course Beren would refuse.

 **Finrod** : [steelly]

Didn't I warn you --  _Your_ _Majesty_  -- that I had seen your Doom awaiting you if things continued as they presently were, and specifically that I'd seen you dead at Morgoth's feet, and didn't you wave me away with the assertion that nobody really knew anything certain from the Sight, that the world was fully of glimpsed possibilities, and that it was more likely to follow if you _did_ take our recommendations than if you didn't attack? You'd think people would perhaps give me a little bit of credit these days, wouldn't you?

[his uncle tolerates the retort with a melancholy expression.]

 **Nerdanel** :

But surely thou dost not in truth believe that thy mother and father would not have thee to house, and gladly! What meanst thou, to say that naught awaiteth thee without these walls?

 **Finarfin** :

Aye, my children, I pledge that ne'er reproach, else blame, else mocking word, shall e'er escape my lips to shadow ye, and dare aver that nor thy mother as well should ever bespeak ye in anger, once we shall have bespoken her firstly.

[silence -- Angrod and Aegnor won't look at him, or answer]

 **Finrod** : [frowning with displeasure]

You're being irrational, you know, Father -- avoiding conflict with me simply because you've found out that my fate was a little more unpleasant than you'd imagined. It wasn't all that much worse than the Ice, you know. -- Certainly a lot shorter.

 **Nerdanel** : [chiding]

Thou art passing cold, lacking in all sensibility it seemeth.

 **Finrod** : [still looking only at his father]

No, I'm merely realistic. Sentimentality changes nothing of the facts. What difference do the particulars of Doom make to your judgement of the justice of it? Or the fact that I am your son -- except to indicate a partiality unfitting in a King?

[Finarfin does not answer -- or look away, (though he is blinking rather hard). Fingolfin makes an an abortive gesture of consolation and support towards his little brother, breaking off the attempt with a wry headshake at his own insubstantial status.]

 **Amarie** : [to her spouse]

Out on thee!

[to Finarfin]

I do comprehend full well wherefore the gods importune _us_ so -- but why dost _thou_ so wish the company of yon Shadow-souled mocker, Sire?

[she turns her back on Finrod et al, folding her arms tightly, standing straight as a column. The Sea-Elf and Nerdanel both glance at her, and catch each other's attention inadvertently, exchanging understanding Looks. Elenwe shakes her head, smiling in a tolerant, knowing way which would seriously annoy her fellow Vanya if the latter were aware of it.]

 **Third Guard** : [to his colleague, fervently]

\-- I share your views on politics.

 **Finarfin** : [weary plea]

Amarie, _Amarie_  -- set thy wrath 'gainst _me_ , and thou must fix upon some target nigh to hand, if for naught else that I do thus presume to counsel thee by this request.

 **Angrod** : [to Aegnor, but loudly]

I can't understand why he's going on like that -- she's only saying the same kinds of things _he_ said to us at Araman.

[their father closes his eyes, starting to say something and stops]

 **Fingolfin** : [sharp]

Children! You have no understanding of what sorrow and strain it is, to be a parent --

 **Aegnor** : [ice]

No, and we won't, will we? We have _our_ _own_ troubles, uncle, which your generation seems incapable of grasping. It's _much_ bigger now than just you and Father and Feanor fighting for Grandfather's affection and looking for affirmation from your kids when you couldn't get it from your parents --

 **Teler Maid** : [aside to the Captain, as it starts escalating]

Can you not do something?

 **Elenwe** : [wryly, to Finrod]

Nay, for _none_ save thee, Ingold, in all these halls, had I come --

 **Captain** : [grim]

Probably.

 **Fingolfin** : [daunting, to his nephews]

Then being so much wiser, you should be as much more merciful upon your elders, should you not?

 **Teler Maid** : [urgent]

Well, then -- ?!

[overlapping]

 **Captain** : [hollowly]

I expect I could make it worse. _Family_ fights -- you know how they go --

 **Angrod** : [with a kind of grim satisfaction, to Aegnor]

 _And_ the emotional blackmail starts, right on schedule.

[the torc passes between them again.]

 **Captain** : [still aside to the Teler girl]

I say something, they go for me, then _he_ defends me, and -- Probably better _not_.

[the Sea-elf doesn't answer, but keeps knotting up her braids worriedly, very unhappy at the strife.]

 **Finarfin** : [with a kind of helpless, open appeal to his eldest]

Finrod, my wiseling, dost thou not ken, in thy heart's inmost flame, wherefore I unchilded do grieve most bitterly for my parting words against ye all, that are here eke that yet do remain beyond -- but bitterest of all for that I spake unto thee?

[silence]

 **Finrod** : [coolly]

Was I an utterly self-righteous and merciless little twerp at Araman, or was I not?

[pause]

 **Finarfin** :

In truth, even as was I, and no less, saving something the elder.

[Finrod gives his father a doubtful Look, trying to find the hidden edge in the words.]

\-- Art so proud, mine eldest, that thou shouldst ne'er consent to rest 'neath others' roof, else rule, but deem't prison, howsoever freely given?

 **Finrod** : [pedantic]

Well, Mandos strictly speaking should _not_ be called a prison, since the purpose of a _prison_ is not the good of --

[the Elf-King only stares at his son, waiting for the answer -- he sighs and bows his head a little]

No. I am not _quite_ so proud. It might -- would be -- hard, indeed, but I'd manage it, somehow, if it were not for -- other considerations. But there's nothing for me outside these walls anymore.

[dead silence]

 **Aegnor** : [narrow-eyed, voice dripping with sibling irony]

\-- Aren't you confusing yourself with _me_?

 **Finrod** : [very serious]

I have nothing of my own to return to. Father's wish to have everyone happily home aside, my presence in Aman is both irrelevant and superfluous.

 **Angrod** :

What are you _talking_ about?

 **Finrod** : [shrugging]

I have nothing to contribute, no useful skills, and none who needs my help Outside.

 **Luthien** : [looking up, tearstained]

What _are_ you talking about? Finrod, you -- you're -- that's one of the _daftest_ things I've ever heard, which is saying a lot.

[checks -- grumpily]

\-- Of all the things to bring away from Nargothrond, Celegorm's slang wasn't what I'd have picked -- regardless, it's _still_ as silly as everyone here thinks.

 **Ambassador**. 

Indeed, all Beleriand would contradict you, Majesty. Your skills are undeniable --

 **Finrod** : [interrupting]

\-- And worthless. Here.

 **Ambassador** :

But your mastery of governance and diplomacy --

 **Finrod** :

Debatable. -- And hazardous.

[locking stares with his father -- with deliberate emphasis]

I _do not rule_ in Valinor. I will never contend for power with my kindred again.

[the significance this has for all the present members of House Finwe is somewhat missing for the Belerianders]

 **Ambassador** :

\-- and strategy, and warfare --

 **Finrod** : [fighting a smile]

Oh yes. That's going to make me no end popular in the Cities, won't it?

 **Luthien** : [knowingly, to her compatriot]

Trust me, they're weird about it. They're not like us, not even the Noldor, no matter how enthusiastic they are for it -- perhaps all the more for that. It's as if they regarded all _wine_ as suspect because someone once drank too much and lost control.

[this bothers the Valinoreans and to a degree the returned Noldor as well, but only one responds with other than visible discomfort]

 **Amarie** : [looking over her shoulder]

Fie, such benighted thoughtlessness that recketh naught of the deep abhorrent wrong of bloodshed proveth ye e'en as I have said, O Princess of Shadows!

[Huan makes an unhappy grumbling noise without moving, to which the Steward sighing nods agreement]

 **Luthien** : [cryptic]

The Night was _first_  . . . and it was _ours_ first. If you've forgotten your birthright, _I'm_ not ashamed to claim it still.

[this time around, for whatever reason, Amarie decides not to continue the insult contest further]

 **Finrod** : [observing]

You're going to get a crick in your neck, Amarie, talking like that.

 **Luthien** : [looking at him earnestly]

But anyway, you've got all kinds of talents that don't have anything to do with running kingdoms or sieges. You can translate any language, you --

 **Finrod** : [wryly]

In an essentially monolingual society --

[his comrades look resigned -- to them this is not a new lament]

 **Luthien** :

You're a musician -- an artist -- a scientist --

 **Finrod** :

\-- A dilettante, where the world has had four centuries and more to study uninterrupted whatsoever should be desired. Why do you think there are jokes about it? I could never steal the time away from my real work enough to master any skill, so indulged them all, and never _finished_ one. _Here_  -- in whatever art you name, I shall be but an unskilled dabbler, a trifler, with no greatness compared to those who remained. There is no need for _anything_ I could bring to Aman.

[pause]

 **Luthien** : [frowning, slowly]

I think you're wrong.

[he blinks at her blunt dismissal, rather taken aback by the brevity and to-the-point nature. Someone makes a sound of suppressed laughter from the ranks behind him, but it's lost in the sound of a canine sneeze.]

 **Nerdanel** : [giving her nephew an unimpressed Look]

Hast not considered what measure these thy maundering dismal certitudes shall impress on thy fellow Dead, to so at one sweep lay waste unto all dreams and thoughts of homecoming, with yon depiction of no place where place doth 'wait them to be found in heart?

[she gestures dramatically to the nearest shade, who happens to be Fingolfin's daughter-in-law]

 **Elenwe** : [peaceful]

Nay, _I_ have no concern that doth remain or thus or so, only I do bide the coming-hither of my love.

[the living Eldar shudder a bit at that, if discreetly, and even some of her fellow shades find her complacency a bit unnerving.]

 **Fingolfin** :

What of your friends and followers, then? Have you no concern for _their_ hopes, lad, to set such strictures on them as well?

 **Finrod** : [taut -- this has touched a nerve]

In this I do not command them. _Nor_ do I speak for them.

[from where he is kneeling in attendance, the Steward half-turns to address the sons of Finwe, quick and dead]

 **Steward** : [coolly]

For myself -- I had rather be serving a houseless Elf than to be King of all the living. -- And I _do_ speak for us all.

 **Angrod** : [terse, his arms folded]

One would think that a _true_ friend would rather try to dissuade another from such self-destructive behaviour.

 **First Guard** : [aside, unhappy]

We would have. -- Tried.

 **Finrod** : [low, but stern]

Angrod -- enough.

[troubled but now more-or-less docile, Angrod subsides. Generally, but looking at Amarie's set back]

\-- All that _emptiness_ I foresee awaiting me, would yet be balanced --  _more_ than balanced, as when an ingot of gold is laid in the pan counter-weighted by an ingot of tin, and crashes in its turn -- by _one_ _welcome_.

[Amarie turns quickly to face him, white-hot with fury]

 **Amarie** : [with a cutting gesture]

Let thou not blame me -- nor let any others likewise -- for _thy_ will, that thou wilt abide here! 'Tis thy pleasure -- as ever -- that thou dost fulfill!

 **Finrod** : [incredulous]

My pleasure? Hardly.

[he looks at his father and uncle before continuing with savage emphasis, equally to all of them]

Those were our people that hour in chaos and ill-led. _You_ didn't need me. They did.

[to Amarie, sweetly]

And you _still_ don't need me, it's clear -- so what does it matter what I make of my death from here on? 

[to them all again]

I won't subject myself to humiliation simply to ease the consciences of my kinfolk -- nor play the smiling fool Outside to ease your minds. As I have returned, I _am_  -- and you don't like it much. Well -- that's just too bad, I'm afraid.

[Luthien gives her father's servant a piercing Look; there is a moment of pained equilibrium amid all those present of the House of Finwe, the prelude to the hurling of more recriminations, or self-recrimination, or both -- which are prevented by the actions of one on the periphery of the conflict, stepping in to restrain things (or actually, turning where he waits at the feet of the Princess and setting one hand on his sovereign's knee in a gesture not simply demanding of attentiveness but also evocative of fealty-giving]

 **Steward** : [level and forceful]

My lord, your words are most ungracious, whatever the justification.

 **Finrod** :

! ? !

[Finrod looks at him with some affront, but his friend is undaunted, and the King's glare softens, some of the defiance and hauteur going out of his shoulders, though he does not look away from his chief counselor]

\-- Yes.

[he sighs]

I should set a better example than I am given. And you --

[keenly]

Things are not well with you at all, are they?

[the other cannot help but look up at his ex, who is watching him somberly (despite absently standing like a heron again)]

 **Steward** : [sadly]

I fear it is as you say.

[the Teler girl lets her hair fall forward over her face -- but doesn't vanish]

 **Finrod** : [shaking his head]

And I am consumed by my own troubles, forgetful of yours -- Edrahil, _please_ take thought for yourself, and trust that I'll take heed for my obligations hereunto.

 **Steward** :

In death no less than was my habit living, I find my peace best in the mastery of my duties.

[his King looks away for a moment, then back with a rueful smile]

 **Finrod** :

Then let _this_ be the task I give to you: that you stay by me for the present, for my spirit's comfort. No errands for now -- let me lean upon you a little while longer, at least.

[meaningfully, though only the Ten understand what he's talking about]

I promise it will not be as dead weight, this time.

 **Steward** : [with a faint smile]

Even that, until the Lord of Beor comes.

[pause]

 **Finrod** : [looking at him with great intensity]

You trust he will return, then?

 **Steward** :

I have no doubt of the Beoring's intransigence.

 **Finrod** : [sighing]

Then I'll share that hope too, whether you name it so or not. Sit here at my side for a while, and we'll wait together, if it please you, my friend.

[he grips the other's wrist in a lingering clasp, before turning to his Sindarin kinswoman with an expression of focus and resolve; the Steward settles down on the next level, his own expression the politely-distant look of someone trying to stay attentive and not get lost in private regrets, leaning back against Finrod's knees with an Age-old familiarity devoid of presumption. From time to time his King reaches forward to set a hand on his shoulder in a gesture of reassurance -- but for which of them? Huan, convinced that someone that close has a duty to scratch his nose, starts nudging his arm until the desired attention is gained.]

 **Finrod** : [to Luthien]

You know, you promised you'd tell me the whole story when we had a moment, and it rather seems as though an opportune moment has presented itself. I'd like to hear it straight out finally, in order, with all the gaps filled in, and _not_ by rumours.

 **Luthien** : [with a watery smile]

You're just trying to cheer me up and take my mind off worrying for Beren.

[he smiles back sadly, squeezing her hand]

 **Finrod** :

That as well.

 **Luthien** : [dry laughter]

As long as it isn't _just_ that. I've had enough of _that_ to last me for ever!

[those of the Ten who have not settled down on the steps of the dais do so now along with the Sea-elf, with all indications of interest. Finrod's relatives all look at each other awkwardly -- Nerdanel breaks the silence]

 **Nerdanel** :

Nephew, what would ye have us about, while the twain of ye rehearse her tale, or wilt thou but say it mattereth not a whit to thee yet again?

[he looks slightly embarrassed]

 **Finrod** :

I'm sorry, Aunt 'Danel. I'm not entirely sure what is going on, and it is certainly not within my authority nor power to dismiss you, or command the staff to send you home. If you want to listen, by all means feel free to stay.

 **Nerdanel** : [raising one eyebrow]

At least thou hast recalled thy manners to thee; 'tis better than --

[looking narrowly at his siblings]

\--  _some_. 

**Finrod** : [abashed]

I -- yes, it does come to the same thing. But I _am_ at a loss, and it's very odd for me to have people going from railing at me to asking me what they ought to be doing.

[his brothers visibly bite back comment]

 **Finarfin** : [bland innocence]

So many these late-passing years a King, and art not yet used . . . ?

[his eldest just gives him an expressionless Look, which could hide anything from cold contempt to anger to an extreme effort not to share in the joke . . .]

 **Finrod** : [matter-of-fact, gesturing around them]

We could make chairs, but it might not be prudent, and you'd probably get all twitchy. So I'm afraid all that I can offer you are these steps and the floor.

 **Nerdanel** : [agreeably]

'Tis level, and passing clean.

[she kneels down gracefully on the stone and waits, perfectly at home now, dividing her attention watching Luthien and friends and her own kindred, as the latter with much more social awkwardness, if not physical, find places not too close to any of each other, but still close enough to attend the tale-telling.]

 **Luthien** : [wiping her eyes once more]

Where do you want me to start?

[with a tiny laugh]

At least I won't have to keep defending my sanity to _you_  -- !

[the crowded tableau looks rather like a shallow version of the [Spanish Steps](http://www.google.com/), minus the sunlight, the baroque scrollwork, and the cheerful atmosphere (though Nerdanel's sketch-pad and stylus would fit right in on a Roman plaza), as Luthien starts to recount how all this got started for a more-sympathetic cousin this time . . .]


	114. Act 4: SCENE V.ii

[Elsewhere: the Shadowy Stair. Beren (looking very ghostly and indefinite here) slowly ascends the shallow steps with an earnest, determined look, looking always forward, not up or around. The stars reflect in the polished material of the staircase perfectly still, not moving as with vibration the way reflections in water on even a stone step would tremble, although they flicker as in the night sky. There is a richness and intensity to the darkness, so that it does not look flat-black, but rather as if it were composed of an infinite number of layers of blue.]

[It is with a dawning surprise that the traveller realizes that he has come to the topmost stair, and stands on a flat terrace of indefinite dimension, like a still lake in a midsummer midnight. He looks around, slowly, frowning at the vertical lines that angle up from the periphery, faint glistening threads with rainbow gleams as the camera moves, like the embodiment of abstract geometrical concepts. Then he looks up, and his jaw drops as we follow to see the Constellations, writ huge and throbbing overhead, the Swordsman with his jewelled scabbard, the Butterfly, the Western Eagle, and in the center of them all, -- the Sickle, while the oldest stars pulse more faintly all around them, as if it were a desert sky with no moon.]

 **Beren** : [gasping, completely without irony]

\-- Ah . . . Lady!

[there is a momentary shift, as if the universe somehow were shaken -- but it is not Ea which changes, only the focus of the beholder (camera), so that the far-off stars are suddenly revealed to be very near at hand, burning ornaments on a vault of blue-black enamel -- or else of transparent crystal, so flawless that the Road of Stars shines through without reflection; there is no way for the eye to be sure. The incomprehensible edges are facets of the prism-pillars which uphold the dome, the flat top of the ascent the floor of the Hall, the darkness all around not simply emptiness, but _Space_ , defined and contained in ways almost beyond perception, so that one would have to walk carefully touching the edges to be sure what was support and what was _between_. Everywhere that there is light there is a faint rainbow effect, so that the sense is of white light that holds all colors within it, not white-and-black devoid of color, against the midnight-blue of the outer atmosphere.]

 **Beren** :

I . . .

[his voice fades into silence as he struggles to make sense of it -- it should be both a far simpler, more primitive vision of Infinity than anything in _2001: A Space Odyssey,_ and also more beautiful, and mind-boggling. The Hope Diamond, stared into for long silent minutes, is the feeling that the production artists should capture -- not glass, but darkness and light made liquid and cast into solid form, clear and cold and perfectly blue in the shadows, iridescent in the highlights.]

[There is a sudden flash of white like a magnesium flare overhead, mirrored in the floor -- a comet? meteor? or soundless lightning? -- and he turns to follow its path across the dome, and freezes. The bolt of light rushes towards the farther side of the plateau, and comes to a stop in mid-air -- caught there, so it seems, until we realize that there are two figures there as well, seated on prismatic thrones, like an Egyptian statue of the God-King and Living Goddess carved not from basalt or alabaster but from living crystal, but in the Art-Nouveau Egyptienne style of Mucha.

[(Note: Most of the special effects budget should be blown on the Taniquetil animation -- it has to be _good_ , so that things are just alien enough to cause a momentary lag in comprehension, without leaving the viewer at a loss for what's happening.)]

[The white lightning, still scintillating in place, like burning metal, has come to fasten on the King's wrist -- in its angular pyrotechnic glare there should still be some discernable abstraction of sentience, of pointed intent, directed at its Lord.]

[as Beren stands there speechless, the living fireball twists and takes off again, returning as it came, and he turns involuntarily to follow its flight-path -- it passes through the dome-perimeter somehow, whether through an invisible window, or otherwise, and as it intersects the star-space it unfolds what are definitely widening wing-shapes, still made at this point of white light and glittering sparks before vanishing below the horizon-level of the hall. The Mortal shade turns back, still mute with awe at witnessing an Eagle in its native environment, to see that the Starqueen and her Consort have risen in greeting. (Though CGI, voices and original acting should be provided for the sovereign Valar by two of the great classic performers of the silver screen, Madeleine Carroll (Princess Flavia, _The Prisoner of Zenda_ ) and Frederic March (Jean Valjean, _Les Miserables_ ).]

[simultaneous]

 **Varda** :

 **Manwe** :

Welcome, -- brother.

 


	115. Act 4: SCENE V.iii

[the Hall. Luthien is turning the now-empty cup over and around and spinning it in her fingers while she talks, distractedly, until the Steward discreetly reaches up and takes it back, dismissing it without her even noticing]

 **Luthien** :

It seems so long ago -- an Age -- that we first touched in the dark . . .

[Finrod starts slightly at her words as she goes on sadly]

It's so far away and small now, that time of moonlight and roses, like a pearl -- you can only look at it from the outside now, and never get back into that radiance again.

[pulling herself together]

But wasn't that silly? Saying that he must have had some Dark sorcery to use on me --  _me_!

[she shakes her head in scorn; her father's advisor bites his lip, but says nothing]

 **Finrod** : [reluctantly]

Well . . .

 **Luthien** :

 _Please_ don't joke. I'm not up to it now.

 **Finrod** : [pensive]

I'm not.

[she looks at him in wide-eyed dismay and paranoia]

 **Luthien** :

No. No. -- Don't _you_ turn against him now, too --

 **Finrod** : [gripping both her hands and giving them a little reassuring shake]

Shh. I _don't_ think so in the sense that your parents and people meant it. It's just that there's -- something -- about him -- it isn't just him, his whole family is the same --  _was_  --

[but goes on almost immediately]

\-- but there's some sort of invisible aura about the Beorings which makes it hard not to do what they want, no matter how impossible-seeming it is.

[Aegnor puts his head down on his knees, as glances are directed his way; Luthien continues to look at Finrod flatly and in silence]

One just gets carried away in spite of all one's better sense, thing which cold logic declare insanity start sounding plausible, and -- Luthien, I'm not saying I wouldn't have gone with him, or that you wouldn't, I'm just trying to understand it myself because it's hard to think clearly when someone that certain of things is defining the parameters of the debate.

[pause]

You noticed he was doing it with the Powers as well. Not just _arguing_ with them, but carrying it on his own terms.

[his father and Amarie shake their heads in residual dismay; Luthien does not say anything still.]

 **Aegnor** :

\-- Yes, I'm surprised you weren't as upset about that as you were about _Bereg_ doing the same thing.

 **Finrod** : [very definitely]

Bereg didn't do that. He never said _anything_ to me, or to any of us, about his doubts or whom he'd been speaking with of them. He just pretended everything was perfectly fine, said what he thought I wanted to hear, and kept all his discontents for private. I don't know if I could have reassured him -- if anyone could have -- or if things would have turned out the same regardless. -- But there most certainly was no hope of any other outcome with him not being willing to question me. The only resemblance between them is that ability to convince others to go along in whatever he came up with, even when it meant going all the way back over the mountains they'd just come over this way, into whatever it was they'd thought worse than mountains to begin with -- or at least which _Balan_ had thought worse than mountains and convinced them all the same.

 **Angrod** :

And Marach -- don't forget, a good number of his people went with Bereg as well.

 **Finrod** :

But more of them _didn't_. Malach Aradan ruled by popular acclaim -- but he was responsible for getting the tribe's consent in the first place and keeping it. It wasn't ever a settled thing, for him or for the rest of the family --

[with an earnest look from his brothers to his uncle]

\-- and think how much _worse_ the Battle would have gone, and afterwards, if Bregor and Hador hadn't instilled their convictions not just in their own children but the rest of their folk as well. Not that it's much consolation, but it could have been an utter rout instead of a partial rout ending in a standoff.

[to his cousin, who is still regarding him in rather a chilly manner:]

I'm not saying it's a _bad_ thing, Luthien -- only that this mortal obduracy is a formidable force to be reckoned with, whether it's on our side or not. Beren isn't any more stubborn than the others of his Houses, on both sides.

 **Fingolfin** :

Or -- what was her name, that young mortal woman who caused so much fuss not too long ago?

[the other Belerianders stare at him]

[simultaneously (overlapping)]

 **Everyone from Middle-earth, native or returned** :

\-- Haleth!!

[there is an embarrassed moment as everyone sort of recollects themselves]

 **Fingolfin** : [defensive]

You must grant, I never _met_ the lady.

 **Aegnor** : [sarcastic aside]

There's a surprise --

 **Angrod** :

Neither did I -- but we still heard about her enough to remember her name, uncle! It wasn't as though there weren't relatives of hers straggling through the realm for the better part of a decade.

 **Aegnor** : [faint amusement]

It was almost like the first years here, where you never knew _when_ you were going to walk into a settlement of strangers giving you funny looks and speaking a language nearly but not _quite_ comprehensible. It was rather hard _not_ to cross Nargothrond and hear the name "Haleth" in the process --

 **Angrod** : [interrupting]

\-- But he didn't, don't you recall?

[the Princes shake their heads in too-obvious pity, to their uncle's chagrin]

 **Luthien** :

Yes, annexing part of the kingdom and then telling Mablung off for trespassing --

[to the Valinorean Eldar, living and otherwise]

\-- well, _you_ don't know our Captains, so that doesn't mean much to you, but people _listen_ to them, most of the time -- when he came to try to evict them, does sort of stick in people's memory.

 **Finrod** :

Not to mention dragging half-a-thousand unwilling kinsmen through a vale full of giant spiders and other assorted monstrosities, and her with no natural abilities whatsoever to help her defend them, and most of them increasingly convinced she was insane for not staying in a land already cultivated and partially settled, because there was too much " _open_ " to the northward. Or commanding a successful defense against the Enemy's minions, when everyone else was on the verge of giving up and dying before rescue arrived -- which was partly the reason they didn't kick her out as chief after the business with the Old Road and the mutant beasts. "The spiders were a mistake," she told me, "I thought they were bogles out of tales to frighten bad children -- or Men who might think of going too close to the Shadowking's woods otherwise."

[shaking his head]

The way they talked about her, you couldn't tell if they thought she was brilliant, mad, or both -- and that _they_ weren't sure either. But _not_ being around her wasn't an option, any more than for moths about a lit candle.

 **Amarie** : [caustic]

Aye, my lord, and wherefore didst thou not espouse _her_ , for all thy fellowship of the Secondborn? I am astonish't.

[pause]

 **Finrod** : [giving her a very askance Look]

I'm already married to you.

 **Amarie** : [wide-eyed]

But -- thou didst declare't null, and didst e'en chide me for that I ne'er did take another consort, or hast forgot so swift thine own words so late-uttered?

 **Finrod** : [getting a little bit flustered]

I -- meant for you, that _you_ shouldn't have considered yourself bound when we never completed the ceremony --

 **Amarie** : [tossing her head]

Now _there's_ a fine thing, fine sir! Wouldst have me as thy grandsire, then, seeking one lord _here_ whilst another bideth _there_ , West or east it mattereth not -- for how might it be, that _one_ should be bound, the other not? 'Tis not of _reason_ , that thou shouldst hold it feasible to bide yet spouse to me, yet I not in equal measure thine to thee!

 **Finrod** : [changing the subject without any finesse, lightly]

It would never have worked, in any case -- she wouldn't have had me regardless, even if she hadn't said that five hundred-odd children were enough for any Man.

 **Nerdanel** : [chiding]

'Tis far from the fitting hour for japery, youngling.

 **Finrod** :

Oh, I'm not.

[pause -- the Valinorean relatives look at him strangely]

She and her people expressed rather a dim view of us, I'm afraid. Something about the lunacy of those who thought of fighting as fun and spent so much time over weapons.

 **Fingolfin** : [acerbic]

\-- Which, you must concede, is most curious when 'tis considered how their lives and livelihoods were thereafter safeguarded in their new homeland by those very weapons and warriors of ours.

 **Luthien** : [aside]

And here _I_ thought it was us. Won't Beleg be surprised --

[the Ambassador also starts to say something, but Finrod makes a pre-emptive quieting gesture]

 **Finrod** : [to Fingolfin]

Well . . . in a very general way. For a while. And after you died they did a better job of defending the Crossings than what was left of your people -- or mine.

[blandly]

One thing which troubled them a lot, though, was the little bits and pieces they'd heard over the years about Elves fighting Elves and siblings pulling blades on each other.

[Fingolfin rests his forehead on his hand; his living relatives look rather told-you-so at this]

\-- But mostly the idea of just going looking for trouble in the first place, instead of _away_ from it.

 **Captain** : [rueful]

"I'm betting that's not much use for firewood, and it's mighty unhandy for a dinner knife" -- her opinion of swords.

 **Teler Maid** : [curious]

Did she really say it like _that_?

 **Captain** : [shaking his head]

No. I can't manage a Brethil accent properly at all.

 **Finrod** : [very dry]

She also had definite things to say on the matter of living in _caves_ , and people who were mad enough to do so. "Underground's for when you're dead, and I'm not yet." 

[his relatives think about this, and the several implications of it, with the expressions of people who know they ought not to be amused at the amusing aspect because of the grim]

 **Warrior** : [aside]

On the brighter side -- Nargothrond _not_ overrun with swine and kine.

 **Teler Maid** : [aside, with a dubious Look]

Ought I wish to know what these your words meant?

 **Warrior** : [rueful]

\-- Long story.

 **Luthien** : [curiously to Finrod]

Just how much _did_ you leave out of that message to my father?

[pause]

 **Finrod** :

I very much prefer it when your father _isn't_ angry with me. While I can in no way foresee any of this getting back to him, I'd rather not take that slight, unforeseeable chance.

 **Luthien** : [faint smile]

Hmph. _That_ bad.

 **Finrod** :

It was _mostly_ a matter of style -- and the last time I saw her, following the resettlement project -- which Elu discreetly ignored without overt comment, at least to me --

 **Luthien** : [raising her eyebrows]

You didn't notice him asking you how _much_ faster than we, did mortals grow up?

 **Finrod** :

I said "overt," remember? That was just him letting all know that no one was pulling a fast one on him, even if he wasn't going to haggle over every returning formerly-disaffected tribesman -- anyway, she conceded that he was a pretty good king, all told, as kings went, minding his own business and leaving peaceable folk in peace --

[the Doriathrin lord covers a smile at his words]

\-- and they really couldn't ask for better neighbors after all.

[biting his lip]

I just, ah, polished off a few _edges_ : a herald is worthless who can't be trusted to deliver a message as given.

 **Steward** : [dry]

One of several side benefits of serving as _your_ voice, my lord, and not --

[he catches himself, with a quick glance at Nerdanel]

\-- anyone else's.

 **Finrod** :

Oh, there were some pretty sharp comments I sent upriver from time to time, I seem to recall.

 **Fingolfin** : [wincing]

Aye, as do I.

 **Steward** :

But not of themselves scathing, saving as the truth hurts.

 **Finrod** : [grim smile]

\-- Like that damnéd _dam_ project I heard about fortuitously, before Fingon actually got started on his brilliant notion to turn _my river_ into a moat around Barad Eithel. Downstream rights, what? The only worse thing you lot could have come up with was damming up at Ivrin.

 **Fingolfin** : [patiently, as to a child]

It wouldn't have left Minas Tirith "high and dry" or even reduced the levels of Sirion by more than one part in the twelve --

 **Finrod** : [cutting him off]

Well, that was your _guess_. You really don't know what it would have done. And it would have _severely_ affected the marshes and silting along the main watercourse, regardless. I'm not going to get into this _now_ , it's pointless, but I was right.

 **Fingolfin** : [aggrieved]

You _didn't_ have to threaten to have it brought to your sister's attention -- with a careful breakdown of exactly how long at the longest it should take for your messengers to arrive in Menegroth and she in Eithel.

[Finrod looks down and sideways at his erstwhile Herald with a quizzical expression]

 **Steward** : [looking back innocently]

Thus I . . .  _polished_ your injunction to get up there as fast as I might and tell your idiot relatives that if they _dared_ dream of "blundering about with the water volume -- "

[Finarfin raises his brows, glancing at his elder brother, but doesn't interrupt; the Sea-elf stifles a giggle by main force]

\-- unless you -- or preferably engineers from Nogrod -- were supervising the plans, they'd find out that there were people with less patience and more power than even yourself. Since you had me ahorse and off before I knew whether I had my cloak on right-side-to or not, I was not entirely certain of whom in specific you were thinking, and since I dared not invoke Elu Thingol's power without consultation, nor Lady Melian, (nor dared detour so far as to make such query, nor without your permission) -- still less our great Lord without sign thereto, when for all I knew as yet this rumoured doing was even at his bidding --

 **Finrod** : [snorting]

Oh, right, as if they'd even thought of asking _him_ about it --

[at his uncle's Look]

Sorry.

[to his right-hand Elf:]

\-- Did I really send you off in that much of a rush? That was an awfully long time ago.

 **Steward** : [shrugging]

I was obliged to purchase my dinners from fishing parties along the banks, at the cost of new songs, before I attained the Tower and so reprovisioning -- or _provisioning_ , rather, so great was the urgency which you successfully conveyed to me, that I did not turn home to pack before setting out.

 **Captain** : [blandly]

And here you were complaining earlier that I'd done your packing for you -- !

 **Steward** : [ignoring him]

\-- Where I also, as per your instructions, Majesty, picked up a sufficiently-impressive escort force from your brother (and a change of clothes) and 'twas there, over breakfast, that Prince Orodreth counseled me to invoke the Lady Galadriel when I reached the High King's castle, for such insult as was rumoured planned to your great-uncle's dear friend through his tributary would surely arouse the indignation of Elu's wife and her own friends, and as your loyal -- if independent -- agent abroad, your sister's duty might be bespoken without prior consulting. -- Though I should surely face some pointed ironies, did necessity come to it and oblige me to convey the request to Doriath. But neither your brother nor I thought it a likely outcome, and I judged the advice sound.

 **Angrod** : [incredulous]

You just threatened to sic Artanis on him, with no qualms whatsoever? On your own recognizance? That's a bit _much_ , didn't you think?

 **Fingolfin** : [wry]

Indeed.

 **Finrod** : [shaking his head]

I don't know why everyone is so intimidated by 'Tari -- there are other people in our family with far less control over their tempers and less discretion!

 **Captain** :

Well, honestly, I think that's part of it, Sire -- that, and the fact that unlike some of her siblings, she does little-to-nothing to temper her power and try _not_ to intimidate people around her.

 **Angrod** : [piqued aside]

\-- I'm sure there was an insult in that -- or three.

 **Luthien** :

Galadriel doesn't try to intimidate people!

 **Captain** :

Exactly, my lady.

 **Finrod** :

Neither do the lords of the Edain, by and large. It's the combination of absolute certainty that this is simply _how_ _things_ _ought_ _be_ _done_ , convincing everyone else of it -- and managing to carry it off five times out of six so they _stay_ convinced.

[Luthien frowns, troubled, but not having anything to say to this -- someone else does, however]

 **Ambassador** :

Indeed, Majesty, one might deem them nearly equals of the _Noldor_ , in that respect.

[long, _long_ pause]

 **Finrod** :

. . .

[the expectant pause continues, while people either look at Finrod or each other or the ceiling -- even Huan takes a break from demanding nose-scratching and raises his head with pricked ears to look at the youngest of the Kings present]

 **Finrod** :

My lord, I -- concede your point.

[pause]

What?

[as everyone keeps looking at him]

There's nothing else to say -- except -- guilty as charged.

[this encourages another to make a sally at him]

 **Fingolfin** : [very dry]

Did you not remark, my young nephew, that by his own admission your liegeman has averred him to hold your younger sister a greater than you, his liege? For _your_ words were "those with more power than yourself" -- and _Galadriel_ his answer.

[Finrod leans over again and gives his friend an inquiring Look, full of low-key amusement]

 **Steward** : [easily]

Indeed, 'tis true -- considering "more power" in the most narrow of senses, or else to say, who might by virtue of nature and ability and circumstance have been the ablest at accomplishing your set task -- even as the warrior on watch and wakeful has more power than one inattentive, notwithstanding though one be little more than a child and the other of many Great Year's practice. Power -- is a _present_ and transient thing, resting with whomsoever wills to wield it -- I do not speak of _potentiality_ , which some authorities term _latent_ _power_ , but which itself is subject to divisions of kind as in degree, even as set forth long ago by Rumil in Of Modes and --

[Fingolfin raises his hands for silence, equal parts plea, command, and capitulation]

 **Captain** : [regretful]

Too fast to stake a wager.

 **Angrod** : [patronizing]

Uncle, you should know better by now than to start a duel of words with _him_. That's as useless as challenging _Beleg_ to an archery contest -- oh, that's right, you never called on Menegroth, sorry --

[the brother and sister-in-law of the High King of Beleriand exchange deploring- but-amused glances]

 **Luthien** : [unexpectedly taking Fingolfin's side]

Oh, give him a break -- at least your uncle was polite when he happened to think of us, unlike some of your family I could name but won't out of respect for the present company since everyone keeps snapping at me to stop being rude --

[she startles and looks down at the Hound, who is being a loyal canine friend and showing his emotional support in a traditional way by licking her foot]

Oh! Huan, _stop_ that, it's disgusting even if you mean it kindly.

[she scratches his ears]

 **Teler Maid** : [insistent curiosity]

Who? _Who_ wasn't polite?

 **Nerdanel** : [resigned]

Mine own offspring.

 **Luthien** :

Anyway, getting back to my story --

[aside]

\-- and not conceding anything to anyone about anything --

[frowning]

\-- in retrospect, the part about that time that was truly strange was what _didn't_ happen -- that neither my mother nor Daeron said anything at all for so long. -- Did _she_ know? It seems as though she must have, though she won't answer me about that. Daeron thought she did, he said so.

[outraged]

And he acted all _perfectly_ _normal_ to me and everyone, only being preoccupied, while it came out in this pall of silence that gradually filled up all around Menegroth and made everyone wonder what kind of weird supernatural phenomena was going on that summer. Except it was just his internalized gloom and guilt and angst smothering everything subconsciously.

[with an exasperated wave of her hand]

It's -- all so -- so sneakingly dishonest. Looking back on it all, after everything else that's happened -- I'd _far_ rather have to deal with someone who simply wants to hurt me for uncomplicated selfish purposes, instead of justifying it as being for my own good, or insisting that I have to forgive them because they're miserable too, poor things, as if it wasn't their own faults.

[darkly]

I should have set my _own_ conditions, called down Fate on my side, before going back home -- made _them_ do some impossible task before I'd give in -- maybe then they wouldn't talk so lightly about how much they were suffering --

[the Ambassador bows his head in apology]

 **Finrod** : [deadly earnest]

Don't even joke about such things.

 **Finarfin** : [aside]

Nay, thus have they learned, most bitter and full, or Time hath sundered more than speech betwixt us!

[there is an awkward moment, with neither Luthien nor the Finarfinions quite knowing what to say, far less anyone else.]

 **Elenwe** : [looking at Nerdanel thoughtfully]

\-- Thus the course of _nature_ , that love should e'er will self's cessation, ere that of them belovéd -- but dark rumour, that hath entwined even through the 'stices of my dreams, though of's truth I ken nor more nor less than ye, hath muttered of a burning shame; whose occasion, for all that 'twas set upon that Shore that ne'er I saw, save as a shadow undersetting distant flame, was yet kindled on this side -- nor hath regretted it.

[the moment that follows this observation is even more awkward. Abruptly Huan lifts his head, with a few restrained tail thumps]

 **Huan** :

[quiet almost-bark]

[Nienna's Apprentice comes in, alone this time again, his shoulders rather slumped and no spring in his step as he comes towards the dais.]

 **Finrod** : [sharply]

I think they're all at the Mahanaxar now.

 **Apprentice** : [glum]

I know they are. He took all the information over there because it made more sense than walking and wasting all that time -- and coincidentally, all the credit as well. I guess it isn't really important who gets it, but it still stings.

 **Finrod** :

Then what are you here for?

[with a grimace and snort of restrained anger]

Couldn't you have _mentioned_ what you were up to before, so that we weren't completely blindsided by it?

 **Apprentice** :

I -- what -- ?

 **Finrod** : [flinging up his hands]

That you were gathering a dossier on Beren, what else?

 **Apprentice** :

Oh. I --

[he looks at the Captain with worry]

Was that the sort of thing you wanted to know?

[the Ranger shakes his head in disbelief, while his commander sighs.]

 **Captain** :

Yes. But --

[he looks at Finrod]

It didn't actually make any difference, one way or another, Sire. Not on the outcome of the debate. It just added details.

[to the disguised Maia]

Something concrete to be used against our efforts, or against our covert aim, that was very much the sort of thing you should have been bringing to our attention as a double agent. Unless it was utterly against your conscience to do so. But I think you were just naive.

 **Apprentice** :

Used against . . . ?

[he looks baffled and upset]

I thought -- that knowing all the facts about your friend in such detail would be a good thing, since everyone would be able to see the things I saw in our conversation, not just being a useless, incompetent oaf with an insolent mouth.

[hastily]

\-- Not my words. Curumo's.

 **Finrod** : [to the Captain]

You're right. As usual. -- Naive.

[he sighs]

So what are you doing here?

 **Apprentice** :

I wanted to offer my sympathies to her Highness, it -- seemed appropriate, since my Master isn't present to to do so herself -- on the loss of your husband.

[he bows his head to Luthien]

 **Luthien** : [dangerously]

He's staying with me. I _know_ it --

[putting her hand to her chest]

\--  _here_. He'll come back.

 **Apprentice** :

. . .

 **Finrod** : [short]

All right, you've done that, so why don't you go now?

[Huan lifts his head and gives the youngest Elf-King a reproachful look]

 **Apprentice** :

Actually, I was going to stay here and keep an eye on the stone again. There's nothing else for me to do now.

[he sits down cross-legged on the upper tier of the dais, close to the Thrones, and rests his chin on his hand, watching the still-quiescent palantir, quite oblivious to (or ignoring) Finrod's piqued, over-the-shoulder glare]

 **Captain** :

Aren't you supposed to be looking after things generally for Themselves?

 **Apprentice** : [shrugs]

After that screech -- which must have shaken windows all the way to Taniquetil -- and the shouting that followed it, everyone's showing remarkably good sense in having apparently decided to lay low for a bit, that now is _not_ the time to be complaining to the Lord and Lady about someone looking at them sideways seventy-two years ago --

[from the hallway outside an angry voice can be heard raised and coming nearer quickly]

 **Aredhel** :

Isn't there _anyone_ here with authority? I _demand_ to speak to Lord Namo -- at once!

[Fingolfin winces. The rest of the company exchange looks alternately bewildered, amused, or resigned]

 **Apprentice** : [glumly]

Of course, there are always exceptions.

[the High King's daughter comes striding into the chamber and over to the dais, anger crackling all around her like wet wood on fire -- Huan lifts up his head, pricking up his ears, and wags his tail, but she ignores him along with everyone except the High King her father. Amarie makes an exclamation of disgust, looking as though this is pretty nearly the final straw, and very obviously refuses to grant Aredhel her attention.]

 **Aredhel** :

Where _are_ they? Why can't I find anyone? This is _ridiculous_!

 **Fingolfin** : [pleading in the weary tone of one who knows it's useless]

'Feiniel --

 **Aredhel** :

I _refuse_ to put up with this any longer! I want an injunction against him! _You_ do something about it, Father --

 **Warrior** : [aside to the Fourth Guard]

He must have gotten her again.

[his friend nods]

 **Fingolfin** : [patiently]

Daughter, I haven't authority over your husband -- I hadn't in life, and not in here either. Besides, you know --

[in the background Eol enters, the embodiment of cynicism in black armour, and comes up quietly to stand a little ways behind her, relishing the negative Looks from those who notice his presence.]

 **Aredhel** : [cutting him off]

No, _you_ just don't _care_ about anything except your blasted board-games!

 **Nerdanel** :

Niece, thou dost most discourteously disrupt thy kinswoman's tale --

 **Aredhel** : [impatient]

I'm not talking to you.

[back to her father again]

\-- You're so insensitive and selfish! It's all your fault anyway: if you hadn't insisted on dragging us with you on your revenge quest, none of this would have happened, and I'd still be alive!

 **Angrod** : [dry]

Really? You mean you'd have gone back with him if he'd joined _my_ father at Araman? Because I seem to remember you saying we three were idiots for not taking Cel up on the offer of a ride --  _not_ that we should have turned back from the Crossing.

[she lifts her head defiantly and ignores him, going right on]

 **Aredhel** :

I'm going to _insist_ that Lord Namo give me an injunction against him, _and_ that he enforce it this time --

 **Eol** :

Against _you_ , you mean? You'll just break it again.

[she spins around and glares at him, while he just stands there with folded arms, head cocked to one side, sneering.]

 **Aredhel** : [giving him a dark, undershot Look]

 _You_  --

[at a loss for insults, she clenches her fists as he chuckles]

 **Luthien** : [to her other cousins]

Do they do this _all_ _the_ _time_?

[answering nods; Finarfin and Nerdanel exchange Looks while Aredhel's father sighs]

 **Soldier** : [undertone]

\-- Six.

 **Second Guard** : [same tone]

\-- Four. -- Which?

 **Eol** :

You _know_ you can't stay away from me.

 **Soldier** : [still quietly]

\-- Him. Love.

 **Aredhel** :

 _Don't_ flatter yourself, _Moriquendo_.

[Fingolfin stares up at the ceiling, clearly humiliated but not able to flee in front of his brother and sister-in-law, far less his nephews.]

 **Warrior** : [aside to his companions]

I say _hate_.

 **Finrod** : [deadpan]

Isn't family a _wonderful_ thing?

[Luthien stifles an edged snicker, as their relatives, living and dead, give them wary looks]

 **Eol** : [maddeningly patronizing]

Let's just look at your record, why don't we, dear? What'll this be, number two-hundred-eighty-seven? Soon to be a double gross, in fact.

 **Aredhel** : [savage]

Shut up.

 **Angrod** : [getting annoyed]

I want to hear the rest of the story. -- Not _this_ rot again.

[the quarreling spouses ignore him]

 **Eol** :

Why, if you'd only been able to control yourself, we might not be in this absurd mess you've gotten us into.

 **Aredhel** :

I!?!

 **Eol** : [smug]

Of course. You couldn't resist the thought of seeing me again, and so you put yourself in the middle of what didn't concern you.

 **Aredhel** :

Didn't _concern_ me?!

 **Eol** : [haughty]

My son's punishment properly being my concern.

 **Aredhel** : [furious]

He's more _my_ son than he is yours, since you never cared to do your part while he was young -- you always had more _important_ work to do -- !

 **Eol** : [getting really angry]

 _Don't_ start that again -- you kept parental authority to yourself with such jealous control, I hardly got to know him at all. Just another example of Noldor aggression, taking not only our land but our very _children_ from us --

[the two lunge for each other's throats like predators battling over a contested kill --]

 **Huan** :

[agitated barking]

[ -- but though they collide simultaneously the motive is not quite the same; Aredhel cuffs her husband so hard across the side of the head that he is staggered a little, but he is in the process of grabbing her to him in a passionate Rhet/Scarlett style kiss and isn't deterred. This clinch goes on for much more than an instant, with the White Lady showing no signs of pushing the Dark Elf away, while their audience reacts in a spectrum from embarrassed resignation to awed amusement -- the gamblers are rather nonplused]

 **Soldier** :

Whoa, _that's_ never happened before. I -- don't know how to call that one.

 **First Guard** :

Me neither. Sir?

[they look towards the Captain, who only raises hands and eyebrows in bemusement]

 **Eol** :

! ! !

[he flings her off of him and himself away from her, his expression contorted in self-contempt]

\-- What Dark magic makes me unable to resist you, you sorceress?

 **Aredhel** :

You spiderling -- how _dare_ you -- !

[she draws her sword and starts for him, her eyes blazing with fury; groans and expressions of exasperation from the Ten and their hereditary lords. Luthien stands up and scowls at her combative relations]

 **Luthien** : [crossly]

All right, that's enough!

[there is a slight echo of power to her words, but the two stop and stare at her at once.]

Either go away _now_ , or sit down, be quiet and stop acting like you're thirty.

[in the shocked silence, Elenwe gives a sudden laugh. Aredhel tosses her head angrily]

 **Aredhel** :

 _You_ can't tell me what to do. You're not Queen here.

 **Luthien** : [narrowing her eyes]

Funny, I seem to be doing it all the same. -- Put that sword up now. And _you_  --

[turning her attention to Eol]

\-- what is _wrong_ with you, cousin? We always knew there was something seriously askew, but nobody dreamed you were a secret Kinslayer and slave-taker! 

**Aredhel** :

 _Don't_ call me "thrall," you hick!

[Huan growls, while there is a collective wince from their onlooking families]

 **Luthien** : [ignoring her]

Why are you so -- so messed-up? _Did_ you swear service to the Lord of Fetters? What is it that makes you so Dark-hearted? You've got a lot to answer for, Eol!

 **Eol** : [looking her directly in the eyes]

Ah, the little princess fancies herself all grown up, does she? Finally realized that the big world out there isn't all sweetness and light? The answers aren't as simple as Mum and Dad would like them to be?

 **Luthien** :

Don't change the subject. You've done _appalling_ things and you don't seem to have the slightest idea how horrible they are.

 **Eol** : [his voice and stare mesmerizing, edged with power]

So little Luthien is still the know-it-all darling of Doriath . . . or is she? We've been betrayed, haven't we? Seen a few things we wished we hadn't, I fancy. -- Learned that the people we trusted to have all the answers haven't the slightest clue, can't lead us out of the trap by its threads, and that there's no escape -- except being strong, and alone.

 **Luthien** : [wry]

No actually, that's not the conclusion I came to at all.

 **Eol** : [ironic & patronizing]

So you still think that _everything's_ _good_ , that whatever comes is "for the best," and the roaring chaos of the Sun is just as pleasant as the peaceful shade our land once knew -- and the people who brought it with them by their misdeeds?

 **Luthien** :

I'm as much Eldar as you, Eol, and prefer the stars and moon to broad daylight. So does my husband, as it happens. But _you_ _never_ _liked_ _music_. In all the years I remember you, you never _once_ made any song. -- Was there _ever_ any harmony in your house, cousin?

[Aredhel smiles bitterly]

I've asked you questions, Eol. Don't try to put me off with your superior manner, I'm not impressed.

[he glares more fiercely at her, and she gives it right back]

 **Eol** : [bewildered aside]

You're a child, and no mighty "Elf of Aman" Why isn't it working?

 **Finrod** : [mildly]

Perhaps the fact that she's also half-Ainur has something to do with it? Or possibly just being to hell and back.

[Eol and Luthien continue to match stares -- it is Luthien who is holding her elder kinsman now, very definitely, and his expression growing more and more strained under her fixed gaze.]

 **Luthien** : [sad]

I'm sorry.

[tears are starting down her face again, but there is no uncertainty or weakness in her voice]

You should have asked for help.

 **Eol** : [clipped]

I neither wanted nor needed your parents' pity.

 **Luthien** : [matter-of-fact]

I wish I could help you.

 **Eol** :

I won't take _yours_ either, girl.

 **Luthien** : [same tone]

I know.

[she releases him from her stare and looks at Aredhel]

That isn't how love works. You've got it all twisted up between you, like the things that live along the Edges of the Labyrinth. You've got to untangle this poisoned chain, or you'll _never_ be able to love, either.

 **Aredhel** : [scoffing]

As if _you_ know anything about it!

 **Luthien** : [calm]

Listen and learn, then, if you will.

[she sits down on the steps again, disregarding them; but although the couple glare warily at each other, like strange dogs circling for a fight, they do not go after each other again, but stiffly find places on the steps of the dais, far apart. Luthien is unconscious of the awed character of the silence that surrounds her on all sides as she resumes]

\-- Okay, where was I?


	116. Act 4: SCENE V.iv

[Elsewhere: Taniquetil]

[Beren is standing squarely in front of the Thrones, looking rather overwhelmed and shell-shocked but still with a hopeless, manic resolution to carry through to the end. Manwe and Varda are looking at him with a quicksilver-blue glistening of awareness in their eyes, making them alive and disconcertingly unstatue-like. At times meteoric lights flash past in the surrounding Night, and the Constellations of the star-dome pivot very slowly and steadily throughout the scene.]

 **Beren** :

So, that's pretty much everything.

[he snorts, looking back over his shoulder towards the Stair]

Did you make it take so long so that I'd have to cool down before I got here? 'Cause it only ended up giving me more time to think about what all I wanted to say.

 **Manwe** :

Your last question makes no sense to us, I fear.

 **Beren** : [shrugging]

I'm just interested in the other ones, really. What about the Doom, first of all?

 **Manwe** :

The Noldor spurned our help, and refused to lend theirs to the World.

 **Beren** : [ironic]

I thought they came and helped save it.

 **Varda** :

 _Have_ they saved it, then?

[silence]

What would have been possible, if they had been patient but a little, and lent their abilities to the effort of restoration, instead of leaving the wreckage of their anger and mad haste to mingle with the ruin of their adversary's deeds? What might have been made, and how much sooner, of Light to halt and subdue Melkor's forces, perchance to follow more swiftly than marchers afoot, and with wisdom to guide and not to learn in pain and obstinacy the lessons of war, and our power to assist in subtle effort, theirs to wield, ours to give, in one union of will and friendship and both made stronger by bitter trial, now kindled anew?

[pause]

 **Beren** :

Well? What?

 **Manwe** : [shaking his head]

None shall ever know. That hope and chance they robbed from us, and you, and from themselves, when the Noldor made Feanor's choice their own, and refused generosity even to their own most near. How many _elses_ might the War, that you believe so long, have gone? -- more swiftly and perhaps to happier end -- had _all_ , and not only some, of those who left thought better, and returned to lend their strength to the fashioning of these new Lamps, and after?

[behind the Thrones as he speaks there can be seen the orb of the Moon gliding by, not as quickly as the meteoric lights, large as when it first rises in the sky but not orange, silver-white and looking like a slightly-flawed pearl, with a faint rainbow-haloing of ice crystals as it passes under the stars on its Westward, downward trajectory out of sight beneath the window-walls of the Hall.]

 **Beren** :

I get it. You mean you couldn't do anything else. So you're _not_ all powerful, huh?

 **Varda** : [with a narrow Look and sounding a very little bit like Vaire]

You know that perfectly well.

[when the mortal doesn't reply]

\--  _Don't_ you? Didn't the King's son tell your people so, or did I mishear him?

[her consort reaches over and takes her hand, soothingly, and she stops, shaking her head a little]

 **Manwe** :

There are _always_ options. They are not always preferable.

 **Beren** :

Maybe you should've let us decide that for ourselves.

 **Manwe** :

I'm afraid you cannot imagine what happens, when Powers contend within these Circles.

 **Beren** :

I know a lot about war. And the destruction it causes.

 **Manwe** : [sighing]

As I said, I fear you cannot imagine what I am trying to convey.

 **Varda** : [still slightly edged tone]

Or _perhaps_ he just doesn't think.

 **Beren** :

Okay, so I let you off for not fixing things after Morgoth broke loose and all, on account of you didn't have the resources to do it _or_ you weren't sure you could do it without making things worse, I'll take your word for that. So -- what did you go and let him _out_ for? I mean, you might not be _all_ -powerful, but at least you're supposed to be wiser than we are. _We_ wouldn't have trusted him again.

 **Manwe** :

You believe yourself wiser than him you name Wisdom, then?

[Beren just glares at him]

 _You_ would not have forgiven a kinsman who professed repentance, and demonstrated it in his deeds as well as words, to whom your heart inclined you to welcome, and to hope, and to believe that long reflection on the harmful choices and the better ways had done its healing work, so that the long-remembered, long-cherished love that had once been between you should be renewed at last -- but so Finrod forgave his own, with less earthly warrant and witness, and with the memory of past treason to warn, when for us no such thought of betrayal, of thought uttered counter to heart's true thought, had ever yet been conceived -- or done -- amongst us. We did not know who, or how many he had suborned, until the deed of Darkness was complete.

 **Varda** :

Past sight is always clearest, but the present may not be clearly illumined by it. We trusted, and were scorned for it, by Melkor -- and by his aptest students of both kindreds.

[there is a bare tinge of anger in her voice, but enough to make Beren straighten up and step back just a little]

 **Beren** :

But couldn't you -- um -- just know he was lying? Just -- read his mind?

 **Manwe** :

No. If even _yours_ , saving as you permit it, is inviolate to perception, how might not the same be true of my elder, and mightier in his conception than even I? Only suspicion,among some, and doubt that such a long-lasting and profound will to power and destruction might not be so swiftly turned by meditation -- but suspicion is not proof, and may not justly be acted upon. Always had Melkor been the most open and unsubtle of Voices, both in the Timeless Halls and in the World, in addition to his efforts in the Song. We had no reason to guess that it was otherwise.

[pause]

 **Beren** :

So why couldn't the One just _tell_ you so that you wouldn't have to guess?

 **Manwe** :

He does. It is not easy even for me to understand His thought, thus enformed as we are within our realm, through the limits placed by the different interfaces and frequencies of -- excuse me, to hear through the borders of the Circles, those messages of counsel from the Timeless Halls, and then to discern what the correct application of them should be.

 **Beren** :

So why can't you leave and check and come back?

[the Lord of the Winds leans forward, very earnest]

 **Manwe** :

Beren. _This_ _is_ _the_ _World_. It is not a game. Our mistakes are real because _everything_ is real, because all of it _matters_. You want it to be a game, where a judge or parent might step in and declare _this_ cast of the dart unfair, that ill-stepped leap _not_ to count against the score, allow another tune be chosen when the young singer has outreached ability, warn a contestant of impending error, always _undoing_  -- in pretense -- what has been done, for the sake of mercy even more than justice, so that all shall be pleased with the ending of the contest, win or lose. You ask that Arda be no more than a toy, a game, a hobby of Immortals, but unfortunately or not, _it_ _is_ _real_ and we are bound to it forever, as truly as all else who breathe within its Circles. We cannot _stop_ _playing_ for a little while.

 **Beren** : [shaking his head]

That isn't what I said.

 **Manwe** :

I am afraid that it is. Be assured, I understand the wish. Often.

[he sighs heavily, leaning back in his Throne]

 **Beren** :

Well, couldn't you have figured out on your own about not bringing the Elves all the way across the world to here? Then, for one thing, your brother wouldn't have been able to tell them that you were trying to replace them with _us_ and then they wouldn't have had any reason to rebel, or any place to rebel _to_ , right? So there wouldn't ever have been any Kinslaying or anything.

 **Manwe** : [to his wife, in a slightly-wry tone]

Do you remember being that young and optimistic, love?

 **Varda** :

Yes.

[she sighs -- then snaps out of it and says matter-of-factly to Beren]

So. When the Hunter from beyond the Sea heard the Children's song, he should _not_ have gone among them, should not have lead them west to a new homeland?

 **Beren** : [sarcastic]

That would follow from what I said, wouldn't it?

 **Manwe** :

He and his kinfolk should _not_ have taught them new lore and art, nor the skills that allowed them to thrive in greater health and strength than they had previously known?

 **Beren** :

That's what I said. And you're leaving out all the problems it caused the Elves.

 **Varda** :

We were not speaking of the Firstborn.

[silence]

 **Beren** :

N -- no.

[shaking his head fiercely]

You're twisting it all around --

 **Manwe** :

How so?

 **Beren** :

It -- for us -- it was _different_.

 **Varda** :

How?

 **Beren** :

It just was.

[Pause]

 _He_ didn't tell us it was perfectly safe -- we knew there was a War going on, and we knew the Enemy was there and out to get us all.

 **Varda** :

Naturally -- the world had changed, and so that was then the truth in your people's day.

 **Beren** :

But the Enemy sneaked through and committed murder anyway, and wrecked the land.

 **Varda** :

Yes. We are most favorably impressed.

 **Beren** :

? ? ?

 **Varda** :

Despite all that, your people remained faithful, and did not turn from your foreign lords in anger and outrage at their newly-revealed weakness, but stayed beside them through the bitter dark that has followed, as loyal as the Vanyar to us. Not even Melkor's murder of your father served to turn your heart against the Eldar.

[momentarily speechless, Beren makes a cutting gesture before finding his voice]

 **Beren** : [roughly]

You're twisting things around again.

 **Manwe** :

If you would be consistent, you must allow it equally error on the part of your friend and his folk to interfere with the destiny and quality of life of your people, as for us to meddle with the fortunes of his own --  _folly_ , if well meant, and ultimately no less ruinous to those 'twas meant to aid.

 **Beren** : [almost shouting]

Don't say that! He --

[breaks off, upset]

 **Varda** :

Do you not admit that the problem of the Eldar and the problem of the Edain are one in nature?

 **Beren** : [grim]

No.

[silence. Across the prismatic dome overhead and around, an aurora borealis gradually appears, arcs for a while during the following exchanges, and flickers away]

Because I don't want it to be true.

[pause]

Look, I know it's dumb and wrong, but I just can't. -- Besides, _that's_ not where the problems start. Whether you blame it on the Silmarils themselves or some of the Elves staying behind or whatever, the real issue is the fact that there are monsters and demons and diseases and an evil god running around loose to cause all these troubles. If you made the world, why can't you just change it so that things like that can't happen?

 **Manwe** : [mildly]

Because to do so would unmake the World.

 **Beren** :

I don't see that.

[unison]

 **Varda** : **Manwe** :

We know.

[pause]

 **Beren** :

Look, your explanations _aren't_ , and I don't have answers for your answers -- but how about something I _do_ understand damn' well? Let me give you the problem on a smaller scale, where maybe we can both agree on it: where is the justice in Tinuviel having to suffer and risk her life and lose her happiness and lose her life because of me? She wasn't Noldor, she didn't choose one way or the other to follow you or not to follow, she didn't rebel against you, and all the same she got caught by the Doom, and if it isn't that you all are mad at Thingol for marrying her mother, and made him ask for a Silmaril to punish him by having her die --

 **Manwe** : [bemused]

\-- What a _curious_ notion --

 **Beren** :

\-- which wouldn't be fair to her, or anybody else in Doriath either, then surely you could have changed something to make it so that I didn't run into her and none of this every happened. Something. Anything. At least you could have protected her from me.

 **Manwe** :

 _Any_ fate you would find a better, than for you to find the daughter of Melian, and she to follow you?

 **Beren** :

Yeah.

[the blue-black night sky slowly takes on an angry reddish hue, as rising flames lick up from along several points on the horizon, and thereby define edges of forest margin and steep hillsides in the dark. (Note: the effect of this and the animations which succeed it is an IMAX theatre, only not photographic, but an Impressionist painting done in stained-glass -- brilliant, jewel-like colors lit from within, but no black outlines.)]

[To one side of the Thrones, where the images run between them and Beren, misshapen shadowy figures bearing torches spill out from the darkness into a rough circle; dark tents and standards with skulls (real and painted) and images of ravens and wolves' heads are revealed by the flickering light. Typical barbarian-warlord/ evil-sorcerer's encampment. From the nearest tent emerges an ominous tall armoured, cloaked figure, (typical barbarian-warlord/ evil-sorcerer) who stands expectantly in the midst of his minions as the crowd parts to allow a new group to enter]

 **Manwe** :

In this ending, you do _not_ arrive in Doriath.

[the newcomers are a squad of enormous wolves, several with riders, one of them a pale blue-gray, and not ridden. One of the riders does not do so voluntarily, being draped over the Warg's back, bound hand and foot (and arm and knee, for good measure) until the nearest Orc pulls him off and drops him face down on the ground. Their commander walks over slowly, standing there for a moment before booting the prisoner over onto his back. Even without sound, the gloating still comes through, followed by some predictably-imprudent defiance, judging from the way the guards start hauling their mortal captive upright. The camera swings to focus on Beren and the Valar, so that we don't actually see what happens next, only the burning hillsides on the other walls, while Beren keeps watching apparently completely unfazed by it]

 **Beren** : [utterly blasé]

Huh. Guess I did get him that time after all.

 **Varda** :

Such a fate does not daunt you?

[he turns back to face the Thrones]

 **Beren** : [shrugging]

It's only what I expected.

 **Manwe** :

And for all your efforts to avoid it, you find it preferable to that which was?

 **Beren** : [levelly]

If that had happened --  _she_ would still be alive. And Huan. And Finrod, and the noblest lords of Nargothrond. And a whole bunch of other people in Doriath. No one I loved would have died _because_ _of_ _me_.

 **Varda** :

It is too late for that, at this stanza. Those who trusted in your ability to defy our rival and to defend them, against all reason, and left their hiding places and rekindled the flame of defiance against Melkor, and were ground into the ashes of their holdings -- are they no one, then? You survived that disastrous rising, but what of those who believed, and were taught the error of their faith by the Lord of Wolves?

[silence]

 **Beren** :

That -- it -- it wasn't --

[he breaks off. In a choked tone]

You're not being fair.

 **Varda** : [calm]

What is in error? That your remnant people died? Or that they did so the sooner, because of your provocation? Or that you loved them?

[long pause]

 **Beren** : [grinding out the words]

All right. I made mistakes too. That can't be the only way.

[the fiery glow changes to a calmer light -- the sun is rising over a green valley, over which in the background loom shining mountain peaks; on one of these can be seen the spires of a slightly-alien-looking but mostly traditional castle. _Far_ off there is still a dark smudge on the horizon even as the sky rapidly becomes blue. In the foreground is a fairly-Viking-looking village, with carved painted pillars and gables on the houses, and fields all around either plowed or full of livestock. Lots of horses. A stream runs through the middle of the vale. Deer drink at it; broad-winged hawks circle overhead.]

 **Manwe** :

Yet another ending, to your story, then --

[up the road to the village comes a rider on a gorgeous steed, cantering to one of the farmhouses, from which charge several tow-headed children of different heights and both sexes, but all equally enthusiastic enough to make it a good thing the picture is without sound; they are followed almost instantly by two tall women with braided hair, one gold, the other silver, who join in the mobbing of the returned horseman -- whose clothes, even in the impressionistic rendering, certainly are not a mismatched collection of rags. As the traveler, gesturing back towards the distant tower, is welcomed home by three generations of family, and his children pile onto the horse heading towards a barn, while wife and mother lead him into the house, Beren turns a stricken countenance to the Lord and Lady.]

 **Beren** :

Is this real? Is _that_ what would have happened, if I'd gone instead of staying?

 **Varda** :

We cannot tell. It could have been.

 **Manwe** :

Is this the story that would content you, the ending rightfully yours, of which your Doom has cheated you?

 **Beren** : [softly, shaking his head]

No. --  _No_  --

[he is distraught and nearly in tears]

 **Varda** : [faintly curious]

You would not hesitate to change your past for an earlier and more painful death -- yet you are of divided mind regarding a change that might have granted a full and happy life according to your people's measure. Do you not think that a strange thing?

 **Beren** :

I -- I --

[he lifts his hand helplessly]

I wouldn't have known Tinuviel then. I wouldn't ever have known -- what else the world could be.

[pause]

I _know_ that doesn't make any sense. Everything else that way is the same. Nobody else gets hurt. But if I had just died fighting, I wouldn't -- I wouldn't think _that_ was the best that it could be -- I wouldn't have missed anything. It -- it seems worse, to have lived without ever realizing what more there was.

[he bites his lip, and shakes his head again, half-laughing, half-crying]

I guess it would have been better if I was never born at all.

 **Varda** :

Truly?

[he nods, his expression grim]

You know, then, better than the One, who should exist in Arda?

 **Beren** :

I didn't say that.

 **Varda** :

Did you not?

[silence]

 **Beren** : [sullen]

\-- Only for me. Because of what happened because of me.

 **Manwe** :

But there are so many other possibilities. What if you had died to guard your companions on their way to join your kin of Hador? What if you had gone at once to Nargothrond with news of your father's death, instead of remaining to wage war alone? Or if Elwe's daughter had never found you in the forest -- how many long years in peace would you have stayed? Each one a different story. Would all those _truly_ have been so much worse than not having lived at all? What of the lives you did save, the fugitives you did guard who escaped to other lands?

[Beren scowls, but doesn't answer]

 **Varda** :

You would ordain the world according to your certainty. But have you no consideration for the way that _Luthien_ would rather have things Be? Would _her_ ideal Song have no mortal note of yours?

[pause]

 **Beren** :

It would still be better for her if she hadn't met me.

[the Starqueen just Looks at him]

What?

[still waiting]

It's true.

 **Varda** : [ice]

So you, too, number yourself among those who are wiser than she, and how her life should be ordered for her, will she, nil she.

[silence]

 **Beren** : [still stubborn, but quieter]

It would have been better if things hadn't happened the way they did. -- Unless you think it's a good thing she's dead.

 **Varda** :

Many things would be better, if matters had fallen out other than they did.

 **Manwe** : [earnest]

Have you thought at all what other deeds done in the world might have changed things? Or do you believe that your hands alone shape the fate of Arda?

 **Beren** :

 _Hand_. You're behind on things.

[aside, dismayed]

\-- I don't believe I'm doing this. I'm mouthing off to the High King and Queen of all the earth, like a bratty eight-year-old, and I can't _help_ it, and any Man or Elf would have slammed me one by now or stopped talking to me, and gods forbid Ma would've heard me talking to anyone like this -- only they're _not_  --

[shrugging]

It's not just me. About me. Or us. It's _everybody_. Whatever happens, in war or not, people suffer and die. Even here. Because the world is all just _wrong_.

[the Powers look at each other for a silent moment before turning their shimmering gaze back on the mortal spirit]

 **Manwe** : [quietly]

How, then, would _you_ have ordained the world?

[pause]

 **Beren** : [short]

I'm serious.

 **Varda** :

As are we.

[he looks at them, exasperated, but they're a lot more patient than he is]

 **Beren** : [sarcastic, playing along, but getting caught up in it]

Oh sure, you want _me_ to solve all the problems in the universe. How to end suffering and warfare. Hm.

[thinking out loud]

Well, let's see . . . for starters, no Morgoth.

 **Varda** : [earnest]

He cannot be destroyed. Even were we to battle him again -- which itself would ruin as much or more as he has done, and serve his purposes even as we attempted to counter them -- we cannot _end_ him. His spirit is as eternal as ours, and may only be restrained by our strength, but never slain, though his shape may be harmed according to the laws of earth and flesh.

 **Beren** :

I mean just -- never make him, so he can't think of things to do to the world. That would eliminate them before they ever happened, right?

 **Varda** :

Melkor did not _compel_ any of those who followed him to do so. Lied to them, yes; suggested potentialities to them that otherwise had never crossed their minds; intimidated those who wished to resist him. But if he could have forced any to join him regardless of will, would he not have done so to me, first of all?

 **Beren** : [frowning]

You? Why _you_?

[the High King of Arda covers his face with his hands, while his Queen tilts her head and Looks at the mortal with as much amusement as a body shaped of starlight and midnight can convey]

 **Varda** :

Why Luthien the Nightingale? -- Why Arien of the Burning Heart? And many, many more, most never given names in your speech.

[as it starts to add up, Beren looks from her to her consort in growing surprise, then at the floor with an expression of chagrin.]

\-- Because there are those who cannot bear the thought that beauty should be free, that joy should take cause from any source but themselves, that another will should be strong and use that strength for any other purpose but at their pleasure.

[with a touch of sharpness creeping in]

 _I_ am not a collectible either. Nor will I _ever_ be a slave -- still less, then, a _tool_ for another's ambitions.

 **Manwe** :

If my elder had not chosen to subject all voices to his own, and silence all who would not sing his tune -- still would those who gladly made themselves his captains and spies been free to choose to do the same, though weaker their voices and smaller the discords than he causes.

 **Varda** :

Even we. Even in us the lure of domination might rise, did we not take our first and greatest joy in _being_ , not in _having_.

[louder]

\-- Even I might have refused to allow any other light save my Work to shine upon the world, commanded that no rival stars be made from earth by cunning hands, or when the Darkness came, declared that so 'twas meant to be, and never should any other brightness defile the sky to hide my art, forbidden my fellow Voices to call forth the Two whose light obscures them, and fought them if they refused to obey me -- and given my love the choice between my will, and my love. Even I might fall, did I not ever strive against jealousy and falsehood in my heart. --  _Even_ _I_.

[softer]

Banishing a Voice unheard _cannot_ prevent discord from rising in another's Song.

 **Beren** : [pleading]

But can't you _make_ them be good? Without Morgoth you're the most powerful, right? So why can't you just change it?

 **Manwe** :

How?

 **Beren** : [frustrated]

 _I_ don't know, I'm not a god. -- Just stop them from being able to do anything harmful.

 **Manwe** :

Have _you_ the power to do harm?

 **Beren** : [snorting]

I'm dead now.

 **Manwe** :

We are aware of that. Can one not choose to work to good or to ill, even in fetters,  when no bodily power save the mind's ability to affirm, or deny, to forgive, speak love or hate, defy -- is all that remains?

[pause]

Have you not yet such power within your mastery?

 **Beren** :

\-- Some.

 **Manwe** :

Housed or not, whence comes that power?

[pause]

 **Beren** : [reluctant]

From _me_. Deciding what to say or do.

 **Manwe** :

Shall we take it from you? Leave but an _image_ of yourself, that cannot speak any thought that does not first come from mine, or work any wish that does not come from hers? What is left of _Beren_ , when we have done so? Of any person, mortal, deathless, or divine?

[silence]

 **Beren** : [grim]

Is -- is that what you're gonna do to me?

[the Powers shake their heads]

Why not? I've caused you enough trouble, I bet.

 **Varda** :

No one has that right. --  _None_.

[pause]

 **Beren** : [smiling sardonically]

Not even me. I get it.

 **Manwe** :

Nor even, entirely, the power. To destroy is not to govern; to slay, not to rule. Do not the Enemy's own servants even rebel so far as they are able?

[pause]

 **Beren** :

Okay, then . . . let's tackle this a different way. Defensive, not offensive.

[frowning]

How's this? I wouldn't have anything that could be hurt or destroyed. And nothing that could _do_ harm or be used to destroy things. Nothing caused by Morgoth, or tainted by him.

[looking up at them with his head on one side, cockily]

I think that should do it.

 **Manwe** :

Truly?

[Beren nods]

 **Varda** :

 _Nothing_?

[he shakes his head]

 **Varda** :

 **Manwe** : [unison, sadly]

Behold the world of _your_ Song --

[in the windows the village disappears from the valley and the castle from the mountainside. Followed, in turn, by the soaring birds and deer, and then the vegetation, leaving only bare earth, rock, and water under an empty sky]

 **Beren** : [angry]

No. That _isn't_ what I said.

 **Varda** :

Nothing mortal is left -- nor Eldarin, for to live and to know is to be able to suffer.

 **Manwe** :

But even now, there are still those things which may be harmed, and those which were caused by my elder.

[the stream vanishes, and the mountains sink down into the earth, leaving an empty plain under the sun, which fades slowly, not setting, right from the middle of the sky. As the horizon reddens and darkens:]

Nor will the moon rise to take her place, for neither Anor nor Isil would have come to be, were it not for the deaths of the Two. Is this lightless world, too dead for Death to work any further harm upon, _better_ than the other?

[pause]

 **Beren** : [stubbornly]

The Stars weren't made by the Enemy. They can't destroy anything.

[in the deepening gloom, points of light reappear, gradually returning almost to their real splendour]

 **Varda** :

But they were made for our fellow Children, and to warn Melkor against doing harm to the world. So they, too, were partly caused by him.

[pause]

 **Beren** :

Still -- not made _by_ him, and --  _they_ can't be hurt. They're just lights.

 **Varda** : [calm]

But even my works will not last forever, and in time they too will reach the end of their lifespan, and the Heavens will fail, and then there will be nothing left but the changeless Dark.

[in the windows the Stars slowly go out, leaving only blackness -- the only lights now are from the three spirits conversing there]

And we, too, are banished from your Song -- for we have been harmed with Ea, and we must suffer in this All-that-is of ours.

[he does not answer]

Two times already you have denied the Void. Will you now, at the last, reject the World?

[pause -- Beren looks silently at the wall of unending Night, and then at the Starmaker, for an equally long moment, and then slowly bows his head]

 **Beren** : [almost whispering]

No.

 **Varda** : [with a shading of approval in her remote voice]

We hoped you would not.

 **Manwe** : [equal approbation]

Well-chosen, friend.

[the star-dome returns as it was, blue-white, blue-black, silver-iridescent, shimmering over them.]

 **Beren** : [bitter smile]

Huh.

[he looks at them again, at last; softly:]

What should I do?

[simultaneously]

 **Manwe** :

 **Varda** :

We do not know.

[he bows his head again, shaking it]

 **Beren** :

Right.

[he turns as if in a daze, or concussed, and begins walking wearily towards the Stair.]

 **Varda** :

What will you do?

 **Beren** : [brokenly]

I don't know.

[at the door he looks back, speaking over his shoulder:]

The Stars -- they were very beautiful . . . Thank you for making them. -- And for the Eagles.

[He turns again and steps through the Door, and vanishes. The King and Queen look at each other sadly and clasp hands between their thrones.]


	117. Act 4: SCENE V.v

[the Hall]

[Luthien is looking a bit hectic and brittle as she talks, just short of ranting, with the illusion of more control than actually is present. It is a very awkward situation for her audience, who cannot actually do anything to help the distress to which they are witness, and haven't anywhere else to go -- though Luthien is fairly unaware of their presence at the moment now that Finrod has gotten her started talking, and would probably not notice if they left or not.]

 **Luthien** :

And everyone kept trying to make me feel that it was _my_ _fault_ for being miserable, as if I were just --  _choosing_ to be unhappy, out of spite, to punish them. Not that if I'd _known_ what they were going to do after I wouldn't have _wanted_ to -- but I'm not Gifted that way. Not like Mom.

[shaking her head]

It's so strange, looking back on that time, and knowing now what I didn't know then, not just about what was happening to Beren and you, but about _everything_. How things would happen. What people would do. That they would make those decisions, and what I would do, and now it's like watching other people playing chess, and seeing the strategies they're using, and knowing how the game is going to go, and not being able to do anything about it, because they won't listen to advice. Only it's not really like that, because it's all in the past. -- But would we have _listened_ , if we had actually known what was going to happen, or would we not?

 **Angrod** : [quietly]

 _We_ didn't.

[Finarfin tries to catch his gaze, but he won't look up]

 **Luthien** :

The worst thing was how they all expected that it would pass, if I weren't being so perversely-stubborn. I can't just " _get_ _over_ him," I kept telling everybody --

[with a narrow Look at the Ambassador]

\-- "and I'm not singing because I don't _feel_ like singing, not because I'm trying to make you feel guilty, and I'm staying out in the woods all the day round because I can't stand to be around here, and at least _there_ I can remember him even if it hurts -- not because there's still "a _spell_ on me."

[angry sigh]

And Dad would say things like "He's not coming back, he's certainly not crying his eyes out over you, and he isn't worth your notice, let alone getting despondent over," and Mom would say, "You don't understand," and when I'd say -- "What? So tell me -- " she'd just shake her head and sigh and give me this pitying smile, until I'd start saying it was the same as _them_ , and then she'd get upset.

[icy emphasis]

And everyone wanted me to _just_ _be_ _happy_. -- Or to stop being _un_ happy so that they wouldn't have to feel uncomfortable around me, at least. That was the worst -- when I realized that it wasn't -- at least not entirely -- concern for me that made them want me to be normal and back to my old self.

 **Amarie** : [aside]

Aye, _that's_ a tune its burden I ken well.

[her lips tighten in angry recollection]

 **Luthien** : [getting more and more precise]

I felt so -- so _drained_ and horrible at first, after the numbness wore off, that I thought I was fading -- and I told people that, _and_ _they_ _laughed_. "Don't be silly." -- Don't be _silly_  -- ! That was what they told me. Because you can't really be in love with a human, so you can't be fading, even if he was dead. -- Only Daeron didn't laugh. He knew it was real. He always knew.

[she wipes her eyes furiously while Finrod looks up over her head to meet Aegnor's burning Look]

 **Finrod** : [quietly]

I never said that. --  _You_ said something very close to that, when you came to ask me for help. -- I didn't laugh, either.

 **Luthien** : [oblivious to their interaction]

And I thought he was sorry because he understood _now_ , because he believed me, that it was an accident in a way, an honest mistake of him fearing for me -- not that he was jealous and didn't care that we were truly in love. He was so _understanding_ and sympathetic, listening to me for hours, and it never occurred to me to think that he was doing it for an ulterior motive.

[the tears start winning over her self-control again]

 **Elenwe** : [shaking her head]

'Tis a strange and wondrous thing, such avarice for love, that sorroweth at others' joy, nay, had liefer suffer in solitary darkness than take delight in the shining world else, and seemeth much akin to that which denieth joy to others, when to share delight should cost one naught of loss, nay, moreover but little distance, to that Darkest joy that feedeth but on sorrow.

 **Ambassador** : [hackles raised]

My lady, we of the Twilight are not of the Dark, and little would you presume to think it, did you know our Lord and Lady in their gracious selves.

 **Finarfin** : [not angry, but stern]

Sir, we do not for _ever_ here compare our very selves unto our sundered Kin, but most of all do speak and think of that which hath our present and former experience encompass't. -- Such, I do believe, is most commonly the way of it, among any folk of any race, else place, else Age. My kinswoman did set in balance the deeds of this thy Daeron against them of Feanor my brother, and deem both at some near remove from th'envious soul of him our common foe, the Lord of Fettersn -- no more.

[pause]

 **Ambassador** :

I do beg your pardon, gentles. The dissensions that your rebel element's return have made within this Age throughout our lands have caused us to be somewhat over-ready in taking insult; but I should have considered first that those most near to Felagund would scarcely speak with the same arrogance as others.

[Elenwe is as indifferent to the apology as to the reason for it, but Finarfin exchanges a wry glance with his brother's shade -- the "relative of Finrod" status is a sensation which takes some getting used to]

 **Luthien** : [unable to stop crying, embarrassed]

I'm sorry, this is so stupid --

[Eol chuckles -- Finrod turns to give him a lethal glare while Fingolfin turns away from the sight of his son-in-law's ghost, clenching his fists]

 **Finrod** : [to Eol]

Say _anything_ , kinsman, and I will both personally _and_ vicariously beat you into the floor. _Repeatedly_ , until you learn better manners or the Powers ask me to stop, whichever comes first. Understood?

[Eol doesn't deign to respond, but doesn't say anything to or about Luthien. Aredhel smirks, just a little]

 **Captain** : [grim approval]

No shortage of volunteers, for that.

[the Noldor princess leans towards him, in a familiar aside]

 **Aredhel** : [offhand]

You know, it's a shame your sister isn't here.

[the Captain starts, and then stares fixedly ahead at her words, with the expression of someone who does not dare to say anything just yet, or else is choking on too many things to be said all at once. Finrod's cousin goes on:]

She's so much _fun_  -- I'd enjoy having her about, and then there'd be someone on _my_ side finally.

[pause]

 **Luthien** : [sobbing]

"I _can't_ just cheer up," I said, "and I'm not even going to try -- are you _crazy_?" And then -- people started pretending -- pretending -- that I _wasn't_ _there_  --

[overlapping]

 **Amarie** :

Would that I might have had such inattention 'gainst myself!

 **Teler Maid** :

Only one person ever did feign I was not present.

[their respective partners react with obvious tenseness and chagrin. The Captain looks at Aredhel at last:]

 **Captain** : [absolutely neutral and pleasant]

It's funny you should say that, your Highness, because my lord's sister and I were discussing the same thing on the Ice once, and what the Lady _Galadriel_ said to me was, "Good thing Suli's smarter than either of us -- I'd hate to have drawn her into this," and I agreed absolutely with every point of it, in every possible way.

[longer pause]

 **Luthien** : [sarcastic]

"Just _forget_ about him" -- as if!

 **Finrod** : [rueful]

At least you didn't have siblings telling you that you ought to find someone else.

[Amarie gives him a sudden diamond-flash Look, but his attention is on comforting Luthien. Angrod and Aegnor share involuntary, guilt-filled glances. Aredhel narrows her eyes at the Captain]

 **Aredhel** : [coldly]

My cousin indulges your impertinence shamefully.

 **Captain** :

No, as a matter of fact, the word you want is "abets," my lady. I manage things that it would be inappropriate for him to take official notice of. -- Unless you're referring to that one time when I broke your nose by accident. -- Which I wouldn't have done if you'd clobbered me from in front rather than behind. Did you want me to apologize for that again, your Highness?

 **Aredhel** :

 _No_.

 **Captain** : [meaningfully]

Just a little friendly advice -- I really don't think you should express your indignation on behalf of your friends quite so --  _energetically_ this time, when someone says anything about the sons of Feanor in the near future.

 **Aredhel** :

Do _not_ tell me what to do. You're not one of _my_ counselors.

[snorting]

\-- I don't consider you a _friend_ , either.

 **Captain** : [easily]

Yes, but I consider the Lord of Dogs and Beren and Princess Luthien mine, in their own ways. _They_ don't need more trouble, even if you aren't worried.

[with a sidelong Look]

Besides, Highness, what do you care what anyone says to you? You never let it affect you one way or the other.

 **Aredhel** :

Shut up.

[Luthien pounds her clenched hand on her knee, until Huan lifts up his head with a whine and rests it on her lap]

 **Luthien** : [raising her voice]

"He's not a tame deer,"I said, "I didn't lose a _pet_  -- and I didn't lose a _game_ either, it isn't just that I was humiliated in front of everybody -- I can't just brush it off and move on to the busy fun-filled rest of my life, and you trying to help me by making me participate in silliness and make-work are just making it _worse_ by making the contrast between your lives and what's been done to us all the stronger!"

[she shakes her head, stroking Huan's muzzle absently as she goes on, getting hiccoughy again]

And they said -- you're being --  _heartless_. -- And irrational.

[her voice gives out and she lets Finrod pull her against his shoulder so she can just cry.]

 **Fingolfin** : [sad]

Those twin goads of loneliness and anger do serve as spurs to action at the need, but in the quiet hours and between-whiles how such terrible weights drag upon the heart and mind and even flesh and bone, so that only action cure them, for a little while . . .

[his living relatives look at him with both sympathy and a little surprise at this display of reflection on the part of one so formerly brash, but his daughter shakes her head scornfully]

 **Aredhel** : [impatient]

Oh, Father, _when_ are you going to stop feeling sorry for yourself? It's _embarrassing_ to be around you any more.

[Nienna's Apprentice has a sudden coughing fit -- he waves his hand in dismissal as people turn and stare at him]

 **Apprentice** :

Sorry. Something stuck in my throat.

[aside]

\--  _Words_.

[very quietly and looking (for him) quite uncertain and awkward, the Lord Warden of Aglon comes in, scanning the chamber and not seeming to find whomever he is looking for. As he stands there by the doorway, the Lord of Dogs lifts his head and bares teeth in his direction, snarling softly, and both the Steward and his ex tense up -- Finrod sets one hand on his counselor's shoulder and takes hold of Huan's collar with the other, addressing all of his following in an undertone:]

 **Finrod** :

\-- Disregard him unless and until he makes a scene.

[after hesitating there the Lord Warden begins a very circuitous journey towards the side of the dais where the Apprentice is sitting, very obviously avoiding everyone else as well as avoiding looking at them, his carriage very stiff and haughty.]

 **Eol** : [spitting the words]

I'll not share the same floor with one of _them_  --

[he starts to rise]

 **Aredhel** : [brightly]

Farewell!

[at that he glares and sits back down, caught between two horns of the dilemma of controlling pride]

 **Soldier** : [quietly]

Mithrim again.

 **Fingolfin** :

Aye.

 **Elenwe** : [curious]

What signifieth that word?

 **Finrod** : [grimacing]

Long story. It's the lake where we first set up a permanent camp, you see . . .

[as he gives a _very_ quick rundown for the cousin who never set foot there, the partisan of Feanor comes to stand next to Nienna's Apprentice, wearing a bleak and very uncomfortable expression]

 **Warden of Aglon** : [abrupt]

Where's your Master?

[the Apprentice shrugs]

I need to talk to her.

 **Apprentice** :

Join the crowd.

 **Warden of Aglon** : [ice]

I am in no mood for your humour now.

 **Apprentice** :

Wasn't joking. I don't know where she is, and I badly want to ask her advice, so that makes two of us at least here. -- Join the crowd.

[shrugs again]

Or don't, as you please.

[the Warden of Aglon glares at him for a brief moment, looks around at the others uncertainly and realizes that he is _not_ the center of all attention, that nobody is giving him more than passing notice, and slowly makes his way a little distance off, sits down -- but not so far that he is completely out of the conversation.]

 **Elenwe** :

Little other than Tirion in the time of unrest it seemeth -- to journey so far afield, and yet make all as 'twas homewards!

[she shakes her head in mild amazement at their folly]

 **Finrod** :

Yes, but there it was different because we _knew_ they'd killed, instead of just having it be this mysterious and unspoken possibility as it was in the Day of innocence. So it was pretty unpleasant for us, as you might imagine.

[the newcomer gives him a hostile Look, but does nothing. To Luthien, who has cried herself out again:]

Would you like more water? 

**Luthien** :

No, thank you, I'm fine, I -- I'll be all right.

[she wipes her eyes again and goes on in a thin forced tone of normality]

Would you believe, my parents actually were put out with me because --  _they_ _said_  -- it was _my_ fault they couldn't take their summer holiday that year!?

[with a grim smile of beyond-outrage exasperation]

And I said, "My heart is broken, and you're complaining because you don't feel you can go on vacation." And Dad said, "You'll get over it."

[wry]

\-- I didn't.


	118. Act 4: SCENE V.vi

[Elsewhere: the shadowy Stair]

[Beren goes blindly down the steps, bent and defeated, his unsteadiness increasing with each pace, until he stumbles, falling to his knees as though drunk -- or wounded -- and lies sprawled on the descending staircase, his eyes closed and his face set in an expression of grim misery. For one instant he tries to push himself up, but his hand slips, his balance is gone, and he slams down hard against the stone again, and lets his head rest with a sigh. As the camera draws out from his face we see that the dark stairway has changed, into a slope of cindery grains, beyond which are yet more dark hills and dunes interrupted by the occasional sharp and broken-edged rock. There is a cold light over all, as if from a full moon that cannot yet be seen beyond the horizon, but no stars, and nothing living to be seen anywhere . . .]


	119. Act 4: SCENE V.vii

[the Hall]

[Nearly everyone is paying close attention to Luthien's account of the abrupt shattering of Doriath's serenity, although Aredhel is boredly flipping a dagger into the air and catching it in various creative ways, and as a result the Teler Maid is watching her with the disconcerting fascinated focus of a cat. Whatever temptations are simmering in her mind however apparently requiring some level of cooperation, any nefarious plans are presently held in check -- every time she looks pleadingly at one or another of the Ten, the Captain shakes his head definitely against it; for the present the White Lady is safe from juvenile mayhem.]

 **Luthien** : [earnestly to Finrod]

I'm so sorry, you must be so bored listening to me complain about my family by now.

[she is in much better control of herself right now, but clearly still fragile. Her cousin shakes his head]

 **Finrod** :

No. I'm -- rather upset by the fact that part of me was still convinced that some of it had to be -- not exaggerated, perhaps, but at least _somewhat_ magnified and distorted by report, and -- that I was wrong. I --  _did_ expect much better of Elu and your mother than that.

[he looks very downcast and rather agitated]

This is the first time in the past twelve years that I've regretted 'Tari going out East. If she'd been there, I'm certain things wouldn't have come apart this way.

[his father's attention sharpens, but the (living) King of the Noldor does not interrupt]

 **Luthien** : [sighing]

Me too. From the very start.

[with a slight smile]

She _hates_ being called that, you know. It annoys her worse than when you roll the "d" in her name.

 **Finrod** : [shrugging]

Of course. That's why I do it. Someone's got to make her laugh when she starts getting all "Harken, fools!" over trivial things. Going on a picnic in May is _not_ organizing a rope-bridge traverse over a crevasse and sometimes she forgets that.

 **Steward** : [observing quietly, apparently to Huan]

You know it's gotten out of control when _I_ start wondering if it's really necessary to redistribute the weight in the saddlebags _just_ one more time and if it will make any difference if we've four dozen different choices of menu or only thirty-six.

[the Doriathrin lord smiles faintly but quickly restrains his humour at the recollection; Finarfin's expression is a study in melancholy longing]

 **Luthien** : [wryly]

And we still forgot, what was it, the walnut-butter? No, apple jelly.

[frowning at Finrod]

Only that was because _you_ nicked it to tease her, and then you forgot you'd put it in your wallet until we'd gotten home.

[pause]

You're cheering me up again.

 **Finrod** : [rueful smile]

Sorry. I'll try not to do it again.

[she gives him a light swat with her fingers on his elbow]

 **Luthien** : [serious again, but in a sort of whimsical-remote tone]

No, but really, it was as if I was the only adult left in Doriath, and everyone else was acting like -- like -- I don't know, like spooked animals in a thunderstorm or something. There's Mom -- "Let's just pretend nothing's happening," -- right after she's just told me that oh, yes, Beren's being tortured in a dungeon and the only brightness in his life is remembering _us_  -- but _don't_ go ask your father for an army, and don't even _think_ about trying to rescue him yourself, because you'll just be miserable afterwards anyway. There's Daeron -- "I won't help you for his sake, because I'm upset with him for making you so unhappy, even if it's not reasonable -- but I'll do it for _yours_."

[tossing her head scornfully]

Huh -- with this friends like this, _enemies_ have to wait their turn. And then there's Dad, alternating between shouting at me, shouting at Beren even though he's not there, and _pleading_ with me in tears to just stop it all and promise that I wouldn't try to follow him.

[she laughs shortly]

\-- And then there's _me_ , feeling like -- feeling like maybe this was what it felt like _here_ , when the Darkness came and everybody went half-crazy like we heard --

[with a raised-eyebrow Look at Angrod]

\-- in bits and pieces, to be sure.

[transferring the Look to the Ambassador]

And then there's _everybody_ _else_ , making perfectly-reasonable suggestions about what should be done to the madwoman, like keeping me locked in my rooms for a hundred years, except no, that wouldn't work, because I'd get sick and pine not being able to see starlight and trees, unless what if we put her to sleep for all that time instead, except that wouldn't work because nobody's powerful enough except maybe Mom and she wouldn't get involved, so then somebody comes up with the brilliant suggestion of sticking me up in the top of Hirilorn, which was just _fiendishly_ brilliant, and who was it who came up with it any way, you or cousin Galadhon -- or I suppose it doesn't matter now, does it . . .

 **Eol** : [confused and disgusted]

Why wouldn't it?

[Luthien stares at him in equal confusion]

The wrong does not cease to have been _done_ you, because you are dead and there's no way now for you to revenge yourself against the perpetrator.

[Elenwe turns and slowly looks at him as though he were some repellent but fascinating beast]

 **Elenwe** :

'Twas yon will to _vengeance_ that did animate thy foes, was't not? And burning vengeance that drove my lord his uncle, and's father, across the Sea unto their Dooms.

[earnest]

It _must_ _come_ , an end to vengeance -- else ne'er end shall come in Arda, nor only Arda its ending.

 **Eol** : [controlled, mocking irony]

Spare me your pious mysticism, _Light_ - _elf_. 

**Elenwe** : [mild]

Aye -- yet shall any spare thee from thyself, kinsman?

[the Warden of Aglon gives her a strange, troubled Look and then turns away, staring out into the shadows with an expression of longing]

 **Luthien** : [ignoring Eol and continuing to Finrod]

You know, I finally felt sorry for Galadriel after it came out about the Kinslaying. It's funny -- I felt sorry for you all, getting shouted at by Dad, but I was too upset with her to pity her at all, back when it happened. I mean, I forgave her, and it was all right between us, like with her and Mom, but when it first was all still going on, after you left, and my parents made her sit down and fill in all the gaps and verify Mom's guesses --

[shaking her head]

\-- I just felt betrayed. Because I felt like she was a little sister, or even better, because she was so _different_ from everyone else I knew in Doriath and I knew her so much better than you, because she lived with us. I'd never had a friend like her before, and she was so clever and exciting and had so many stories to tell . . . and then I realized how much she'd been leaving out, and _why_ , and it just made me sick.

[in the background, the palantir is glowing softly, but no one is paying attention, and no one notices, not even Nienna's Apprentice. Eventually it goes dark again.]

I wouldn't talk to her for I don't know how long. I stayed up in the trees because I didn't even want to look at her, or hear her try to apologize to me. When Mom and Dad were raking her over the coals and Celeborn took off to stand guard with the Rangers for a while and said he didn't know if he was going to come back, what was the point of setting up a communications system if the people it was meant to reach weren't going to talk to us -- I just felt it was justice.

[Huan starts making increasingly-loud Please-Don't-Be-Unhappy! whines and she reaches down to shush him. With a profound sigh:]

I still do. I don't think there's any comparison between concealing the story of the Darkening and all but lying to Mom while she was taking everything Mom would teach her, and not even telling Dad his best friend had been murdered until she had to, let alone the rest of it -- and my keeping Beren's presence for myself. I _knew_ he wasn't a threat to us, -- and he wouldn't have been, if they hadn't made him into one. But when it was my turn to be questioned and reprimanded and cross-questioned and scolded again and again, I understood why she would have tried to put it off forever, pretend that everything was all right and deny it when it wasn't, for as long as possible -- because there's nothing more horrible than having the people you love look at you as if you've changed into something awful, or _been_ changed --

[seriously]

I'd forgiven her, but I hadn't ever pitied her before. But I finally knew what she must have been feeling, and how much it must have hurt inside, and I finally thought, "Poor Galadriel."

[with an uneven smile]

I only then realized how much it must have hurt for us to call her that -- Galadriel, I mean, not "poor" -- because of it being the name Celeborn gave her, until they got back together again after all that. What else were we going to call her? I don't think it even occurred to us to use her other ones. But she never gave any sign of what it must have felt like. I wasn't that brave -- though it was the other way around, I _wanted_ them to use the name he'd given me -- but . . .

 **Finrod** : [gently]

There was at least as much pride involved as unwillingness to embarrass you. -- I know what we're like. She wouldn't have admitted that it made her unhappy any more than I ever let on that being teased by my relatives for having a Dwarven aftername once bothered me.

[his uncle looks penitent, while his living relatives look interested]

 **Luthien** : [frowning]

It did?

 **Finrod** : [correcting]

The jesting -- that got old quickly. It stopped mattering when I asked myself _why_ it did, being a true name, and given that I held the wisdom of the one who had occasioned it in far higher esteem than those kinsmen who laughed at the thought of Elves living in burrows underground.

[Luthien gives the High King of the Noldor in Beleriand a hard Look -- then on a sudden inspiration turns and catches the Princes also looking rather embarrassed]

 **Luthien** : [dry]

No, well, you wouldn't have heard any teasing like that around _our_ House, obviously.

 **Finrod** :

Why do you think I used to invite myself over for long visits? It wasn't _only_ for the free music.

 **Luthien** :

 _I_ thought it was to argue over the nature of Time with Dad. That's what it seemed like.

[with a small reminiscent smile]

Galadriel and I used to have bets on how long it would take for you to start arguing about whether Time was a constant or not and who would be the first one to say the words "axle of the heavens."

 **Finrod** : [loftily]

We -- discussed other things, too. On _several_ occasions.

[checks]

Sorry -- I'm cheering you up again.

 **Luthien** : [with a nostalgic smile]

It's all right.

[dreamily]

It's kind of nice . . . to remember being happy and safe and not worried or angry. It _wasn't_ , when I was alive -- it just made things so much worse.

[checking]

Is that --  _another_ reason -- why you all never wanted to talk about Aman the way Mom did?

[Finrod nods sadly]

 **Nerdanel** : [shaking her head, bemused]

I confess, I do find it a great wonder and a difficulty, to conceive of young Artanis wed.

 **Aredhel** :

It's even funnier thinking of her living the primitive rustic life out in the woods _all_ _the_ _time_ , not just going out on hunting trips but staying in a cave with no conveniences and no technology surrounded by illiterates.

[Eol snarls at this; Luthien gives the Noldor Princess a cool, thoughtful look as the latter says leadingly]

Though someone as dull and dutiful as he sounds might be pleasant . . .

[she smiles at her husband's expression; for the first time she seems to properly notice her aunt's existence.]

\-- What are _you_ doing here anyway, 'Danel? You're not dead.

 **Nerdanel** : [brusque]

I do recollect me that once thou hadst better manners, when thou didst guest within my House -- else better mastery of thy inconsideration.

[she gives Fingolfin a Look that says volumes (or centuries, rather) about past familial interaction]

 **Finrod** :

'Feiniel, you know we've told you what the Thousand Caves were like, not quite a thousand times, but often enough.

[Aredhel tosses her head as she catches her dagger by the point and spins it about her fingers]

 **Aredhel** :

Yes, but it's amusing to watch my consort strangle over wanting to contradict me but not wanting to say anything nice about his royal cousins whatsoever.

[this doesn't impress any of her relatives -- favorably, but it does inspire the Elf from Alqualonde to beg for her friends' assistance again]

 **Teler Maid** : [urgent whisper]

Please! Oh please, just but once!

[she clasps her hands and makes puppy-eyes at the Captain, but he shakes his head]

 **Captain** :

Be patient, Ternlet.

[she sulks a bit, and starts eyeing the Apprentice speculatively as her next target in would-be conspiracy]

 **Finarfin** : [hesitantly to Luthien]

Gentle kinswoman, I had not willingly to interrupt thy discourse further -- yet must I perforce wish to, would I or no; and thus I'll entreat thy gracious indult that thou might say, and thou wouldst in mercy, of what temper and measure and spirit be this thy kinsman, that hast been named in hearing as one Celeborn -- and eke my son as yet unknown to me, by bond of love.

[Luthien blinks for a moment]

 **Luthien** :

What's he _like_  -- ? Well, um . . . he's my cousin . . . he likes messing around with boats, he's got a good way with trees -- he can be pretty stubborn, sometimes -- of course, that's all of us --

 **Finrod** : [cutting in]

He's pretty reasonable most of the time, I always thought.

 **Aegnor** : [muttering]

Yes, but you only say that because he usually agrees with you.

 **Finrod** :

And your point is -- ?

[his living relatives are not sure how to take this]

 **Angrod** :

You two argued for almost a month over the special boat service you wanted Menegroth to implement as part of your communications network.

 **Finrod** :

Yes, but he came round to my way of seeing things in the end, so that was all right.

 **Nerdanel** : [raising an eyebrow]

And thou dost rebuke others for fault of arrogance?

 **Finrod** : [snorting]

You think I believe only _agreement_ is a sign of rationality? Not at all -- his objections were mostly well-founded, and indicated things which needed to be worked through in more detail, if they hadn't been quite overlooked. I was referring to him losing his temper and saying things he has to apologize for afterwards, or running off to the Marches instead of . . .

[he stops talking and looks quickly at and away from Amarie. Pause. Stiffly:]

Never mind about that. -- He isn't unreasonable beyond reason -- most of the time he _is_ quite rational and objective.

 **Finarfin** : [still concerned]

Thou art assuréd of his goodness, his wisdom, moreover that his strength sufficeth for that thy sister might not overawe his better sense, as hath betimes been known of our House in bygone Day?

 **Finrod** : [slightly mocking tone]

Father, are you asking _me_ for my judgment on matters of virtue and prudence?

 **Finarfin** :

Aye.

[pause]

 **Finrod** :

Yes. He loves her enough to contradict her when he must. There aren't that many of any of our Kindreds brave enough to do that. And she loves him enough to listen when he does. She knows that she can trust Celeborn to stand firm upon matters of principle, even if he'd rather give in to her for the sake of peace -- but that in matters of personal pride and no more, he's strong enough to bend, and to apologize, and to change his mind when he sees himself in the wrong.

 **Finarfin** : [with the slightly-edged tone his son used a moment ago]

And thou dost not deem him weak, else _irresolute_ , for all of that?

[pause]

 **Finrod** : [taut]

No.


	120. Act 4: SCENE V.viii

[Elsewhere: the Dark Land]

[Beren is still lying motionless on the burnt hillside, with all as in the previous scene, the only movement or sound being a small whisper of wind over the dunes blowing little drifts of ash about. A tall figure approaches across the field of defeat, completely robed and muffled in long, flowing draperies that conceal all individuality and prevent any glimpse of features beneath the overshadowing hood. There should be a striking resemblence between Luthien in Act II and She Who Mourns, as she now appears, coming to stand beside him, still veiled.]

 **Nienna** :

For what do you sorrow, Child?

[there is a long pause, before he answers, through clenched teeth, not raising his head nor even opening his eyes:]

 **Beren** :

\--  _Everything_.

 **Nienna** :

\-- Then for what do you _not_ weep?

 **Beren** : [bitter]

What _difference_ does it make?

 **Nienna** :

You might be surprised.

[pause]

What of the griefs that are yours? What of your pains, and the losses of home, of comrade and kin, of joy and hope and song?

 **Beren** :

What are _mine_ , in the balance of Ea?

 **Nienna** :

If you will not grant your own sorrow the right of honour, what of others' -- ?

[pause]

What then of she who loves you, who has known so many weary days on your behalf, each filled with grief beyond measure, and each heavier than the last? Is _her_ sorrow of no worth, for being the sorrow of one only?

[silence -- but alive with tension]

\-- What, too, of the lady of the Northlands, who left behind her heart and her hope, even as she bore away others' in the strength of her staff and her sword, repaying the trust of her people at the cost of heart's breaking?

[the ash blows in a sudden gust like smoke]

What of _her_ lord, who dying hoped, but never knew, that the son of their love yet escaped theDoom that love betrayed had brought him?

[he makes a choked sound, not quite a sob, but does not move]

What of those lovers, rent for no wrongdoing of theirs, but only the misfortune of place, and time, and the Marring? Or what of the lost, with their lord and the land they defended, whose reward for such service was ever-more privation, and not even victory to set in mind as the hope or the fee of it? What of that land, of the wounded earth and the tortured trees, and the anguish of all under the burden of hate?

[Beren gives a convulsive shiver]

What of the people who loved as well and truly as they hated, hiding their young lord and holding his secret in their own despite? Or of those others, not bound by blood, nor fealty, nor any tie save friendship, whose faith held firmer than any wall or weapon ever shall? What of the King who suffered shame upon shame without reproach, and clasped pain still greater most freely in hope of sparing friend the same?

[his hand clenches up the burnt sand where it rests]

What of the faithful Hound, who might not save his master, for all his strength, and all his suffering, even at the cost of his own life -- exchange made but folly, in that Man's dying?

[pause]

Are _they_ not worthy of your tears?

[silence -- he does not answer, but she does not leave, waiting. After long moments Beren draws his arm closer against his face, hiding his expression -- and very quietly begins to cry.]


	121. Act 4: SCENE V.ix

[the Hall]

[Luthien has recovered some of her usual animation and is telling about her past experiences in a tone made more vigorous by indignation, though there is a very tenuous quality to it, like a gap between clouds on a midsummer day. (Huan has finagled the Steward into allowing him to rest his head on the Elf-lord's lap, and now is lying on the dais like a docile, napping Kodiak bear, enjoying non-stop if absent-minded ear scratching.)]

 **Luthien** :

I was so completely in shock. I didn't honestly know _what_ I was feeling at the moment -- it was as though I were watching myself and wondering what it was this person was going to do now, as if I were hearing a tale about someone that this was all happening to. And convinced that it wasn't _actually_ going to happen -- that I was having a nightmare, just like a mortal, not that it was real, but that somehow I was going to break out of it and find it was only a dream gone bad. Or if it _was_ real, surely it wouldn't really play through to the end of the verse -- that Dad wasn't really serious, that Mom wasn't going to pretend she didn't know what was happening right outside our front door, which was a pretty impressive bit of self-deception given all the work it was to set up rigging and build a full-fledged _house_ , not just a talan, all the way up in Hirilorn.

[looking rather anxiously at Finrod]

Was I wrong? Was I stupid to refuse to give in, and just lie about it and _pretend_ to agree to give up Beren, and then leave? Instead of telling the truth, that I couldn't make that promise in conscience, or honor it if I gave it?

 **Finrod** : [quiet but earnest]

No. Trying to do evil so that good will come of it is hopeless. It would have made everything worse eventually.

[she frowns with a bitter expression, not at him but abstractedly]

 **Luthien** :

I still don't understand it. -- Especially Mom. Even after we came home I couldn't get any straight answers out of her. --  _Any_ answers, really. If she knew Beren was there, why didn't she tell Dad right off? If she knew I was seeing him, why did she say nothing to any of us, not even me? I know they fought about her silence after he found out that I'd gone to her for advice and she didn't say anything to him about what I said, but -- and then she didn't stop me, but she didn't help me either, but then she sort of did by not preventing me by interfering. So I just don't get it.

 **Nerdanel** : [mild]

Belike her tenderness towards thee did differ in small wise from thine own most fearful love and striving to hold safe withal thy Beren from his fate?

 **Luthien** :

Yes, but then why did she not _not_ get involved as much as she did get involved?

[silence]

 **Amarie** : [aside]

There's _naught_ of sense in that.

 **Angrod** :

Actually, it isn't really any different from us wondering why the gods back home didn't stop things before they got out of hand.

 **Aegnor** : [undertone]

\-- Here. We _are_ home, brother.

 **Amarie** :

Aye, and here's the end forewarnéd of such rebel thinking!

[Finrod looks away in distress; Luthien clasps his hand in sympathy]

 **Angrod** : [pleasantly]

Indeed, here we are -- and _do_ you know, I've heard more harping on that one note in the last hour, than I have in the past ten years since we were killed, from the Powers that rule here?

[pause]

 **Captain** :

More like twelve -- no, thirteen, by now.

[Amarie's expression is set as stone]

 **Luthien** :

Well, Nessa was very definite that they don't and didn't know everything that's going on in the world, only lots of it. I didn't get any sense that she was lying, or even shading the truth, to me.

 **Nerdanel** : [with a touch of trouble-making]

Nay, 'ware thee, cousin, else my niece-by-love be troubled to heart's veriest heart by thy most impertinent impieties.

[the living Vanyar lady reacts with an angry glare]

 **Angrod** : [frowning, with both resentment and confusion in his tone]

Though that still leaves the question of how they managed not to realize what we were up to, right next door to us as it were.

 **Fingolfin** : [tolerant, but sad]

Nay, lad, have you forgotten so swiftly, that we did all in our power to conceal our activities, and dissembled with smiling faces and lying silence, at the first, and then with the guise of our heraldry and devices, making it seem but one more new thing we had devised, no more than letters, or the symbolism of colors and other such languages, hiding our swords' forging beneath this covering most open to the eye, as we covered our resentments beneath words of flattery and studiousness that did but steal all that teaching so freely given -- and why _should_ they mistrust us from the first, that had given us no cause to hate them? If you would be judged fairly, you must be as just in your own turn.

[his nephew bridles a bit at being so rebuked, but nevertheless is thoughtful and silent at his words; his living kin regard him with bemusement, but only his daughter-in-law actually says anything:]

 **Elenwe** : [surprised tone]

Verily, is't _thou_ , Fingolfin?!

[in the awkward interval of Valinorean surprise at the fact that Feanor's eldest brother is talking about prudence and dispassionate perspective:]

 **Apprentice** : [aside]

I'd regret the fact that this son of Finwe has learned mercy and wisdom -- even a little -- too late; but I know my Master and her brother would sigh and look at me oddly until I figured out why -- so I suppose I've got to figure it out before I say it to them.

[as the family chagrin is set aside in a spontaneous return to the subject, simultaneously:]

 **Finrod** :

About Melian -- I've been thinking --

 **Finarfin** :

Haply else 'twere thy mother's --

[they both stop at once at the realization that the other is also speaking, and look at each other warily, waiting/indicating for the other to go on. Finarfin shakes his head a little, and after a second Finrod continues, a little more self-consciously]

 **Finrod** :

If in fact Beren's Doom was to --

[he is cut off by the Princess of Doriath]

 **Luthien** : [intense exasperation]

\-- Did he say _that_ to you, too? Mablung told me that, what his last words were -- but it isn't true, it can't be, and if you think so then --

[Finrod makes hasty shushing gestures and she stops mid-rant with an apologetic Look]

 **Finrod** : [placatingly]

Let's just assume, for the sake of argument, that Beren is right -- at least in part; that he was _meant_ to recover the Light of the Trees from the Lord of Fetters, even if nothing went as it ideally should have. -- Please note, cousin, I _didn't_ say, "even if he bungled it." I don't think that any single one of us -- not even Elu Thingol -- is responsible for the scale of this fiasco, any more than any one of us --

[glancing round at his brothers, companions, and uncle]

\-- is responsible for the failure of the Leaguer. Considering the level of Power you were up against, it's more than amazing you three succeeded in so far as you did. Beginning from _that_ premise, ask yourself what Melian was supposed to do.

[pause]

 **Luthien** :

You mean in a Fate sense of "supposed," not "what was I supposed to do?" the way people _usually_ mean when they say that.

[he nods]

Er . . .

[she shakes her head impatiently]

Finrod, I'm too tired for guessing games.

 **Finrod** :

Well, if you were _meant_ to help him -- because it's not in question that he couldn't have done it alone any more than, as it turned out, _I_ could have -- then it would be Melian's duty as one of the loyal Powers to assist in the project to steal back the Silmarils. Right?

 **Nerdanel** : [passionately, shaking her head]

Yet how should any parent -- any that's deserving of the name -- consent and moreover gladly thereto, that her child most beloved and so long reared and sheltered, now doth go afield and into most grievesome dangers, into fell perils and woes both certain and uncertain, nor e'er but restrain as she is able?

 **Ambassador** : [to Luthien]

The lady has put it quaintly, yet as well as any might, my Princess.

 **Luthien** : [to Finrod]

Now I'm going to sound very contrary -- but I'm going to agree. I don't like the thought of Mom having -- an ulterior duty of some sort, beyond to us -- we're her _family_ after all! -- but _that_  --

[shaking her head]

\-- just sounds too -- too _creepy_. And if it _is_ true --

[breaks off, biting her lip]

 **Eol** : [macabre glee]

\-- It's pretty _funny_ , if it is -- great Melian, daunted by nothing in the whole wide World, singlehandedly holding back the power of the Dark Lord, handing out bread and wisdom all these years for the grateful masses and her adoring husband -- and coming quite to pieces because with all her legendary foresight she wasn't prepared for her daughter taking after her -- and _up_ with a travelling stranger. Who'd have thought it, Fate catching up with the runaway goddess at last, her thinking she'd done her divine duties by looking after the poor benighted savages and it not being what she'd thought at all. It's easy to do what you _please_ , and fancy yourself virtuous, isn't it? Much harder when you have to give up something that really matters -- like your _child_.

[Aredhel growls at him under her breath, gripping the hilt of her dagger as if about to hurl it at him]

 **Luthien** :

Mom's not like that at all!

 **Eol** : [maddeningly patronizing]

Well, of course _you_ wouldn't see it, young demigoddess.

 **Teler Maid** : [aside, to the Guard nearest her]

Has he truly killed someone once?

 **Third Guard** : [nodding]

At least.

[the Sea-Elf stares at Eol with spooked horror, covertly]

 **Ambassador** :

Lord Eol, you wrong not only our Queen and King, but our entire people with your groundless mockery.

 **Eol** : [offensive]

Yes, well, you always _did_ know what board your bread was on, didn't you?

[the Captain gestures covertly to his team, and four of the Ten get up and surround Thingol's kinsman promptly]

 **Captain** : [to Finrod and Luthien]

How far into the floor did you want him?

 **Aredhel** :

Hah!

 **Luthien** : [dispirited]

Oh, just leave him alone -- his is just a warped version of what I was going to say. And it won't do him any good to beat him up, I'm afraid.

[all of the Noldor shades present look faintly disappointed, as does the Doriathrin Ambassador, though the Teler Maid has only expressed alarm at the prospect, and Elenwe more amused, if slightly disapproving, than anything else]

 **Soldier** : [aside, wistfully]

But he deserves it . . .

 **Luthien** : [sighing]

Yes, but he doesn't seem to realize that, and I don't think it will help him to, either.

[turning back to Finrod as the disappointed Elf-warriors leave her alienated cousin alone, with visible regret]

Because _if_ that's true -- not only is it creepy and disturbing, but then I'd have to feel sorry for _her_ , too. And I know I said it felt like I was the only grown-up and sane Elf in Menegroth then, but I don't _really_ want it to have been the case -- that I was more mature and responsible than Mom during all of this. Because that's what it would really mean, if it was right and proper for me to pity her for being in over her head and not able to cope.

 **Finrod** :

I didn't say it was going to be a cheerful conclusion at all. I'm a little unsettled by the one I reached long ago and whose implications I'm still working out, that I was _supposed_ to go to Middle-earth.

[looking at his father intensely]

In the Doomed sense of the word.

[there is a moment of uncertain silence from his family; Huan lifts his head and gives Finrod an attentive Look]

 **Amarie** : [sharp]

What, in the Song?

[the Steward winces, and there is a general bracing of selves among Finrod's following as their sovereign gives his consort a long, cool Look in turn, before there is an intervention]

 **Elenwe** : [matter-of-fact]

Most assuredly, such is th'import of thy lord his words.

 **Amarie** : [derisive]

Oh, but there's an easy answer -- return to all reproach, that most pridefully declareth -- 'Twas Foredoomed so, wherefore I may bear no guilt in this -- !

 **Aredhel** : [piqued aside]

Didn't we hear all this when we left? Do we _need_ more sanctimonious lecturing, really?

[she goes back to knife-juggling with a bored expression, while the Apprentice listens with intent curiosity -- but no surprise or disapproval, apparently unaware that his non-reaction is noted with interest by various of the Ten]

 **Elenwe** :

Far from, for still 'tis no answer to that which each must ask unto heart its inmost heart -- did _I_ but follow "ought" unto Doom, else did I but Doom mine own self for aught of pride, else folly? -- Still less what purpose should be served, by such a cross-grained mandate, nor whether it be fulfilled by deed, by undoing, else by failure. And there's but the least and eke the simplest portion of't. For if it be so, then must be asked thereafter -- what _signifieth_ this, that the One should ordain such strife amongst his Children, nay, set those who strive to remain in tune at discords, each unto each the other?

 **Finrod** : [surprised]

I didn't realize you'd thought this through as well --

 **Elenwe** : [blandly]

Some do spend these measureless hours in anger, some in despite, some in despair --  _some_ had rather go busily to and fro making many diverse sorts of affairs and contentions, whilst _some_ _others_ rather do occupy the passing Ages in deep seekings after wisdom, the better to comprehend their Doom.

 **Finrod** : [mock affront]

I'll have you know, I don't spend _all_ my time dashing about starting trouble!

 **Elenwe** :

 _There's_ a great change, assuredly.

[Amarie breaks impatiently into their affectionate teasing]

 **Amarie** :

Yet thou dost hold it within potentiality, no less, that deeds done against the will of Manwe, nay, in willful disrespect of, as well as all that's done by cause of such thereafter -- might yet be holy, and sanctioned by a higher Power oversetting yet?

 **Elenwe** :

Aye.

 **Amarie** : [furious]

Out on thee, cousin!

[the Vanyar ghost looks up at the vaulted ceiling, her expression ironic]

 **Elenwe** :

Not yet, _I_.

[the living Elf-King leans forward, earnest rather than perturbed by this cosmic speculation]

 **Finarfin** :

Nay, canst make plain unto me, what cause thou holdest warrant for thy certainty, beyond all those with which ye did reproach me heretofore?

 **Finrod** : [meaningful]

If all else had gone the same, except only that I had not gone forward over the Grinding Ice, and all else had fallen out the same but for what had been changed by that --

[checking, frowning abstractedly]

\-- which actually would have been fairly significant in the western part of the country, and very uncertain -- though I think that whatever the nominal state of things, Galadriel would have ended up running the House overseas, but that isn't what I'm talking about -- in any case --

[back to his serious tone as before distraction]

\-- if _I_ had not been there, who then should have met and dealt with Beor when they came into the eastern territories?

[pause]

 **Finarfin** :

Whom, then, meanst thou?

 **Finrod** :

Feanor's children. If anyone.

[longer, speculative silence]

 **Angrod** : [quiet, but upset]

No. No, and no.

 **Finrod** :

I don't mean that's the _only_.

 **Aegnor** :

\-- But you think it's the most important.

[his eldest brother does not deny it]

Admit it -- you _do_.

 **Finrod** :

Well --  _yes_.

[their relatives regard this display of cryptic sibling communication with worry and confusion]

 **Aredhel** : [impatient]

What _are_ you three rattling on about there?

 **Apprentice** :

I would have phrased it differently, but --  _precisely_.

 **Warden of Aglon** : [startling those who have forgotten he's present]

He means that the most important Deed he accomplished in the course of the Age, was _not_ to do with the War, nor in spreading the glories of our civilization throughout the disordered _wilderness_ we found there, but simply this -- that _he_ should be the one to discover the Followers, and not my lords' brothers.

[fiercely, to Finrod]

\-- Is that so?

[pause]

 **Finrod** :

Essentially, though I'd also phrase it somewhat otherwise.

 **Warden of Aglon** : [shaking his head, his eyes fixed on the Elf-King's]

No. I meant -- do you _still_ believe it, _now_ , after -- after what was done to you? -- In perfect honesty?

 **Finrod** :

Oh, yes. More so than ever, that it was my Work to find the Secondborn, and lead them, to the _knowledge_ of the West, at least.

[to his lawful relatives]

 _Something_ set me in the Eastern Marches in the proper season, in that year of all years, where I had no reason to be _then_ rather than a year before, or ten years after; something _called_ me to follow the sunlight on the distant mountainsides, to yearn more to see the way the fading day should change the lands before me than for the cheerful company of my own kind -- though it seemed no more than the truth of the old saying, that every bit of countryside should be viewed between the ears of a horse, until I heard the singing. -- Everything else which I did, or helped in doing, someone else of us could have done, or did.

[to Luthien, quietly]

Only I failed there, too -- and far worse, having so much more by way of resources at my command, than Beren _ever_ could be considered to have done.

[very deliberately she takes his hands in her own, and one after the other raises them to her lips while he blinks away tears]

 **Luthien** : [sad]

I keep forgetting, that _you've_ lost Men you loved too -- that it isn't just me.

[she turns to look now at Aegnor, who flinches under her gaze]

 **Aegnor** : [involuntary honesty]

Don't -- please, _don't_  -- I'd rather you hate me than pity me, cousin.

 **Luthien** : [shaking her head]

I'm sorry, I can't help it. Even if I wanted to.


	122. Act 4: SCENE V.x

[Elsewhere: the Dark Land]

[the mortal shade is in the same pose as before, but still now, and relaxed, not taut with agonized helplessness -- he lies blinking on the sands, utterly exhausted, while She Who Mourns still kneels behind him. Now she lifts him up to a half-sitting position, and holds to his lips a shallow bowl made of a crystal so pure that it, and the water it contains, give a prismatic reflection (sfx) even in this small amount of light, supporting him while he drinks with desperate urgency. At last he raises his head to see his rescuer --]

 **Beren** : [hoarse]

Thank you --

[ -- but no one is there. As he slowly looks around, still half-dazed, he sees only swirling mists in a gradually-brightening but still very dim light, in which no shapes nor structures can be discerned. The ground is also pale now, the almost-colorless, winter-bleached grass revealed after the snows have gone . . .]


	123. Act 4: SCENE V.xi

[the Hall]

 **Luthien** :

It is sort of funny that they did it to keep me safe, when you think about what the consequences were. I mean --

[fighting a grim smile]

\-- it isn't as if I was particularly _safe_ , walking myself down the trunk, or as if given a choice between sending someone out quite alone and going with at least a company of warriors, you'd think that _alone_ was preferable.

 **Finrod** :

Well, I -- don't think they expected you were going to do something like that, really.

 **Luthien** :

Why ever not? I'd been _saying_ I was going to run away and find Beren -- that's why they locked me up, after all, wasn't it? So what would give them the slightest impression that punishing me that way would make me _give_ up?

 **Finrod** : [biting his lip]

I'm pretty sure that Elu didn't think you _could_ , or else he wouldn't have been so careless.

 **Luthien** :

Well, it was lucky for me that he underestimated me, but --

 **Finrod** : [quietly]

I'm not defending him --

 **Luthien** : [not stopping]

\-- I really don't see why Dad thought I would be more inclined to agree with him if he insulted me --

 **Nerdanel** :

Nay, an erring slight be else than insult, in truth.

 **Luthien** :

What about calling me _insane_? And _deluded_? We consider those _insults_ back home where I come from.

 **Nerdanel** : [undaunted by sarcasm]

It hingeth upon purpose and intent alike, th'import of description, so it be merest declaration of percievéd truth, otherwise of scathe.

 **Luthien** :

He called me stupid -- he called me a brainless baby who didn't know what I was talking about, didn't know what lay outside the borders of the country and _that_ wasn't courage, that was just my ignorance talking when I said I was willing to face the Outside -- he said I took for granted everything I'd been given and I was a selfish, vindictive brat who didn't appreciate what they were doing for me -- he said I didn't deserve to be treated like an adult since I wasn't acting like one --

[she stops, too impassioned to go on in an orderly fashion]

 **Finrod** : [raising his eyebrows]

\-- As Beren would say, -- Hoo boy.

[he shakes his head regretfully; Nerdanel grimaces, inclining her head in acquiescence]

 **Elenwe** :

\-- Scathing, aye, verily.

 **Luthien** :

 _Then_ there was the bit when I said, "what if _you_ were a prisoner of the Enemy, what if you'd got caught and were strung up on his Gates or in his dungeons, wouldn't you expect Mom would come after you to rescue you then?" and he said, "I'm sure your mother would have the good sense to put her duty to all of you over personal considerations and not risk either herself or the kingdom on a mad and hopeless venture," and I said but Fingon and he _raised_ _his_ _voice_ to me -- !

[loud enough to make people jump]

\-- And what's more, we _both_ knew perfectly well it _wasn't true_!!

 **Ambassador** :

L -- Highness, he only wished to protect you, for your own sake --

 **Luthien** : [biting]

Well, he went about it in the worst way possible, didn't he, then?

[her compatriot cannot answer her, but another attempts to]

 **Finarfin** :

Aye. That, in truth, none might e'er deny. -- Yet lettest thou nor cease to bear in mind, that elders be but Eldar, e'en as their offspring, and subject no less than more unto equal passions, to the world's storms and the heart's disquiet, and to wrath, and inconstancy, even as to the over-mastering pride, that durst not yield concession of any, lest smallest surrender be presage to the all; and willfulness doth ever raise the cry of --  _Willful_! -- as 'twere a mirrored shield to turn back just rebuke.

[with a sweeping gesture, looking at his sons even as he addresses her]

\-- For hard indeed, and surpasseth measure, to be held unto reckoning by one subject, for fealty, and if 'tis so, how much more so when him that challengeth is child and student, younger in years, in knowing, and in deed, and holding all those -- or so it seemeth -- but from one's self, as a gem's light inwrought by the artisan; for so easily and swift do we forget, that neither earth, nor holy fire, are of our own sole making, nor aught but gift to us that we might help to shape it, nor for our own solitary pleasure, but that all the world derive the blesséd good of it.

[Luthien looks down, pensive and troubled at his words; but they are taken differently by another]

 **Finrod** : [lightly, in a tone of false patience]

Yes, I'm arrogant, I took the gifts you gave me and squandered them and encouraged my siblings in pernicious rebellion -- and I really didn't need to hear it all over again, Father.

[the living Elf-King does not say anything in his own defense]

 **Teler Maid** : [aside, uncertain]

But that is not at all what he meant . . .

 **Captain** :

Sire --  _think_ about what Lord Finarfin has said.

[Finrod turns and glares at him]

\-- Use your head, my lord, not _only_ your heart. As if you were listening to any other speaker, at court or in the realm.

[pause]

 **Finrod** : [his voice shaking slightly]

I _can't_ be dispassionate about it. Not after what he said there -- do you know what he said to me then --

 **Captain** : [apologetic]

\-- Well, yes, I was standing about this far away at the time --

[he gestures about a yard and a half apart with his hands; Finrod goes on, talking right over him]

 **Finrod** : [stifled, almost unable to speak as he goes on]

He called me ungrateful. He called me a traitor, and a liar as well. He accused me of making my way to power through the blood of my family. He asked me _how long_ I'd wanted to seize authority from him, while pretending to be on his side in all our House debates -- !! He said he hoped I would lose everything the way he'd lost it, the loyalty of our people the way I was taking it from him, have my own flesh and blood turn on me as well, and leave me in the same desolation as I was leaving him, before the Doom of the gods fell on me.

[Finarfin buries his face in his hands, bowing his head as both Amarie and Nerdanel turn, and with the Sea-Mew, stare at him in shock]

\-- Well, his wish came true.

[snorting furiously]

He couldn't have cut me worse than if he'd taken your spear and run it through my heart --

 **Captain** : [insistent]

Yes, but he's _apologizing_  --

[Luthien nods, her expression earnest agreement, but Finrod is too upset to notice]

 **Finrod** : [stiffly]

I didn't hear a "sorry" in there anywhere.

 **Captain** :

My lord -- only consider how long and complicated your own apology to the Powers was, given that there were parts of what you'd done that you didn't regret, nor feel that you ought to regret, either.

 **Finrod** : [very brittle tone]

Even _you_ , now?

 **Captain** : [quietly]

What do you _think_ , Sire?

[long pause]

 **Finrod** :

Sorry.

[he reaches out his hand to clasp the Captain's]

\-- Curse or not, it all served one good purpose, notwithstanding -- to show me which were my true friends.

[simultaneous, amused contempt]

 **Eol** :

\--  _Milksop_.

 **Aredhel** :

You're such a _loser_ , Ingold.

[Finarfin raises his tear-stained countenance in a stern glare at his niece, while his brother steels himself to rebuke his daughter and the Warden of Aglon looks at the couple with a conflicted dismay]

 **Warden of Aglon** : [aside]

\-- Is that how I appear?

 **Angrod** :

 _Aredhel_!

 **Aredhel** :

 _What_?

[to Finrod]

You know you let your people walk all over you --

 **Either Angrod or Aegnor** : [not quite aside]

\-- But not his _consort_  --

[the Noldor Princess turns quickly trying to catch who it was]

 **Aredhel** : [dangrously]

\-- What was _that_?

[the Princes both look equally innocent, or guilty;

Eol, contrarily, frowns at them for slighting his wife, but before any of their respective kindred can say anything more in reproach]

 **Soldier** : [aloud to his comrades]

We could just bore a deep hole in the floor and fling them _both_ in.

 **Second Guard** :

But Lady Luthien said not to.

 **Fourth Guard** :

She didn't say anything about the White Lady.

 **Second Guard** :

\-- That's true.

[their conversation arouses both appalled dismay and involuntary laughter from the lawful Eldar]

 **Warrior** :

She only said not to _pound_ him. That doesn't rule out _pushing_ him, does it?

 **Third Guard** :

But Ar-Feiniel is the High King's scion. Are we allowed to do things to her?

 **Ranger** :

We just won't ask. So what if we get in trouble after?

[pause -- glancing at the late High King of the Noldor in Beleriand]

Besides, I don't think he'll mind it _that_ much, even if he thinks he ought to.

[Fingolfin winces and looks at the ceiling]

 **Aredhel** : [standing up, furious]

I will not stay here and be insulted like this.

 **Eol** : [unfazed by any of it, with a casual wave of his hand]

Don't worry, darling, I'll be here waiting for you -- before _or_ after your ill-bred countrymen have indulged their natural inclinations for bloodshed.

[she glares at him and sits down again in sulky quiet]

 **Apprentice** : [worried frown]

Don't you think you really ought to be encouraging your followers to solve problems _without_ recourse to violence?

 **Captain** : [serious]

They just did. At least for the moment.

 **Finrod** : [partly serious lament]

Why couldn't I have been born to some quiet, obscure, uncomplicated family with no ambitions and no connections and nothing to do but employ my skills as I pleased?

[Finarfin, struggling to control his tears, gives a short involuntary laugh at that]

 **Fingolfin** : [entirely serious lament]

Why could _I_ not have been blessed with servants possessing the intelligence and courage to call me down and restrain me, instead of the agreement and recklessness I mistook for the former virtues?

 **Finrod** : [snapping right out of humorous self-pity]

Because you didn't _choose_ people of that caliber to counsel you, uncle.

 **Luthien** : [troubled]

That's an awfully cold thing to say, Finrod.

 **Fingolfin** :

\-- Yet the truth, I fear. 'Tis always easiest to choose those that but agree, and that enthusiastically, than those discouraging sorts who point out every possible reason not to follow the desired course, and what the possible consequences of any action are, and the likelihood of the least pleasant of them to occur as a result, nor is it particularly pleasant to surround one's self with those who do not hesitate to name your faults, as soon or sooner than to sing your praises, and still less when there is no question it be done from loyalty, not jealousy.

[he bows his head to the Steward, who smiles wryly at this unsought praise]

 **Finrod** : [resigned]

Edrahil, is there anything else you'd add to that?

 **Steward** : [sadly]

Little -- save to remind you, my lord, that it requires _two_ to hold converse, and words which were said did _not_ go unanswered that Night. -- As you yourself in recollected times recall, and have regretted that which you said in turn, which was little less in harshness.

 **Finrod** : [dark sarcasm]

 _Little_?

[his father makes a hurried gesture]

 **Finarfin** :

\-- Nay, 'tis no matter --

 **Luthien** : [slowly]

What _other_ sorts of things did you say to your father, besides calling him irresolute and weak?

[her cousin starts to answer -- stops, looks away in shame, tries again and shakes his head]

 **Finrod** :

I -- can't we just say it was --  _in_ _anger_ , and let it go at that?

 **Luthien** : [shrugging]

If you're willing to leave it like an open chasm between you.

 **Finrod** :

You don't --

[checks again -- helplessly]

Luthien, I -- I _can't_. I'm --  _not_ _proud_ of what I said.

 **Luthien** :

But too proud to repeat it.

[pause]

You'll have to address it someday -- which you must have known, unless you stay here forever really.

[Angrod and Aegnor shift restlessly, avoiding each other's eyes, and everyone else's]

 **Finrod** : [sighing]

\-- Yes. And yes. But I thought I would have a lot longer to put it off. -- Like 'Tari.

 **Finarfin** : [earnest]

'Tis _no_ _matter_ , my son.

 **Finrod** : [looking up, his gaze fierce]

But it _is_. She's quite right. And I'm a coward, and --

[overlapping]

 **Finarfin** : [amazed aside]

Thou?!

 **Luthien** :

You, a coward?

 **Finrod** :

\-- I _don't_ want to revisit that -- that Darkening, I'd much rather pretend it didn't happen, just like you -- but it remains a yawning abyss which will swallow up all attempts to bridge it over, unfilled. If -- if _you_ chose to remind me of my words, Father, that would be one thing, but I -- cannot overcome my shame at them to utter them again, even to unsay them, not even though most people here heard them the first time.

[Luthien looks at him seriously]

 **Luthien** :

But he won't. You can See that as clearly as I.

 **Finrod** : [bleak]

And I can't. 

**Captain** : [intense]

Then set another the task in your stead, Sir.

[Finrod turns and stares at him with uncertainty and worry]

 **Finrod** :

That -- is no office for a friend.

 **Captain** :

If not a friend -- then for whom?

[after a moment Finrod nods assent, tautly, but looking somehow relieved that it's taken out of his hands, as does his father]

I'll make report of you, for you, to both of you, my lords, and do you tell me if recollection fails me.

[Finrod puts his head down on his forearms, hiding his face]

 **Finrod** : [muffled]

Only not _all_ of it, for Nienna's sake --

 **Captain** : [grim smile]

No, I don't think there's any need for all six-hundred exchanges less ten with or without repeats. The last one is enough --

[he pauses, gathers himself and goes on in a cold, clipped, ironic cadence recognizably familiar from Act II, the close of the Council, despite the archaic phrasing of this debate]

"Nay, then, sir, do _thou_ go back in duteous release, _winking_ at thine own cowardice, and name thyself faithful and hold thyself high as Oiolosse in thine _own_ esteem, and thou will't -- but thou shalt ken, e'en as we, aye down all thy safe unthreatened changeless hours, that selfish and corroded center of thy spirit, which hath _feigned_ a pious remorse at which offense nor thou nor we did e'er commit, nor might have circumvented, saving only had we forgone all prudence, and hasted e'en so rashly as our blood-reckless kin, and so there's naught of reason in yon self-blaming for Swanhaven so sad incarnadined -- no more than in thine accusatory claims upon me. Indeed, 'tis _well_ hast ceded up thy ring withal, for certes _thou_ hast no claim longer upon thy folk that now, saving but for _we_ that art 'most willfully rebel 'gainst the gods,' do wander without guide or guard to their defence and ordering. Desert them, in their darkest need, my father, and name thyself virtuous thereby, in empty Tirion -- and be _that_ thy consolation, as our _duty_ must needs be ours."

"Deceive _thyself_ , as thou wouldst, O Wise Elf, but do thou rest thee assuréd, thou dost _not_ hide thy falsehood its truth from mine eyes; nor will I pardon thee, nay though the Lady of Sorrows in her own most high self should weep for thy pains, that hast rent apart nor only our House, but my heart withal, stealing from me _all_ my children that thy mastery be complete -- "

[he stops, as distraught and shaken as the Kings he has been quoting]

\-- I'm sorry.

[shaking his head]

I can't do the rest either.

 **Nerdanel** : [mournful]

There's none may wound another so bitter-keen nor killing deep, as them that long in love enwoven dwelt, and afterwhiles be riven --

[it is Luthien's turn to put her arm around Finrod's shoulders in a gesture of comfort which is severely lacking by the looks on the faces of all gathered there; even the Lord Warden and the embattled spouses appear somewhat subdued at the recollected display of familial disintegration they have just witnessed. Finrod raises his head to face his father, even as the Captain rests his forehead on his hand, looking unwell and upset -- the Steward quietly urges Huan to get up and go around behind the dais to his friend, where the Hound crouches down behind him like a sphinx, leaning his jaws on the Captain's shoulder. (The Sea-elf, who was moving to make a similar gesture, stops and frowns at the Lord of Dogs.)]

 **Finrod** : [with effort]

I regret . . . all of my words to you at Araman . . .  _except_ those which which were true, and remain so.

[Finarfin doesn't say anything, just Looks at him]

We _couldn't_ have prevented the Kinslaying, and --

[frowning]

\-- it _was_ our duty to lead, and that fact of duty . . . all my consolation hereafter.

[silence; Amarie sighs and shakes her head dispiritedly]

 **Finarfin** : [evenly]

And I do ken full well thou wert no rebel miscreant nor rival unto me, my wiseling, and would unsay my charges of that coldest hour. Canst thou yet pardon me, of thy pity, for that cruel anger and yet this last, the which I vow indeed be _last_ , nor only latest -- ?

[pause]

 **Finrod** : [softly]

I do, sir.


	124. Act 4: SCENE V.xii

[Elsewhere -- the brightening mists]

[Beren looks around in the swirling grayness, wary and cautious as he rises slowly from the matted turf, but in a very hyper-alert way, not able to see what or where anything else might be. He whirls, as if hearing something, and then turns back as though glimpsing something from the corner of his eye, standing very still, taut as a bowstring -- and then someone reaches out of the fog to tap him lightly on the shoulder, with one quick finger, pulling back like a playful cat. Beren spins around, making a completely instinctive and utterly futile attempt to draw nonexistent sword with equally absent hand before flinging himself down and aside in a defensive roll, coming up in a crouch ready to fend off the person who has accosted him as best he can.]

[He is not prepared, however, for peals of laughter, or an iridescent-robed figure too overcome at his reaction to speak for several moments, or even to stand straight. It is Vana, Orome's wife, but not as we have seen her before while watching the Loom: now she is The Ever-Young, the embodiment of Springtime, and although she is not much taller than Luthien, she is incomparably more beautiful and creepy -- for her visible manifestation changes from moment to moment, flowers and petals appearing and blending to form the semblance of her gown, her jewelry, and even perhaps her hair and features, so that the Maiden of Flowers appears not so much as an illusion, but as a glimpse of something far more complex and timeless than any single image could convey.]

 **Beren** : [sharply]

That wasn't funny.

 **Vana** :

Yes, it was.

[she claps her hands delightedly]

It was the most ridiculous thing I've seen all season. Come on, haven't you lain around long enough?

[she darts forward, like a bird, and grabs his hand, tugging him up and spinning him halfway around as she keeps going, then releases him to stand and look at him critically.]

\-- What are you staring at me for? You've seen me often enough.

[while he is standing there open-mouthed, she darts off into the mist again and vanishes, leaving Beren shaking his head in bewilderment.]

 **Beren** :

But who --

[she reappears behind him again and startles him by tugging on a strand of his hair]

 _Aah_  -- !

[he turns and gives her an accusing look -- but she is not there, having turned with him like a ballerina and stayed out of his angle of vision -- and then taps him on the shoulder again. This time he stays still, statue-like, as though frozen, while a long moment passes. Finally she sighs in exasperation and comes around to face him.]

 **Vana** : [sulky]

 _You're_ no fun. -- Why not?

 **Beren** :

Um. -- If you haven't noticed, I'm dead.

 **Vana** :

\-- So? Lots of people are.

[she circles him again, in a very stylized movement, as if she were practicing dance-steps, seeming to ignore him -- then pounces again:]

So why are you so grim and dreary all the time? You didn't _used_ to be.

 **Beren** : [dry]

How much time you got? This could take a while.

[she waves her hand dismissively]

 **Vana** :

You don't need to tell me about how your life was ruined by Morgoth several times over, everybody already knows all about that. I'm talking about _now_.

 **Beren** :

It still _happened_.

 **Vana** :

But you can't do anything about it now. -- Can you?

 **Beren** : [getting stubborn-angry]

It's _still_ happening. Everywhere I go -- everyone is out to get me. It's not _right_.

 **Vana** : [disbelieving]

Really?

 **Beren** :

Yeah --

 **Vana** : [halting in mid-pirouette]

 _Everyone_?

[she gives him a very piercing Look from the corners of her eyes and waits until he looks down first.]

 **Beren** :

Not _everyone_. But --

 **Vana** :

So why are you worrying? Why don't you enjoy the time you have now?

[she darts around him again, he turning this time to try to keep facing her]

 **Beren** : [frustrated]

But you don't --

[he breaks off in open-mouthed astonishment, seeing that the turf in the little circle around them is now lush and green as far as can be seen into the haze]

You're --  _Are_ you -- ?

[but gets no further, as she has swung around the other way and caught hold of his shoulder, spinning him back off balance]

 **Vana** :

You used to know how. But you've forgotten.

[frowning]

You've forgotten how to dance. How can you be fit for my sisters if you can't dance?

 **Beren** :

Wha --

 **Vana** : [impatiently]

Come _on_ , you don't want to _stay_ here, do you? This is _boring_!

 **Beren** : [gesturing to the fog]

But you can't see where you're going in this --

[she moves about behind him again and surprises him by covering his eyes with her hands for an instant]

 **Vana** :

What does it matter, if you think there's nowhere to go?

 **Beren** :

There isn't. Not for me at least. -- Except _away_.

 **Vana** : [appearing in front of him again and folding her arms]

Do you have any idea how tiresome you're being? Do you _want_ me to leave you here alone?

 **Beren** : [blurting it out]

No!

[covering]

I mean -- I'm not _trying_ to be rude --

 **Vana** : [tossing her head]

I'd hate to see you try, then.

[long pause]

 **Beren** :

I'm sorry. You're right, I don't know how to live anymore -- Tinuviel gave that back to me, every time, but I've lost it again -- for good, I'm afraid.

 **Vana** : [scoffs]

Oh, not for _good_.

[she circles behind him and pulls his hair again]

Besides, you've not tried looking, yet.

[he moves away in annoyance]

 **Beren** :

What's the point, though? _Really_? I'm asking -- if it's just going to be yanked away from me again --

 **Vana** : [flatly]

This is _so_ boring. -- Misery, anguish, and world-sorrow. If it weren't for _her_ , I swear -- it isn't as though I haven't things to do, you know, -- and I was already _very_ put out with you for making Tav' so unhappy --

 **Beren** : [completely confused]

Wh -- what?

 **Vana** : [shaking her head impatiently]

Never mind, it's boring, and it's over. I told them I would, anyway. Come on, I'll lead the way --

[she reaches out her hand to him, but he draws back]

 **Vana** :

Don't you trust me?

[he shakes his head, half-smiling in a kind of amused dismay]

 **Beren** : [completely honest]

 _No_  --

 **Vana** : [sulking]

Not even a little?

[she puts her hands on his shoulders and looks at him very seriously]

I promise I won't lead _you_ into a green field of algae over a quagmire. -- I couldn't have, anyway: you saw the waterflies above the surface and heard the peepers and _knew_ , as your pursuers did not.

 **Beren** : [sounding confused]

No, _I_ did that -- the patrol that morning --

 **Vana** : [snippy]

 _You_ made the marsh thaw? The frogs and bugs start mating? _Really_.

[she gives him a narrow Look]

 **Beren** :

No, that wasn't -- I mean --

[without warning she spins him around and darts forward to end up standing in front of him again, staring at him intensely]

 **Vana** :

Have I _ever_ led you wrong?

 **Beren** :

? ? ?

 **Vana** :

\-- Or would you rather still be wandering in the wood, your voice still frozen in your heart's midwinter?

[while he is still struggling to understand, she lunges for his hand again and pulls him, urging:]

Come on -- race you!

[he resists, not actively, but anchoring her as she flits back and forth before him like a bird on a thin twig or a narcissus on a windy day, pulling him along behind her]

 **Beren** :

Where to?

 **Vana** :

The top of the hill.

 **Beren** : [looking around at the pale swirling mists around them]

Which?

 **Vana** : [as she draws him up the beginning of a slope, increasing her pace]

This one!

 **Beren** :

But how can you _not_ win, if you're leading me?

 **Vana** :

Figure it out, silly!

[he jerks his chin defiantly at that, and something determined and a little crazed comes into his expression, as he tries to keep pace with her. Just as they are reaching the crest of the hill he swings her around, using the slope to assist him, so that he is now leading, and as her speed carries her in an arc that helps spin them both up, he stops her, catching her with his right arm around her backwards-leaning waist before she can fall, as though they were dancing partners in a sculptured tableau.]

 **Beren** : [softly]

I win --

 **Vana** : [also whispering]

Yes --

[For a long, long instant they stare at each other, the Ever-Young with a mysterious smile, Beren with a kind of amazement at his own daring: slowly, almost as if in a trance, he lifts his hand to touch her hair, her cheek, her lips, as lightly as if he were touching a wild bird, while she smiles up from his hold. It is a very intense, very strange moment -- which is promptly broken as the precarious balance of their pose is lost and they topple onto the grass, Vana with a wild shriek of laughter, he with a cheerful shout of alarm, and she leaps up, tugging him to his feet with a little impatient bounce in her step.]

 **Beren** : [laughing, his eyes sparkling]

\-- I won.

[she nods, just as gleeful]

 **Vana** : [brightly]

Now you must pay the forfeit!

[he thinks she's teasing him]

 **Beren** :

For _winning_?

 **Vana** :

Of course!

 **Beren** : [uncertain if she's joking]

What forfeit?

 **Vana** : [raising her eyebrows]

What does it matter? You cannot undo what you've done. Or can you?

 **Beren** :

Well, no, but --

 **Vana** :

Then it doesn't matter. You must pay the price.

 **Beren** : [still hoping it's a joke]

So -- what does a goddess want from me?

 **Vana** : [offhand]

Your sight.

 **Beren** : [dumbfounded]

You --

[shaking his head]

\-- you can't ask that of me!

 **Vana** : [brightly]

Of course I can.

[she pirouettes carelessly, ending up back in front of him, and he steps away in alarm]

 **Beren** :

 _Why_?

 **Vana** :

Why not?

 **Beren** : [increasing panic]

What _good_ will it do you, to take my -- my sight?

[she only shrugs, and darts around him, her lightheartedness seeming suddenly very sinister]

 **Vana** :

Pay up.

[he backs away again, and she keeps following, with an erratic, half-dancing motion, smiling the whole time]

 **Beren** :

But this isn't _right_  --

 **Vana** :

You _won_.

 **Beren** :

By a trick --

 **Vana** :

And? Haven't you always?

[he takes another step backwards -- and into something dark and solid behind him, like the wall of a tower in the fog, and she steps in close, with no more room to retreat, definitely invading of personal space. Intense:]

Will you disavow your deeds, then?

[pause -- he stares back at her, not looking away]

 **Beren** :

Never.

[she reaches out and takes his face in her hands. He flinches, closing his eyes, and she kisses him hard and hungrily on the lips. The Power steps away suddenly, reeling a little as though dizzy, her eyes wide in shock]

 **Vana** :

Oh! . . .  _oh_  . . . I never _guessed_  . . . I never guessed you _saw_ us that way . . . -- No wonder my sisters love you so much!

[he looks at her, blinking, dazed, and she laughs]

Remember what I told you!

[sfx -- vanishes into a spread of mixed flowers rising around him]

 **Beren** : [stunned]

Remember -- ? I guess that means all of it . . . -- as if I could ever forget!

[he turns to see what he fetched up against and looks up -- and up -- to the black column rising behind him into the mist, wide as a tower and just as tall. Half unbelieving, he looks across through the brightening mist to where another dark, shrouded outline can be seen.]

 **Beren** : [hushed]

The Corollaire --

[he raises his hand to touch the bark of Telperion reverently, and the mist is cleared away in a sudden breeze, revealing not only the dead Trees fully but the mountains all around in the distance and right here, the sweep of  land below leading out to the hill with the white city of Tirion on its crest  and out through the Pass, a glimpse of coast and blue horizon far off. ( _Note_ : as the light changes from foggy pallor to the clarity of dawn, everything in the scene is awash in radiant morning color -- including Beren: no longer ghostly, his worn cast-offs and tatters richly glowing in tones of sienna and umber, granite and kingfisher blue of his Elven knight's cloak, the browns and grays no more drab than burnished wood or rain-wet leaves against the sky; this remains so throughout the entire Corollaire sequence.)]

\-- Is this _real_?

[There is a sound behind him of wind in branches, not terribly loud, the prolonged rustle of a species whose leaves are very lightly hinged to their twigs, such as birches -- he turns again, and sees -- a beech tree, unbelievably tall, its leaves shimmering in the morning, where there was none as they raced up the hill, directly between the Two, and he falls on his knees, bowing his head in homage.]

\--  _My_ _Lady_  --

 **Yavanna** : [voice heard as camera focuses on Beren]

Rise, my Champion -- it's a little late for such formality, don't you think?


	125. Act 4: SCENE V.xiii

[the Hall]

[Luthien is looking down at the stretch of dais between her and the more orderly part of her audience with rather a bemused expression as her cousin and his foremost counselor kneel on the stones building a large map of the sort first seen in Act II, an illusion of topography and vegetation which looks both like an ambitious architectural model made of silvery light, and a very lumpy glowing carpet. By their expressions, their living friends and relations find it at least as peculiar as she does.]

 **Finrod** :

So did you come out of Doriath _here_ , or further up, here?

 **Luthien** :

Hmm . . . I'm not really sure -- it didn't look anything _like_ that when I was there, after all. It was sort of looming over me, you see --

 **Finrod** : [briskly interrupting]

Well, let's turn it this way instead --

 **Steward** : [stopping him]

I _don't_ think that is going to help, meaning no disrespect to the Lady, since --

 **Finrod** : [cutting him off with a frown]

You set Watchtower Number Ten in the wrong place.

[pointing to a section]

 **Steward** : [looking hard at the map]

I did not.

 **Finrod** :

I should _know_ , Edrahil, I put it there myself in the first place.

 **Steward** :

The tower, indeed, my lord -- but surely not the hill? That did predate our arrival in Beleriand, I believe.

 **Finrod** : [exasperated]

That's what I meant. The _hill_ is too far west.

 **Steward** :

Far from it. 

**Luthien** : [mildly]

You should know, none of that is _anywhere_ near where I was.

 **Finrod** : [pointing]

 _Look_. It should be a league and a half from Eleven, but that would put it right there --

 **Luthien** :

So does it really _matter_ if it's all correct?

 **Finrod** :

\-- which is in the middle of the Narog!

 **Steward** :

And I _might_ point out, were I so inclined, that 'twas _not_ I who drew the watercourses.

[Luthien shrugs and gives up, somewhat bemused; the lawful Eldar look rather dismayed. Camera shift to the back ranks of the steps, where the Elf of Alqualonde is scowling at the Lord of Dogs, who keeps giving her worried, eye-rolling glances over the Captain's back, the latter having his head down resting on his arms]

 **Captain** : [without looking up]

Please stop glaring at Huan, Sea-Mew.

 **Teler Maid** :

How do you know that I am, if you attend not?

 **Captain** :

You're making him whine and twitch.

[lifting up his head and looking at her]

It's not _necessary_ , is it? He already knows you don't forgive him, and there are more appropriate targets for your anger present.

[pause]

 **Teler Maid** :

But I am afraid of that one, still, when I am not too angry to recollect it.

[she looks across them at the Lord Warden, and back down again hastily, and shudders]

 **Captain** :

But not of Huan.

[she gives him a sidelong Look but doesn't reply, while the Hound rolls his eyes in doggish worry towards her]

 **Teler Maid** :

I will not make him bark again.

[Huan gives a hesitant tail thump; she tosses her hair]

It is much too noisy.

 **Steward** :

No, Sire, I did not make it too long -- every wretched ell of it that I ever travelled, and no more, 'twixt there and Teiglin!

[Finrod makes an impatient exclamation and gesture over the map, while Luthien watches them in tolerant amusement]

 **Teler Maid** : [worried frown]

Why do they quarrel over such a small matter now?

 **Captain** :

Because it _is_ a small, unimportant matter, and why did you come home and snap at my sister whenever you'd gone down to hang about on the steps of the Mindon and been snubbed by Edrahil?

[pause]

 **Finrod** : [disgruntled]

What scale are we using, anyway? I don't think it's the same overall.

 **Steward** :

The _scale_ is irrelevant, so long as it maintains internal consistency.

 **Teler Maid** :

Because Suli' did not mind it and I was cross and joyless.

 **Captain** :

Well then, there's your answer.

 **Finrod** :

Well, exactly -- and how can we tell _that_ if we don't know what it is?

 **Angrod** : [mostly aside]

Please, just _stop_ it, would you?

 **Steward** : [patronizing]

Very well, Majesty -- choose a measure and set a distance, and we'll refigure it from there.

 **Luthien** : [rueful, to her relations near and distant, living and dead]

\-- I don't think it took me this long to cross the Talath Dirnen on foot.

 **Teler Maid** :

 _You_ are cross and joyless as well.

 **Captain** :

True.

 **Teler Maid** :

Why did you do it, when you would not ere now?

 **Captain** : [shrugging]

Situation changed. They do that, you know.

[meanwhile the Doriathrin Lord has gotten involved in correcting the map, which is getting bigger by the moment]

 **Ambassador** :

\-- No, your Majesty, my lord, I must declare you are both wrong, in setting the Road so nigh to Malduin there . . .

 **Teler Maid** :

But you said you would not, and it would do more harm than good!

 **Captain** : [with another small shrug]

It needed to be done, and no one else _could_ in that particular given circumstance. Command responsibility, it's called.

 **Teler Maid** :

But you did not manage it at all well. 

**Aegnor** : [to the ceiling]

Surely no one's surprised by that -- !

[the Captain winces; as the Sea-elf contrarily turns a fierce glare on her liege lady's son, the latter's brother elbows him sharply in the ribs. Aegnor gives Angrod a glare in turn, but Angrod stares his sibling down, or at least away.]

 **Teler Maid**. [more subdued]

I am sorry. But it is true nonetheless.

[the map has now crept along almost the entire bottom tier of the dais, up to Angband, and Fingolfin is correcting their placement of the northwestern mountain ranges, while Luthien looks on with increasing ironic humour, others of the Ten offer suggestions, Finarfin and Nerdanel at least find it fascinating, as does the Apprentice (though Elenwe does not seem much interested), Aredhel is sulking, and Eol is pretending he isn't interested in it at all. (Amarie is watching Finrod with a cold and quite expressionless countenance.)]

 **Captain** : [nods]

Nonetheless -- it was enough.

[sighing]

Edrahil couldn't do it -- that would have made things far worse, even if he had been _there_ for it all and not off agonizing over whether he dared set foot on what was, when you come right down to it, just a very deep lot of water on top of an even deeper lot of water.

 **Finrod** :

 _That_ should be a little more to the right --

 **Fingolfin** : [strained]

Nephew, I do not tell _you_ where your capital city was.

 **Finrod** :

\-- Because you don't know --

 **Fingolfin** : [smoothly]

Nor would I, if I did.

 **Teler Maid** : [in a tone of quiet scorn]

It is so _foolish_ , that he does fear the Sea.

[as the Captain gives her a level Look, defensively]

 _You_ never did.

 **Captain** :

No . . . I'm afraid of things like being unable to see or move or breathe freely, or of being completely powerless to help someone else, -- or of the people I trusted unquestioningly to make the best choices for the best reasons, suddenly turning on each other and mauling each other without regard for truth or kinship.

[Aegnor makes as if to say something, then stops; Angrod stares at him, but he feigns to be absorbed in watching their eldest sibling wrangle with their uncle over the positioning of the forts of the Leaguer.]

 **Warden of Aglon** : [aside]

You'd think those who are unfit to be named among the Noldor would at least have the sense of _shame_ , if nothing else, to refrain from displaying that fact!

[his erstwhile adversary looks around at the number of people present, then at his solitary state]

 **Captain** : [to Huan]

Dumb, but brave, no question.

[the Sea-elf giggles but quickly ducks out of the Feanorian's line of sight]

 **Warden of Aglon** :

Outnumbered or not, I am _warranted_ in despising you for your . . .  _servility_ and lack of regard for our people's higher station.

 **Captain** : [shaking his head in disgust]

I _do_ not understand how you can sit there and mock us for being proud to be servants of our King, when your own life hinged on being Celegorm's gatekeeper.

 **Warden of Aglon** : [hot indignation]

Lord Feanor's House are _worthy_ lords and it is an _honor_ to serve them, and give _whatever_ aid one can to their efforts.

 **Captain** : [snorting]

 _This_ is why I clobber you people, because _I_ haven't the patience to go round and round in endless circles with you, trying to get you to see how you're being inconsistent.

[the Warden gives him a sullen glare and looks away.]

The difference between us is -- well, one of them, at least -- is that I'm honest about wanting direction and guidance, if no more than the reassurance that someone with greater knowledge, understanding and dispassion is there to back me up or call me down if need be, so I don't have to constantly second-guess the whole many-sided situation and my own judgments, to wit, should I be doing this _at_ _all_? Are we even supposed to _be_ here? Does anyone in charge have the _least_ notion of what's afoot, and if I'm really _it_  -- we've Morgoth's mercy of a chance of getting through this --

 **Finrod** :

Wouldn't you agree that I at _least_ ought to know the disposition of the blasted marshes, now?

 **Steward** : [very precise]

 _If_ I may remind you, my lord, you were not in full possession of your faculties at the time. The channel proper of Sirion was here, _not_ here. If that had not been so, we would have drowned -- which I am fairly certain was not the case.

 **Finrod** : [disgusted]

Oh, _stop_  -- there, happy now?

 **Captain** : [disbelief evident]

\-- Don't tell me you'd rather have had ultimate responsibility for the possible death or capture of your lord, not merely your company, than being told -- "Hold the Pass and stop them from getting through after us, no matter what" -- ? I know which _I_ would have prefered in the Sudden Flame.

[the Warden does not answer; again Finrod's brothers have a quick silent interchange, but do not end up saying anything.]

 **Steward** :

That depends, Sire -- what definition of happiness are you using?

 **Captain** : [after a momentary hesitation, quietly]

\-- I'm sorry about your brother.

[pause]

 **Nerdanel** :

I confess, I find it a matter of great wonderment to me, that ye do find it not troublesome i'the least wise, to make such Workings illusory, for lacking of all flesh.

 **Apprentice** : [reluctant and very apologetic]

Er -- my lady, it's not really polite to mention the fact that people are -- dead, here.

 **Warrior** :

No, that's all right, _that's_ only scientific curiosity, not that the lady's disturbed by us being ghosts.

 **Nerdanel** : [smiling sadly]

Nay, yet e'en so likewise.

 **Warrior** : [with a respectful nod]

Exactly, ma'am.

[this just leaves the disguised Maia more confused than ever]

 **Elenwe** :

On the contrary, good mine aunt, 'tis most passing light, that hath not weight of flesh thus interposéd 'twixt thought and world, that one verily might dwell most utter and complete, did so wish, within the pleasaunce of illusion.

[Note: she pronounces "illusion" archaically, with a sibilant "s" instead of the "zh" sound, which makes it sound not unlike "Elysium".]

 **Finrod** : [offhand, still moving trees around]

And then there's the possibility which has yet to be proven one way or the other, that _everything_ here is illusory, in a sense.

 **Finarfin** : [jolted out of his brooding]

All?

 **Finrod** : [looking up from the project for the moment]

Right -- that none of this environment is extant in the same way that, say, the Big Island exists, or Arda itself, or our halls within Tirion, any more than a painting of a house is the same as the house itself, even if it were painted on screens around one so that someone walking through might not be able to tell without touching the walls that they were cloth instead of stone.

 **Aredhel** : [rolling her eyes]

Oh, Stars, this is _too_ absurd.

 **Finrod** :

You can't prove it isn't so, all the same.

 **Angrod** : [guardedly]

Lord Namo got very put out when you said that last time.

 **Finrod** : [gesturing to the arches overhead]

I don't mean that the Halls themselves are necessarily unreal. Only that whatever we perceive here might well be as much a matter of Their willing and mental images of it, as our own perceptions of ourselves are _our_ own. -- One greater Working, making it possible for us that are discorporate to feel at home.

[pause]

 **Nerdanel** :

And what, youngling, of we that bide here most presently enflesh't?

 **Finrod** :

Either the same -- or else you might be but dreaming, and your bodies still Outside.

 **Amarie** : [outraged]

Nay, I ken well that I dream not!

 **Finrod** :

How?

 **Luthien** : [thoughtful frown]

Hm. I'm really not sure, myself. It all looks and seems very real -- but then it would, wouldn't it?

 **Amarie** :

Forasmuch as were't mine own, 'twould be _other_ than this, in truth!

 **Finrod** : [carefully bland]

Against the Weaver's workings, and Lord Namo's -- you'd back your own strength, then?

[she stares at him angrily, caught out; he goes on as if not aware of her dilemma]

What this place looks to be, to one of the _gods_  -- or to the One -- I am not sure, as much as I am sure from all the evidence that it does not appear exactly the same to each of us, and that our own will changes not only our own perceptions, but may also shift those of others near us. That's all.

[to Elenwe]

I must say, dearest cousin, your garden in Tirion is superb. One can almost recall _color_ therein.

 **Elenwe** : [self-deprecating]

Aye, well, 'tis long enow I shall have Worked it, verily.

 **Finarfin** : [to Fingolfin]

What makest thou of such theorem -- or indeed must I declare, theorem passing strange and troublous, my brother?

 **Fingolfin** : [shrugging]

It does not seem to matter much one way or the other, ultimately -- Majesty.

[Finarfin looks at him warily, but his elder is smiling at him with a faintly-rueful expression of shared sibling humour, and precedes to manifest a chessman, raising his eyebrows as he continues:]

So that I might conjure me up the semblance of my diversions, for myself it changes nothing if the floor beneath my gaming table be as phantasmal as the board, if your son's most troublesome speculation, that there be no hall of very hollowing, but all here's solid rock, and thus the Halls to be enlarged ever without difficulty, by virtue of their merely artificial state. 

**Finrod** : [who is frowning rather hard at a section of the lower Sirion]

Mind you, uncle, I don't _think_ that possibility's particularly likely -- it would require, for one, that the Weaver have broken an imaginary lamp in a fit of anger, then gotten upset over that and flung it at us, which would seem to be taking a bit of playacting rather far and indicate that she herself had gotten caught up in her own illusions, which in turn just doesn't fit with what I know of the Powers at all. -- Though it would explain how it's so easy to move them around, and so hard to map them -- or how there's no consistency of distance or travel here. One explanation, at least.

[to the Steward, indicating some detail on the map]

\-- What about _that_?

 **Fourth Guard** : [wry]

Whatever you do, Sir, _don't_ mention that possibility to Beren.

[checks -- to Luthien]

I'm so sorry, my Lady.

 **Luthien** : [serene]

Don't be. I know that he's isn't lost.

[to the mapping team]

That looks rather different from the image I saw in the Hall of Maps.

 **Finrod** : [looking up again from where he's kneeling, pleased]

Oh, did you see that? What did you think of it?

 **Luthien** : [sighing]

Mostly --  _that's_ how much further I'm going to have to walk? And then, -- that it was incredibly beautiful.

 **Finrod** : [with a touch of mischief]

Edrahil made that, you know.

 **Steward** : [tolerant patience]

Aye, my lord, even as _you_ made Nargothrond, in degree proportionate to its lesser scale.

[pointing]

If you're going to put in ponds of that small size, her Highness will never get a chance to resume her narrative.

 **Finrod** :

Don't be absurd, it won't take _that_ long.

 **Steward** : [aside]

And _that_ is a saying that has never been heard before.

 **Ambassador** : [dryly]

One does wonder if Lord Namo will be quite as indulgent as my master your uncle, Sire . . .?

 **Captain** : [calling down to them]

Oh, I'm sure he won't mind stepping over him ever time he has to hold an audience, really. Nor her Ladyship.

 **Finrod** : [mock indignation]

Hey there, enough -- that project only took . . . er, right. I suppose we ought to finish it up, oughtn't we?

 **Steward** :

 _We_ , my lord?

[As the Captain is scratching Huan's nose with a more cheerful expression, (and Finrod's brothers are looking rather wistful at the easy camaraderie of the preceding exchanges,) the Sea-Mew edges up closer to them and pokes him on the arm]

 **Teler Maid** :

Well?

 **Captain** :

Well, what?

 **Teler Maid** :

Well, did he or did he not? Make that other map?

 **Captain** : [shrugging]

It was his idea; he got permission -- coordinated the research -- planned the program of the illustrations and their sequence -- chose the colors -- assembled a group of artists to carry it out -- might perhaps have actually touched the murals twice in the course of correcting its lines. What do you think? 

**Teler Maid** : [raising her eyebrows]

I think it _most_ odd that they do quibble over it then.

[the Lord Warden breaks into the ensuing pause with an abruptness reminiscent of a bird-of-prey's sharp movement]

 **Warden of Aglon** : [impatient]

Well?

 **Captain** : [shaking his head]

This again! Well, what?

 **Warden of Aglon** :

Aren't you going to say anything else?

 **Captain** : [bemused]

Almost certainly. It's rather a habit, I'm afraid.

[the Warden gives him a very sharp Look and snorts indignantly, but does not further explain. Finrod sits back and looks down at the carpet of three- dimensional illuminated terrain appraisingly]

 **Finrod** :

That should do it, I think.

 **Luthien** : [hesitant]

It still seems a bit off.

 **Finrod** :

It's probably the difference in perspective that's causing it. At least --

[with an ironic grin, to his chief counselor]

\-- let's hope so!

[they get up and resume their former places on the steps, the Steward giving his lord a hand up; as the youngest of the Kings present circles the image he intersects, quite unawares, with his father's ankle, causing the latter to flinch not with fear but distress; the late High King, observing, reaches out to comfort the living, and then catches himself -- but Finarfin gives his brother a grateful and appreciative look all the same. As Finrod sits down by Luthien's side, he whistles]

That's a great deal of map, isn't it?

[to Luthien, a bit chagrined]

Sorry.

 **Luthien** : [shaking her head]

It's all right, I understand.

 **Angrod** : [muttering]

He's put Mithrim in the wrong place.

 **Aegnor** :

No, he hasn't; it's the angle, that's all.

 **Angrod** :

I don't think so.

 **Aegnor** :

Fine --  _you_ get him going again now that he's calmed down.

 **Eol** : [contemptuous]

Of course they would leave out Nan Elmoth.

 **Aredhel** : [looking around at him, and in the same tone]

Stop being stupid -- the map doesn't _go_ that far east. I don't see my home on there, either, do you?

 **Luthien** :

 _That's_ a deliberate omission, though, I'm guessing, since it must be right in there somewhere --

[she points towards the topography of the Crissaegrim]

 **Aredhel** : [sitting up straight, shocked]

How do _you_ know where it is?

 **Luthien** : [shrugging]

Well, I saw it -- or what I presumed it must have been, unless there are more secret Cities tucked away in Beleriand than our spies ever heard of.

 **Finrod** :

You actually _saw_ Gondolin?

 **Luthien** :

I saw a stone city, not like ours, but like a big white water-lily in a cup of water --

[Elenwe seems really interested, for the first time, but doesn't interrupt]

 **Aredhel** : [giving Luthien an incredulous Look]

\--  _What_?! It's nothing like that!

 **Luthien** : [speaking on as if the other woman hadn't been so rude]

\-- or like, like the Fortress might have been, if it wasn't contaminated and an awful lot bigger.

 **Finrod** : [suspiciously hoarse]

\-- How?

 **Luthien** : [blinking]

Um. You mean, how did I see it? That was when the Eagles were taking us south from Angband. But that's a long while after, and I'm getting ahead of myself. But from the air, that's how.

[he doesn't answer, and looks rather strained]

What's wrong? Finrod?

[Finrod shakes his head, lifting his hand in a waving-off gesture, but can't talk. The Steward half turns and grips his wrist reassuringly]

 **Steward** :

My lord, let not the shock of unprepared-for recollection force from your thoughts that Lord Turgon is well, and safe, and his folk likewise -- and leave aside as unfruitful all concerns for the cause and breadth of your friendship's sundering until you may see him again to question him in person.

[Finrod looks down, not speaking]

 **Elenwe** : [earnest]

Ingold. And he hath changéd out all recognition, mine own dear love had ne'er willingly reft thy friendship, nor thee of his companioning. -- Trust me, that hath a consort's comprehension, if thou mayest not trust thy friend in his absentry.

 **Huan** :

[worried whine]

 **Captain** : [holding him down by his collar]

No, he wouldn't appreciate it if you trod on everyone to go cheer him up.

 **Fingolfin** : [very knowing]

The hurt is assuaged somewhat by knowing that my son and granddaughter bide secure -- but it abides nonetheless.

[Finrod does not look up yet, but nods in answer]

 **Aredhel** : [distinctly uncomfortable]

I don't see why you're making such a matter of it -- it isn't as if you'd likely have seen him more than once in a yen regardless.

[the Steward turns his head and gives her an arctic Look]

 **Steward** : [ice]

Highness, do not exaggerate that you may diminish your own unease for my lord your kinsman's sorrow even as your royal father's.

[she does not quite dare to tell _him_ to shut up, so contents herself with ignoring him.]

 **Finrod** : [straightening with a sigh]

Well.

[shaking his head]

It's a good thing the Enemy hasn't managed to construct any creatures capable of matching an Eagle for flying capability.

[Aredhel's husband shakes his head, laughing scornfully]

 **Eol** :

Is there no end to your frantic and implausible speculations, Noldo?

[taut, hostile pause as the Ten and the Princes give Eol angry glares]

 **Finrod** : [wry]

Not that I've discovered, cousin.

[from Eol's expression, no epithet could be more insulting/annoying than that last; to Luthien:]

So -- do you want to tell me about your journey now? You've waited long enough, I'm afraid.

 **Luthien** : [apologetic]

Oh, there hardly seems that much to tell, when you come down to it. I mean, it was rather frightening and rugged -- but the fear was wasted, really. It was more _boring_ than anything else -- walk all day; find water; scavenge something to eat; hide if it sounded like something larger than a mouse might be about, find a tree or a high boulder to rest on when I got too tired to walk any longer -- and do it all again the next day.

[shrugging]

I didn't see anything more dangerous than stags and boar -- no more sign of Orcs than of my father's scouts. I'd hoped that laying a false trail Northward would have misled them -- but I scarcely dared to hope it would work, if you know what I mean.

 **Finrod** :

They probably thought you'd go the easiest way, through Brethil, right to the Crossings and strike upriver to the Fortress from there.

 **Luthien** :

I'm not that foolish. I did _try_ to do things prudently and systematically at least. I just didn't anticipate --

[she glances at Nerdanel and checks herself]

\--  _Fate_.

[shaking her head, ironic]

To think of all the energy I wasted worrying about those Enemy armies my father said were waiting to swoop down and hunt me like a deer, when I could have been worrying full time about you all instead.

 **Ambassador** : [weary]

Highness, your father only said that because it was the truth.

 **Luthien** : [coolly]

Then why did I _never_ hear anything before Dad comes out with it as if he'd only just thought of the possibility and were trying to convince himself that it were more than that?

 **Ambassador** : [sighing]

My Princess --  _no_ _one_ wished to trouble you with useless fears, that you might no longer pass each day in full content -- or still worse, to cause you grief and guilt over the risk and cost of life to our warriors, as though it were indeed your own fault and responsibility that our ancient foe should seek in such a way to harm great Melian and our lord your father.

[pause]

 **Luthien** : [grim]

You know perfectly well what it _looks_ like, though -- don't you?

 **Ambassador** :

. . .

[overlapping, all as worried as if it were still a potential danger]

 **Second Guard** :

Please, my Lady, it _was_ the truth --

 **Captain** :

Your father wasn't lying, Highness, I did hear about that from Beleg once --

 **Finrod** :

Even if it sounds suspect and was manipulative, you can believe that part, cousin.

 **Luthien** : [with a sweeping-away gesture of her hand]

Oh I do, I believe it --  _now_ ; Beren told me. And it does make sense, after all, really -- that He'd be trying to get me as part of all his other offensives against them, to use me as leverage to get Doriath to surrender, if he could take me hostage. Or for revenge. But --

[she is still grim and her expression bitter]

 **Finrod** : [gently]

\-- Nevertheless, it's a difficult thing, to discover that those you've trusted to be wiser than yourself for all your life -- and more perfect in all abilities and virtue -- have deceived you. It calls all into question, everything that they've said before, and then afterwards to justify it -- not excluding whether or not it _really_ was done for good intentions and for your own sake.

[she nods, gloomily; he turns a challenging Look on the living Vanya present]

\-- Do you not agree, my lady?

 **Amarie** : [stifled, looking straight ahead]

I deny thee not the right of thy words.

 **Finrod** :

And what of the rightness of them?

[finally she glares at him]

 **Amarie** : [through her teeth]

I'll not allow thee right thereunto defend thy rebel soul, by holding claim of ill-doing 'gainst the gods, that one wrong be set to justification of the other.

 **Luthien** : [reasonable]

But that isn't what he's doing. He's pointing out the fact that after one has ruined one's credibility in a great matter, the trail's been beaten for any subsequent crises to follow, so that both future credibility and moral authority are now forever going to be deservedly taken with a grain of salt. That's why _we_ don't really trust the Noldor any more. -- Present company excepted with exceptions, of course.

[to Finrod, with a curious frown]

\-- Why _salt_?

 **Finrod** :

Er -- what?

[he is just as thrown as everyone else by both the non-sequitur and the rapid recovery from angry exhausted nervous wreck to competent member of an ages-old ruling House, both those who knew the Princess in life as much as those who have only seen her under present circumstances.]

 **Luthien** :

Where does that expression come from, and what does it mean? Beren had no idea why they used it as a figure of speech.

 **Finrod** :

Oh. It -- ah, it's used in chemical reactions.

[as she keeps looking at him doubtfully, head to one side]

 **Steward** :

There are also medical applications of the element, my Lady -- which must be ever tempered lest it do more harm than good, to mortal systems -- and there is a more likely route for the metaphor to have entered the mortal vernacular, I judge.

 **Finrod** : [nodding]

Yes, that's a much clearer way of putting it.

 **Luthien** :

Oh.

[clearly not quite satisfied]

He guessed it _might_ be because you can make any old glop taste halfway edible, if you add salt to it, when you're messing out pottage.

[the Ambassador winces at her idioms]

 **Finrod** :

That -- could also be right.

[pause]

Dare _I_ guess, how Elu reacted to you using North-country Sindarin about the place?

 **Luthien** : [rueful]

Sounds like you already have.


	126. Act 4: SCENE V.xiv

[Elsewhere: the Corollaire]

[As Beren lifts his head we see that the Earthqueen has taken on her form as one of the Children of Eru, but here, out of doors and above-ground, her green dress glows in the early morning light and power coruscates from her like a waterfall in sunshine. No question that this is one of the Greater Powers who stands here, whatever her visible guise. She approaches him and rests her hands on his shoulders.]

 **Yavanna** :

Well done.

[smiling, she pulls him up to his feet and continues to stand with her hands on his shoulders, looking down at him with an expression of tearful pride]

 **Beren** : [wonderingly]

I . . .  _know_ you. -- But I've _always_ known you --

 **Yavanna** :

Of course.

[she draws her hands down his arms, taking his hand and holding his amputated wrist for a moment before reaching up to brush the hair away from his forehead]

\-- My bravest of servants.

[still holding him by the hand, she turns and leads him to the eastern crest of the Corollaire, where she sits down in the grass and pulls him down beside her while he is still hesitating over whether it would be disrespectful. Putting her arm around his shoulders as if he were a younger sibling:]

\-- So. Is this _real_?

[startled, he ventures to look at her directly, and realizes that she is teasing him a little, -- and starts to smile back]

 **Beren** :

I think -- that so much of me is left -- is really here. -- Whatever _here_ means without a body.

[with a faintly-confused expression]

But -- it seems so _real_ to me --  _I_ seem real to me, I don't feel like a wraith here, even though it's -- Outside --

[stretching, leaning back, lifting his head and closing his eyes, like a hound scenting the wind]

The air -- the grass -- I can smell the breeze, taste the dew on it -- it doesn't _feel_ like just memory this time --

 **Yavanna** : [tossing her head]

Hmph. I should _hope_ not.

[she rubs his back gently, and he looks at her again, trying to understand]

 **Beren** :

Are -- are _you_ making all this happen -- for me?

[she nods]

I guess it's like when Tinuviel Sent to me in prison -- I never did understand if that was completely in my mind, or not -- I don't think she understood what I was asking, either . . . I said, "You were _there_. We were _home_ ," and she said, "I know, I was trying so hard to reach you, I didn't know if you were still here," and I kept trying to figure out if it was just a dream, or if I was really seeing it, and she just kept saying, "Well, yes, of course," and I figured it didn't really matter.

[frowning intently]

Except -- when I heard her in the dungeon, I was alive, so if it was real the way I still think of real then it was her changing the world outside me so that I really sensed it, but if it was a dream -- and I do know better now than to say, _just_ _a_ _dream_ , but I still sort of think that way, telepathy isn't originally a mortal word at all, although none of these are, I guess . . . and you're being incredibly patient, listening to me ramble around like this --

[Yavanna smiles without saying anything]

\-- so anyway, if it _was_ all a dream, inside my mind, not the outside world changing but her voice affecting me directly, and I do think that has to be the case, because I don't think even a trumpet you could hear that far underground, much less a voice, then I was still _there_ , only _inside_ _myself_ , so to speak -- so if that's what you're doing now, only more so, because this is even realler than that was -- where _am_ I then? See, if I'm a ghost, then I still must be somewhere, right? But I'm having a hard time figuring that out, and how it would work really -- I mean, _outside_ _myself_. Because _I'm_ not making this up for me, you are.

[frustrated]

I don't have the words to explain this.

 **Yavanna** : [dryly]

I can tell you've been spending far too much time around those "Wise Elves" for your own peace of mind. The words you're looking for are "immaterial extramental reality," I believe.

 **Beren** : [nodding]

That sounds about right.

[gesturing down towards the tranquil, uninhabited sward just below them]

\-- So, if someone was out there, and you didn't think of putting them in this --  _extramental_ _reality_ , I wouldn't see them, would I? And if they looked up at the Corollaire, and happened to be looking on this side, they'd see you just sitting here talking to your self? -- Apparently?

 **Yavanna** : [raising an eyebrow]

What makes you think they'd see anyone at all?

 **Beren** :

You can be invisible if you want to? Oh. Yeah. You're a goddess, I guess you can if you want. Or . . .

[he frowns, worrying it over]

\-- Are you even _here_ at all? On the real Corollaire? Or is this just the idea of it that's in your thoughts?

[still smiling, she nods, once, deliberately; he looks down, biting his lip]

I guess I asked for that one. Um. What I'm trying to say is, how much of this is _real_? except what I'm really trying to ask is, what _is_ "real" -- ?

 **Yavanna** :

We are.

 **Beren** : [half-smile, teasing her just a little --]

So if you forgot about me would I stop existing?

 **Yavanna** : [quizzical]

Did I make you?

[he blinks at this, uncomprehending -- reaching down into the grass on her other side, she picks up a large snail, which comes out of its dormant state and begins to crawl across the back of her hand, waving exploratory eyes as she offers it to Beren, who lets it transfer itself to his knuckles, regarding with a charmed smile]

\-- Not even the solid shell, that once protected your moving self as this little one's does, as integral and as hardily lost, is truly of my making, for all that the elemental substance of your flesh was taken from the works of my fashioning, even as theirs takes its nourishment from my husband's. -- Though that did allow me to clothe you more appropriately while you remain my guest.

[as Beren looks at the Earthqueen, confusion becomes comprehension -- swiftly followed by utter embarrassment; blushing furiously he scrutinizes the gliding mollusk rather than meet her eyes. She regards him with gentle curiosity:]

\-- Why does that shame you? Or are you ashamed of your housing itself -- that love once gave you dwelling, made for you a shelter and warmth and garb for your naked soul, like every least furry animal? Do you think it _nobler_ then, to be self-incarnate as we, taking shape but of our own will and power from the elements -- as young Melian did, for love -- than to come into Arda involuntarily, like _this_ little one?

[she scoops up a small rodent from the hillside, mouse or vole or similar critter, and holds it between them cupped in her palm]

\-- Or Luthien Tinuviel?

[Yavanna looks at him with earnest expression, waiting patiently for an answer. After a moment he carefully lets the snail crawl down onto grass and reaches over to stroke the little mammal sitting in her hand as it grooms its whiskers:]

 **Beren** :

No. I'm not ashamed of being born.

[looking up at her meaningfully]

I'm not ashamed of being shaped of Earth.

[with a slightly-rueful smile]

\-- Little bit embarrassed at the idea of you knowing me that thoroughly that you can remember all this --

[gesturing across his body]

\-- so right, but I guess I can deal with that, since it never bothered me to think of it when I was living, having been born.

[in a light, bantering tone, as he recovers from his discomfiture]

\-- Thank you for the outfit, by the way. I always seem to be getting given shelter and clothes -- seems like another thing hasn't changed, being dead. You know, I'm supposed to be old enough to look after myself --

[a sudden expression of alarm comes over his face]

Hey, does that mean that -- that I was in _their_ _thoughts_ the same way I'm in yours, earlier, when . . .

[he hides his face against his knees in mortification as Yavanna smiles amusedly, letting the mouse-creature run freely from one hand to the other as she sits peacefully in the shadow of the dead Trees . . .]


	127. Act 4: SCENE V.xv

[the Hall]

[there is a certain definite tension in the atmosphere, and a more alert aspect to all the listeners, which might be the consequence of recent events, or of those which are about to be reached in the story being told. Huan is hunkered down at the back, hard up against the footing of the Thrones, trying very hard to be as unobtrusive as possible for a horse-sized canid.]

 **Luthien** : [in a frank, matter-of-fact tone]

The whole thing is very difficult to talk about, because it's very hard even to _think_ about properly at this point. I can't sort out well what were my impressions _then_ , without them taking color from the light of subsequent revelations, and I'm not the same person I was then, either --

 **Eol** : [interrupting]

\-- No, you're just a dead one, silly girl. You're still the same person.

 **Luthien** : [with a controlled edge]

That wasn't what I meant, cousin. By the time we returned home finally -- long before that in fact -- it was --

[thoughtful pause]

\-- as if _Luthien_ was another country, and _Tinuviel_ someone who had lived there, once, but long ago and that land so far distant that it perhaps didn't exist and there could be no going back to there in any event.

[briskly again]

So, as it happened, where we were when Huan caught me _wasn't_ as far from the City as it seemed, but I'd no way of judging distances out there, away from Doriath where I knew the landmarks, and being carried on horseback instead of walking. I didn't know we were going so much slower than need be, until much later, and then I realized that they must have been working out their approach to dealing with Orodreth and everyone else that was part of the following of House Finarfin.

[with a very edged, lopsided smile]

They just forgot to take into account two other people.

 **Captain** : [frowning to himself]

Now, why were they out there at all? That wasn't part of their normal preferred range -- what were they hunting up in the northern borders _for_ , anyway?

 **Luthien** : [shrugging]

Apparently there were a lot of Wargs up there lately. I don't know, I never saw any. But that's what people said, besides themselves -- when we got back to the City -- I mean, when _they_ got back to the City and I _got_ there -- everyone was asking them if there had been many this time and congratulating them on doing such a good job of defending the Realm.

[the Captain makes a disgusted sound and shakes his head]

Yes, well, the fact that I never saw a Werewolf in my travels made me wonder at first if they'd deliberately gone to intercept me, if they'd Seen me coming, but it seems there was legitimately an increased threat reported by the border patrols, and that was the reason for the hunt they were holding. But I did glean from things overheard and said carelessly, by them and by the guards from their following, that it was _partly_ a deliberate decision to make a good showing, focus attention on how active and proactive the two of them were being -- as compared to Orodreth sequestered in his office and buried under stacks of parchment.

 **Finrod** : [quiet]

How was he doing, as far as you could tell?

 **Luthien** :

Completely overwhelmed, from what I could see. -- Now I really don't know how things were supposed to run, because I know you do them so much more different from Menegroth, but I definitely had the impression that even though things _seemed_ normal on the surface -- not _surface_ , you know what I mean -- nobody was starving, the City still had light and heat and there weren't any signs of want about -- that despite that, it was total chaos underneath and Orodreth was finding it quite beyond him to manage both your jobs at once.

[to the Steward, who is brooding over her words, leaning forward and putting her hand on his shoulder]

\-- My lord, don't agonize over feeling somewhat satisfied that your Work was finally recognized and appreciated, if too late -- your friends will certainly be doing it for you, and you're not _pleased_ about it any more than about the cause of it.

[he looks somewhat surpassed at her perception and assessment and nods once in acquiescence]

 **Finrod** : [sadly]

I had hoped that by my according him authority in view of all, he would have had more confidence in doing what needed to be done. He's a very able administrator -- there were never any significant complaints, nothing beyond the usual grumbling on all sides that there never were enough resources or time to meet all expectations, or that expectations weren't being met to satisfaction -- in all the centuries he ran Minas Tirith for me.

 **Aegnor** : [sharp]

Don't feel sorry for him, Ingold -- it was his duty to stand by you, _not_ to take the easy route of non-resistance (again -- !) and he doesn't deserve any pity if it turned out to be a tougher job than he'd anticipated.

 **Finrod** : [very gently]

It's much more complicated than that.

[he is looking at their father as he speaks; Finarfin's countenance is as expressionless, and fragile, as a glass mask. Luthien looks over her shoulder at the Princes:]

 **Luthien** : [earnest]

Why do you blame Beren, and not _him_ , anyway?

[longish pause]

 **Finrod** :

Because they don't want to think about one of us standing by and doing nothing to aid or defend the other. Easier to lay all the blame on those outside the family.

 **Aegnor** : [hotly]

Don't speak _for_ us -- you're not _me_!

[their sibling nods agreement]

 **Finrod** :

All right. -- What would you say different to what I said only now?

[they both look sullen, Angrod more gloomy, Aegnor more tense; but don't actually have anything to add as it turns out]

It's the same problem with facing the fact of their friends' complicity.

[it is Aredhel's turn to glare now as well, but she doesn't say anything yet]

 **Finarfin** : [softly]

Yet thou dost not hate thy brother?

 **Finrod** : [shaking his head]

No. Oh, no. I understand Orodreth far better now. I admit I was very angry with him at the outset, and --  _bitter_ , for quite some time thereafter . . . and it still twinges, now and then, the way old scars do -- but the anger died when I understood what he'd been up against, and why he couldn't face the thought of conflict again. He was right; I shouldn't have let him follow me from Aman.

[his father shakes his head in turn, very definite]

 **Finarfin** :

Nay. In that hour thou couldst no more have stopped him, from staying by side of thee his dearest friend, than I to hold ye back. And he did blame thee for his --  _will_ , he did most assuredly to err.

[Finrod looks uncomfortable, but somewhat reassured]

 **Angrod** : [taut]

The fact remains that he broke, and you didn't.

 **Finrod** : [in a patient, we've-argued-this-before tone]

He fell back on a stronger position in order to save as many as he could from the Enemy, rather than stay, and die, and give to Sauron not only the Fortress but casualties we couldn't afford with it.

[before the brothers can raise any more objections]

 **Fingolfin** :

I must aver that I hold still 'twould have been a better risk, had young Orodreth made the attempt I died in making, and hazarded his own life against that of his adversary, so that the loss of one where one's own side was losing might chance to take the head from the winners and make the field level, if not recover victory thereby.

[this gets him disturbed Looks from their living relatives]

 **Angrod** : [contrarily defensive]

No, that would have been a completely wasted gesture, uncle, you know he isn't a warrior on a level with you or Fingon --

 **Aredhel** : [not quite aside]

That's a very kind way of putting it --

 **Finrod** : [forcefully]

We are interrupting our royal cousin's story once again. -- Luthien, pray continue, if you please.

 **Luthien** :

Well. At first I thought they just didn't believe me, and then I thought they couldn't because of some strange Dark influence over everyone's minds -- and then I didn't want to believe for a long time that they just didn't want to believe me. Afterwards I found out that most people were very uncomfortable having me about trying to force them to think about it, but I just thought it was surreal the way everyone was still having parties and enjoying themselves and worrying about trivial things -- and then they'd ask me why I was crying and wouldn't I like to dance perhaps? -- !

[darkly]

 _Then_ there were some who were, as it turned out, _laughing_ _at_ _me_ all along as I tried to wake the rest of the City up to the crisis.

[back along the dais, the Sea-elf whispers to the Captain, who nods affirmatively]

 **Nerdanel** : [tired]

Nay, seek not to spare my soul from anguish, good Luthien, else thou must needs spend a wearisome longsome time thy tale a-telling, to periscribe all mentioning my sons their names.

[they exchange a look of regret and sympathetic understanding]

 **Luthien** :

I wish I didn't have to.

[sighing]

Anyway, the whole time there is very confusing and strange. I kept getting lost, and everyone kept smiling -- in the politest way -- at the poor native girl, overwhelmed at being out of the woods for the first time. I was dazed, and sick, and felt like I was missing part of me, and I thought sometimes that Beren must already be dead and I was starting to fade, and other times it seemed like I was in some illusion gone wrong and couldn't escape from it --

[she is starting to fray a little again]

 **Amarie** : [weary exasperation]

Nay, let not thy words to melt anew and drown thy tale its telling -- !

 **Luthien** : [pulling herself together]

I'm not going to start crying again. I'm just saying that it's hard for me to describe my adventures in Nargothrond, because half the time I don't know where exactly I was any more than I'm sure of what was going on, and a lot of it runs together as if it was the same but I know it wasn't, but I couldn't tell what time of day it was any more than I could tell where I was in relation to where I was -- had been, I mean.

 **Steward** : [straight-faced]

We could construct a model of the City, if that would help, my Lady.

[Finrod gives him a tiny, amused shove]

 **Luthien** : [smiling a little]

Well, it turned out that it was because my power had been taken from me and locked away so I really was only partly there -- as soon as Huan brought me back my cape I was instantly recovered, mostly, and I wasn't disoriented at all. I think I could have found my way out by myself, then, even without Huan's guiding me, but of course it was much faster with -- where is Huan, anyway? Has he gone off again?

 **Captain** :

He's up here, hiding, behind us, my Lady.

 **Luthien** : [looking round]

What are you hiding for, dog? Why don't you come out here where we can all see you?

[Huan wags his tail, lifting his head from his paws to give her a canine grin, but doesn't get up.]

You don't need to be embarrassed -- all of us made mistakes, after all.

 **Huan** :

[more vigorous tail-thumps]

[but he still doesn't come to her]

 **Luthien** : [shrugging]

All right, suit yourself.

 **Finrod** :

Why don't you manifest your cape with you, here, by-the-by?

 **Luthien** : [wry]

It didn't seem appropriate to show up showing off, or that's how it felt like it would feel, saying "I'm the one who knocked out Morgoth and don't you forget it!" It seemed -- hm, _impolite_ , and as though it wouldn't be particularly helpful.

[frowning grimly]

Though _now_ I'm not sure it or anything would make any difference one way or the other.

[Finrod pushes her hair back where it has fallen in her face again and squeezes her shoulder consolingly, and she manages to give him a wan smile]

Curufin wanted to try to figure out military applications for it, I heard -- but that wouldn't have worked in the end, since there's only one of _me_ , and Celegorm's whole purpose in taking it away from me was to keep me from leaving so that I wouldn't be in danger. So there would have been a collision, ultimately, there.

[as she makes this acerbic remark, Aredhel leans around and glares at her]

Of course, when I say "danger," that only refers to danger-outside-Nargothrond, _not_ to danger from Celegorm becoming besotted with me and abandoning all Elven standards of decent behaviour in his attempts to convince me to return his affections -- !

[Nerdanel closes her eyes briefly before returning her attention to her sketching]

 **Aredhel** : [sharply]

What did you do to him?

 **Luthien** :

Me?

 **Aredhel** : [snorting]

No, the other _you_  -- of course you.

 **Luthien** : [blinking]

I talked to him, listened to him, played chess against him -- I didn't use any of my power against him, if that's what you're getting at -- though that wasn't for want of trying! it just wasn't possible to awaken him from delusion when he wasn't deluded -- at least, not _that_ way.

 **Aredhel** :

There _must_ have been something else.

 **Luthien** :

What are you talking about? 

**Aredhel** : [scoffing laugh]

Well, obviously. Just _look_ at you.

[shaking her head]

There's got to be some reasonable explanation for why a Noldor prince would be taken by an uncivilized, ill-groomed Dark-elven barbarian he'd never even met before.

[there are several suppressed coughing fits around the group at her words]

 _Sorcery's_ the only one that comes to mind.

[silence]

 **Steward** : [aside]

I did at first wonder why the White Lady was ill-at-ease in her brother's City, but no longer.

[Luthien glances briefly at Nerdanel, who is completely preoccupied, to outward appearance, with copying the map of west Beleriand into her sketchbook and allows no flicker to cross her expression at the conversation's turns]

 **Luthien** : [glacially slow]

You're saying it's _my fault_ that Celegorm became obsessed with the idea of marrying me whether I wanted him or not and made that clear not only by word but by deed?

[silence]

How, exactly, am I supposed to have _done_ that? -- And why would I want to? Star and Water, I only _went_ with them because they said they were friends of Finrod and would help me rescue Beren.

 **Aredhel** : [decidedly]

Then there must have been some sort of misunderstanding on your part.

 **Luthien** : [levelly]

No, I don't think so. That isn't the sort of thing one can misunderstand. It's like being shot at repeatedly from no range at all -- in some circumstances you could explain away a stray arrow as a hunting accident, but not that one. 

**Aredhel** : [getting still more definite]

He isn't that sort of person -- he's not an Orc, a monster, he wouldn't _do_ that! Neither of them.

 **Luthien** : [blunt]

He might not have been the sort of person who would do that when you knew him -- but he certainly was then. And Curufin even Darker.

 **Aredhel** : [accusatory]

Then what _made_ him that?

[pause]

 **Luthien** : [very deliberately]

I think _killing_ _people_ for gain or anger, and not dire necessity, _changes_ you. Even more than hunting, or fighting in defense, does. I think that after you've done that, and after you've spent long enough justifying it to yourself, it becomes impossible to See _anything_ properly. You become like Morgoth, and once that impossible abomination has become possible to you, and righteous to you, then there's no reason you can't justify anything else you want to do -- any kind of taking and tyranny is open, after that theft of another's body -- why stop at a different sort? Insight is useless at that point, I'd guess, because one's vision is too distorted to allow for accurate perspective.

[the Lord Warden of Aglon is shaking his head, but with a somewhat uncertain and dismayed look]

\-- That's why I stopped Beren from killing Curufin. The Enemy has enough servants as it is. I don't _know_ that it would be impossible to recover from kinslaying, alive -- but it didn't seem advisable to find out.

[Aredhel is gathering herself to respond, but the Doriathrin lord breaks in first:]

 **Ambassador** :

But -- they _weren't_ kin, then: he's mortal, and you two weren't -- wed, then.

 **Luthien** : [meaningful]

If we were not akin, would we have fallen in love? There is as little distance between Men, and us, as between ourselves and the gods.

 **Ambassador** :

But --

[Luthien just Looks at him with one eyebrow raised; he covers his face with his hands, embarrassed]

 **Amarie** : [quiet but fiercely resentful]

Needs must ever boast thy divine descent, Daughter of Twilight?

 **Luthien** : [coolly]

Only when it seems relevant.

[Aredhel is about to start in on Luthien again, but her husband gets there first]

 **Eol** : [snorting]

That's what you get for trusting the Noldor. Elu and I agree on that, at least.

 **Luthien** : [curiously]

How do you deal with the fact that you're partly Second Host yourself?

 **Eol** : [ominously cold]

What did you say?

 **Luthien** : [puzzled]

You know, about --

[Aredhel breaks in before he can answer]

 **Aredhel** : [jeeringly]

He doesn't. He won't talk about his parents at all. I only know because I got it out of his servants eventually. -- It is funny, isn't it?

 **Eol** : [turning his anger on her]

Who was it who told you? I swear, I'll --

 **Aredhel** :

\-- You'll what? We're _dead_ , in case you hadn't noticed, idiot.

 **Luthien** : [intrigued]

Is that why you hate the Noldor so much? Are you jealous because you think you ought to have been one of them? Or is that why you're so afraid of love, because it made your father stay when your mother was helping to look for Dad? Or both of those, I suppose both could be tr --

[her kinsman sits forward, his eyes blazing, all his cool carelessness gone]

 **Eol** : [quiet menace]

Luthien, stop talking now.

 **Luthien** : [looking at him with disbelief]

Um -- no?

 **Eol** : [adamant]

Luthien. You are a child, and you will keep silent among your elders.

 **Luthien** : [smiling sadly]

Eol? That doesn't work. I'm not one of your dysfunctional followers who are willing to put up with your eccentricities for the sake of stable employment and security.

[he grimaces at her, helpless to overwhelm her with his hypnotic aura, and subsides, aloof and haughty, while Aredhel smirks]

 **Angrod** : [shaking his head in disgust]

'Feiniel, why did you marry this loser?

 **Eol** :

 _Don't_ talk to my wife, Outlander.

 **Aredhel** : [to Eol]

I'll talk to whomever I like, Master Smith! -- Especially my kin.

[to her cousin]

 _Don't_ talk about my husband that way, do you hear me?

 **Aegnor** : [almost pleading]

But 'Feiniel, why, _why_ on the gods' green earth would you choose to take up with some repressive, antisocial, deranged _hermit_ who's always telling you what to do? -- And _not_ to do?

 **Elenwe** : [to Finrod, wry]

Dost not wish thou'dst chosen to abide most peaceably 'neath trellis by fountain's edge, in this its stead?

 **Aredhel** : [raising her voice]

That's not how it was, you don't know what you're talking about --

 **Aegnor** : [going on regardless]

It's almost as if you've been brainwashed except you act like yourself in every other way, only more so. It just doesn't make sense to anyone who knows you.

 **Finrod** : [frank]

That much peace and quiet, I fear, would drive me crazy --

[mischievous]

Though who'd notice -- especially in present company?

 **Aredhel** : [turning to snap at him]

\-- Ingold, _stop_ acting superior.

[the dead High King looks at his living counterpart]

 **Fingolfin** : [bland]

Shall we go for a walk, my brother, while our children bicker, and see all that there is _not_ to see here, until they have sorted it out for themselves?

 **Aredhel** : [jabbing her dagger into the step for emphasis as she speaks]

You're all judging everything from the outside, and you _don't_ understand.

 **Eol** : [flatly, arms crossed as he leans back on the steps]

You think you'll ever convince one of your people of anything? Trust me, it isn't going to happen.

 **Finarfin** : [bemused, to his sibling]

Was e'en so, deemst thou, for our own parents in that former Day? Such wearisome dismay at folly?

 **Fingolfin** : [dry]

 _What_ folly, --  _parent_ _of_ _Finrod_? For I seem to recall that you were ever busy pouring oil upon troubled fires, while we elders kindled them, you all the while blowing on _coals_ in effort to put them out.

[his younger brother winces -- but with a grin of mutual comprehension, though some of the Ten look a bit nervous at the interchange of jibes between Finwe's sons.]

 **Angrod** : [getting more and more exasperated]

Cousin, you never could stand to have _anyone_ telling you what to do.

 **Apprentice** : [brightly]

As a matter of fact we think that's part of it.

[pause]

You see, since no one was ever willing to demand anything of her, nor to insist on her compliance in any regard -- or to, what's the phrase, stick with it"? when they did try -- it became uninteresting to her, and the continual pushing of boundaries began to find someone who _would_  -- and that's what she found in Master Eol here, someone who wouldn't give in to her, wasn't impressed by her birth or skill or adventures, and who would insist on things. And that makes him very fascinating to her, as well as a challenge to overcome.

[gesturing with his hands animatedly]

So she can't just walk away from him -- it isn't only that they're soulmates, it's a kind of _magnetic_ thing where sometimes they pull together and sometimes they push apart, you see. -- That's what my Master thinks, at least, and Lord Namo tends to agree, though of course nobody except them can be sure, and not even them probably, given how oblivious they are to everyone else's feelings but their own. Even each other's, except as one manipulates the other by them. -- Though the Weaver thinks they're just selfish brats who deserve each other, and that _she's_ as stubborn and self-destructive as Miriel without any of Miriel's excuses . . .

[he trails off -- Aredhel is glaring at him with a very lethal expression, while the rest of her family look carefully elsewhere, except for Eol, who seems caught between wanting to laugh at his spouse and to explode with indignation; the disguised Maia glances around at the Ten, concerned.]

That wasn't a very diplomatic thing to say, was it?

[the Captain shakes his head solemnly]

\-- Threnody! When will I learn to keep quiet sometimes?

[Aredhel stands up, sheathing her dagger with a snap]

 **Aredhel** : [setting her right hand on the hilt of her sword]

If you're going to talk about me in such an insulting fashion, _infant_ , you're going to give me satisfaction for it.

 **Apprentice** : [mildly]

I don't think I'm supposed to get into fights with the patients while I'm supposed to be keeping the peace.

 **Aredhel** : [tossing her head]

I'll be happy to trounce you regardless.

 **Warden of Aglon** : [looking more cheerful at last]

This is going to be good.

 **Apprentice** : [same bland tone]

I'm pretty sure, however, that I'm allowed to defend myself if I must.

[with a dangerously-pleasant smile]

I'm willing to chance being wrong and a reprimand.

 **Captain** : [reluctantly to Aredhel]

Highness, I really wouldn't if I were you -- he's _not_ half bad, and you haven't any real combat experience against armed opponents, either.

 **Aredhel** : [whirling on him]

How dare you insult me that way!?

 **Captain** : [raising his eyebrows]

How is a _fact_ an insult?

 **Aredhel** : [outraged]

Ingold! Make your people stop slandering me -- I am _not_ a Kinslayer!

 **Fourth Guard** : [aside to one of his comrades]

How can she say that?

 **Warrior** : [shrugging]

She believes it.

 **Captain** : [with a very askance Look]

I was talking about the giant spiders, Princess. I don't _think_ they've developed tool-using skills, at least. -- Though it is interesting that you assumed I was talking about Alqualonde, when actually I was trying to spare you from being badly thrashed.

[the Lord Warden of Aglon gives him a dubious frown at that last statement]

 **Fourth Guard** : [getting louder as he gets more agitated thinking about it]

But how? -- Denial about the fighting, or that we're all kin?

[his friend nods]

 **Warrior** :

The latter, I think.

 **Aredhel** : [turning aggrievedly to face the dead High King]

Father! Make them stop it!

 **Fingolfin** : [edged patience]

'Feiniel child, you _know_ I can't do that. I could _request_ that they cease, and your cousin's folk would very likely honour that for their kindness to me, but I cannot bind any spirit here to anything. My kingship here is entirely honorary, and I have no power here whatsoever.

 **Aredhel** : [sullen]

You're the best warrior in the Halls.

 **Fingolfin** : [very stern, approaching angry]

You wish me to fight those who utter only the truth, and punish them for that? Daughter, I am ashamed for you.

 **Eol** :

See, my dear? Not even your own family wants you about. You should have stayed with me, I'm telling you --  _again_.

 **Aredhel** :

Shut up, Orc-spawn!

 **Captain** : [righteously]

Now I never called him _that_ , but I get in trouble with her for being rude to him.

 **Aredhel** :

 _You_ shut up too. -- You're nearly as much of a Dark-elf as he is, anyway.

 **Ambassador** : [shaking his head]

It really is a good thing that your father's marchwardens refused to bring her into the Kingdom, I must say, my Princess, given such violence and recklessness of nature -- can you _imagine_ what would happen at a banquet with her in attendance?

 **Luthien** : [trying very hard not to laugh but failing]

That isn't very kind, but you do have a point --

 **Elenwe** : [to Amarie, wonderingly]

I do vow, she hath full so froward a temper as Lord Osse in his ragings.

[Amarie checks, not wanting to agree with a rebel Vanya, but fighting a smile and losing]

 **Amarie** : [shortly]

\-- Aye.

[the Noldor princess is half frantic with anger and hurt feelings, beset on all sides and unable to fix on a target to vent her fury upon]

 **Aredhel** :

I hate you all!

[her husband shakes his head pityingly]

 **Eol** :

Haven't you realized yet that I'm the only person in the entire world who's willing to put up with you, my love? Though --

[with a partly-feigned bewilderment]

\-- I'm really not sure why I do.

 **Aredhel** : [voice shaking with rage]

Oh, you are truly going to regret that --

[she starts towards him, stalking through the map which curls about her ankles like mist before re-coalescing]

 **Eol** : [unimpressed]

Many, many, _many_ years now, my own, many years --

[as she stomps up to where he is reclining lazily reaching as if to drag him upright by the gorget of his armour, he sweeps her ankles out from under her with his own foot and jumps up as quickly as she does, recovering, and both of them draw their swords. Before anyone else can interfere, Luthien also springs to her feet, very agitated, and shouts at them:]

 **Luthien** :

Stop it! Stop _mauling_ each other and _listen_!

 **Eol** : [mock sincerity]

Ah, Melian's daughter is going to bestow some of her _vast_ wisdom and understanding upon us -- my, what have we done to be so blessed?

 **Luthien** : [ignoring his rudeness, passionately]

You could have chosen to be awakened by _her_ to a world so much wider and brighter than Nan Elmoth and your heart.

[to Aredhel]

 _You_ could have chosen to learn stillness and contemplation of things you'd thought beneath you, from him, for _your_ part. Both of you could have striven to heal each other's lacks, and been strong where the other was weak or wounded, and _grown_  -- but instead you stayed where you were, giving _nothing_ , grinding and tearing each other down like the Enemy's minions --

 **Aredhel** : [snarling, starting towards Luthien]

How dare you -- you apologize to me, you barefoot savage, or I'll --

[Luthien raises her hand, palm outward, towards the Noldor lady]

 **Luthien** : [her voice echoing loudly with power]

 _Hold_  -- !

[Aredhel is stopped in her tracks -- as Eol moves forward, his kinswoman lifts her other hand and makes him halt as well. As she speaks the following lines in an icy declaration, the memory of her shadowcloak appears around her, the folds stirring like finest silk in a restless draft. They _cannot_ interrupt her, or even look away.]

\-- Well-matched indeed are you, who have neither hope nor mercy in your love, but only selfishness and greed.

[to Aredhel]

Lady, rest now from your discontent and have peace, for so long as you will --

[to Eol]

\-- And you, kinsman, from the memory of your grievances, in hopes that you may learn grief instead --

[before her upraised hands they vanish, both wearing near-identical expressions of disconcerted astonishment. As she seats herself again her cape disappears once more; her matter-of-fact attitude markedly in contrast to the others around her, particularly the dead, though only two give any audible sign of surprise -- most are simply too shocked to do more than stare, though a few among the ghostly following of House Finarfin look somewhat smug.]

 **Huan** :

[short surprised bark]

 **Teler Maid** :

Oh!

[wide-eyed, looking at the Captain]

Was _that_ what you meant, when you said 'twould soon be better sport than setting a sudden blaze about her knife?

[he nods once, solemnly]

\-- But how did you know that would follow . . .

[she trails off, frowning thoughtfully at the Doriathrin princess; on the other side of the steps the Princes look at each other]

 **Aegnor** : [shocked]

How can she _do_ that?

[his brother only shrugs, as astounded; to their eldest, rather manically:]

Ingold, _you_ can't do that -- why can Luthien?

[Finrod only shrugs in turn; when Aegnor addresses his cousin it is warily and very respectful, now]

Luthien, _how_ did you do that?

 **Luthien** :

That's my power. That's what I do. Dreams and visions and healing, all mixed up together. It's easy, once I figured out how to focus it.

[the Princes look at each other with rather wild expressions and not a little dismay, and are very quiet]

 **Teler Maid** :

But where did they go?

 **Apprentice** :

I was going to say that.

[Luthien shrugs]

 **Luthien** :

Wherever they wanted to be most. I didn't pry.

 **Apprentice** : [faintly]

That's -- what my Master does, only -- you did it rather differently.

[she raises her hands, deprecating his praise]

 **Luthien** :

That's the only way _I_ know how. It wasn't that hard -- by comparison, at least; the part of them that was crying out for help wasn't very deeply hidden.

[there is still a distinct awe over the gathering, if not unmixed with resentment in some quarters]

 **Finrod** : [wickedly]

Twelve feet tall --  _and_ a battle-aura brighter than his --

[he nods towards his uncle, and Luthien elbows him lightly, trying not to smile]

 **Fingolfin** : [softly, but very earnest, to Luthien]

\-- Thank you, your Highness. -- Would you be so good as to continue in your reminiscences, if it please you?

[she nods, pausing to reflect a moment]

 **Nerdanel** : [managing a dry, if somewhat brittle, humour despite all]

Nay, belike thou'lt have thee something less of interruptions, hereafter.

 **Luthien** : [straight-faced innocence]

\-- Probably.

 

##  [ **Act 4: SCENE V.xvi** ](https://rustbucket.net/leithian/leithian_script_4c.html)

[Elsewhere -- the Corollaire]

[Beren is still sitting in silence, now with his chin on his knees, looking out towards the Pass of Light, while Yavanna frowns at him with a concerned expression as she sets the rodent down to go about its rodenty life:]

 **Yavanna** :

Are you being quiet because you're overwhelmed, or because you're focusing on everything around and trying to take it all in?

 **Beren** : [confused]

Can't you tell?

 **Yavanna** :

I can tell which of the many possibilities are most likely, but not which it is. Knowing you, either one is a reasonable guess.

 **Beren** : [thinking about it]

Yeah. -- A little of both, I guess.

 **Yavanna** :

So, are you happier now?

[he gives her a puzzled frown]

Now that someone's recognized your efforts and told you "Good job" at last -- ?

 **Beren** : [looking down]

Oh.

[he appears embarrassed]

I -- Yeah. Yeah, I guess so. Mostly I'm just --

[checks, frowning]

\-- actually, I'm _not_.

[he looks at her with a bit of surprise]

I was going to say "tired," but that isn't true. -- Still confused, though. A lot.

 **Yavanna** :

About what?

 **Beren** :

Everything.

 **Yavanna** :

Well, no wonder, since Everything is beyond the ability of any of _us_ to sort out. But then you've always been the ambitious sort.

[out of nowhere she takes a shining garnet-like fruit, somewhat like an all-red nectarine, and looks at him inquiringly]

 **Yavanna** :

Want some?

 **Beren** :

Uh --  _can_ I?

 **Yavanna** : [matter-of-factly]

No, I'm inviting you so that I can contrarily refuse to oblige, afterwards. -- What do _you_ think?

 **Beren** : [sighing]

That that was a dumb question.

 **Yavanna** :

 _Very_.

[she twists the fruit in half and gives him one side -- as he is looking at it in fascination:]

\-- Don't you _dare_ ask me if that's real or not.

 **Beren** : [almost managing to keep a straight face]

I wouldn't have dreamed of it, my Lady.

[she gives him a narrow Look]

 _Thought_ of it, sure -- but I wouldn't dare _ask_.

[she gives him a friendly swat on the arm]

It's beautiful. And tastes just as wonderful as it smells.

 **Yavanna** : [smugly]

The jewels of my making are _much_ more than just pretty to look at.

 **Beren** : [aside]

I'm not even going to go near that one.

[the Lady gives him a raised eyebrow]

Family fights, bad enough -- between immortals? -- Already done that.

 **Yavanna** :

Hmph. _Most_ of the time you're a prudent soul.

 **Beren** : [between mouthfuls]

So -- your sister's Spring, right?

[she nods, though her expression is a bit wry; he frowns as he wipes the juice from his fingers onto the hem of his outer tunic]

You just have the one, right?

 **Yavanna** :

That, too, is a bit -- dependent on your definition. Why? Did you meet her?

 **Beren** :

Well, if she's the Spring, then I did.

 **Yavanna** :

She is as much the beginning of all growth as I am Autumn. And our sister by love, Nessa, the high Summer of blooming roses and the swift young animals in their pride. But we are both -- all of us -- far more than any of our tasks. As are you, my Hunter.

[he shakes his head a little, distracted, half-smiling]

 **Beren** :

Is she -- just a little bit -- well, _crazy_?

 **Yavanna** : [suddenly stern and daunting]

Did she harm you in any way?

 **Beren** : [quickly]

No -- not at all. The opposite. She --

[he chuckles again]

She was kind of cute, really. In a completely terrifying way. I --

[looking at Yavanna with a very confused expression]

I was going to say she reminded me of Tinuviel before things fell apart, but --

[shaking his head]

\-- it's the other way around, only -- I never _met_ her before, so -- how --

[the Power sets her hand calmingly but very firmly on his shoulder]

 **Yavanna** :

Was there ever a year of your life when the snows did not melt and the crocus and pheasants-eye bloom? When all beasts wild or tame, however old, did not leap like fawns in the new light? When the bees did not crawl out of their hollows and the little brown bats, and the swallows return from the southlands, all to dance upon the warming airs? -- Then how should you not recognize the Ever-young, when met in the person of your own true love?

[pause]

 **Beren** :

But -- Tinuviel's _Tinuviel_ , right? She's not -- not really _Vana_ , too, is she? I mean -- she's _herself_  . . . ?

 **Yavanna** : [reassuring]

\--  _Always_. As you are yourself, my Champion.

[she strokes the hair from his brow gently]

 **Beren** : [puzzled]

How come you call me that?

 **Yavanna** :

Because it is true.


	128. Act 4: SCENE V.xvii

[the Hall] 

[Finrod and his people are looking at Luthien with rather aghast looks; Fingolfin is carefully looking elsewhere] 

**Finrod** : 

You _are_ joking, right? 

[she shakes her head] 

\--Telumnar? 

[she nods] 

**Steward** : 

Perhaps you heard the name wrong, my Lady? 

**Luthien** : [shaking her head again]

Not unless he doesn't know how to pronounce it himself. 

**Finrod** : 

But-- 

[he and the rest glance in utter bemusement at the Captain] 

Are you sure it wasn't a -- a jest at your expense? 

**Luthien** : 

Orodreth wasn't doing much joking in those days. 

**Finrod** : 

But -- Telumnar!? 

**Captain** : [serious] 

Perhaps there has been some misunderstanding, gentles. Are you quite sure that her Highness is speaking of the same individual? 

**Steward** : [aside] 

How many arrant fools by the name of Telumnar do we know? --How many _are_ there, after all? 

**Captain** : 

She didn't _say_ he was being an idiot, though -- my Lady, do you recollect well the Elf in question? He wasn't by any chance a thin-browed chap with an annoying habit of smirking knowingly at everything you said, as if he knew more than you but couldn't trouble himself to correct you? 

**Luthien** : [shrugging]

I only met him once or twice at state dinners -- and I think he was at that party of Finduilas', now that I think back on it. Pretty much _everyone_ was acting patronizing and knowing around me, anyway. Sorry. 

**Ranger** : 

Your Highness, did he tend to try to keep his profile at a five-sevenths angle to display his best side at all times, when he was talking to you? 

[several of the Ten snicker -- and Angrod works very hard at keeping a straight face; Luthien frowns] 

**Luthien** : 

Now that you mention it, he did seem to be striking poses most of the time. I thought he was favoring an injury, at first. 

[even Aegnor chuckles at that, though the mood quickly turns serious again] 

**Nerdanel** : 

Might safely to presume, then, the youngling did learn but little, else naught, for all his long travel eke travail? 

**Finrod** : 

You might indeed. 

[to Fingolfin] 

All right, I've been wanting to ask you this for over a yen, now -- and _now_ you have to tell me the truth, uncle. _Did_ you foist that fellow off on me because you were afraid you'd have a rebellion all of your own if you didn't get him out of your own chain of command? 

[everyone looks expectantly at the High King's shade. Long silence.] 

**Fingolfin** : 

I-- 

[grimacing, glaring in a mock-ferocious way at his nephew] 

I _also_ had some hope, that your company and that of your companions would provide him with exemplar and inspiration to improve. --Though, 'tis true, I had come to fear him incorrigible by that time-- 

**Aegnor** : [to Angrod]

Hah! Pay up; I told you so. 

[their uncle turns the glare on them] 

**Fingolfin** : 

\--and so I judged that _your_ greater wisdom, young Ingold, should find the best way to set him where he might work the least damage. 

**Elenwe** : [admiring]

Tis deftly done, is't not? 

**Amarie** : [harsh]

\--What, pray? 

**Elenwe** : 

How my lord his father doth turn aside wrath with subtle guile, for his words they hold them brimful of praises, to make sweet wrath's bitterness -- yet eke mockery, yet nor so venomous that shall aught but sting, as salt water's smart, that doth cut when flattery doth 'gin to cloy. 

[to Finrod] 

\-- For _none_ other, I vouchsafe, save thee. Yon thornbrake snares of Noldorin subtlety be most unpleasing to my soul, do I win through and smite upon's conscience else turn back in weariest disarray, for defense cometh most naturally unto him. 

[Fingolfin looks mortified at this public deconstruction of his rhetoric; his brother and sister-in-law appear both interested and embarrassed for him. To the living Vanya:] 

_Thy_ lord, my cousin yet warm --aye, and dauntless -- doth far surpass all others in such disport. 

**Amarie** : [coldly]

That, I did mark well. 

**Ambassador** : [to Elenwe]

My lady, do you not find this -- unguarded openness, of our present state distressing? 

**Elenwe** : 

Nay; how so? 

[he is nonplused by her tone and expression of childlike seriousness, & doesn't know what to say; she continues:] 

'Tis but the way this world _is_ , e'en as without the rains do fall betimes, nor more sensible to feel distress upon it, than at dew's damp, or droplets' splash -- dost such trouble one, had best make no journeying, lest find thyself unexpected wet. 

**Finrod** : [rueful, to the Doriathrin Lord]

My Vanyar kin have a rather -- different -- approach to life than even we Teler -- much simpler and far more direct. And much less concerned with appearances and public dignity than we Noldor. It can be -- disconcerting, even in life. 

**Ambassador** : [looking thoughtfully at him in turn]

Indeed, I think I have seen such truths as you speak before this time, displayed in Menegroth, your Majesty. 

[it is Finrod's turn to be slightly embarrassed] 

**Elenwe** : [musing]

Though in truth I ne'er did think to see yon solid floor of many fathoms riven o'er wave as 'twere but crumbled bread into wine. 

[Fingolfin winces] 

**Fingolfin** : 

Daughter, daughter, have mercy -- I rue thy losses, and I obey thy bidding now. 

**Nerdanel** : [wryly]

Thou dost not so ill at it thyself, good my niece. 

[the Vanyar shade only shrugs] 

**Elenwe** : 

Long dwelt I amongst thy folk in Tirion to learn't. 

**Teler Maid** This Telumnar, he is a great fool, I dare to say? For I cannot place him in memory. 

**Steward** : [bleak]

_Much_ worse than that. He is one that will never admit he has erred, in any wise. He but changes the matter of his speech, when 'tis shown to him. 

**Apprentice** : [aside]

Another one! I do hope my Master has judged me complete of patience before _he_ comes along. 

[this gets him some rather askance Looks from the presently-dead] 

**First Guard** : [to the Captain]

I still can't believe the Prince gave him your job. 

[the senior officer only shakes his head, looking bemused and dismayed at the idea] 

**Luthien** : [correcting]

Not being in charge of your spies -- that went to Gwin, I'm pretty sure. He and Orodreth were closeted a lot, and there were other hints-- 

[breaking off] 

What? Did I say something wrong? 

[Finrod and his chief lords are exchanging looks of rueful humour] 

**Captain** : 

I ought to ask how you knew about that, Lady Luthien -- but I'm rather afraid of the answer. It's going to be more mystical demigod perception, isn't it-- 

[she is shaking her head] 

**Luthien** I heard about it from Dad-- 

[he looks relieved at her words] 

\--after Mom told him. 

**Captain** : 

Ah. Right. 

**Luthien** : 

But I honestly don't know if she figured it out from watching all you interact, or if she just _knew_. We were all just used to her knowing everything. It came up once when Galadriel was pushing Mom a bit about how to run a kingdom, and she told her that it depended on being someone worthy of following, so that your followers would be worthy of your trust -- and then told her to follow her oldest brother's example. Dad said something about how important it was to have people you could rely on to both hear and speak for you, to be your senses where you couldn't be, yourself, and your voice-- 

[looking from him to the Steward and back again] 

\--and Galadriel challenged him if he knew which of you was which, and Mom said obviously, _both_ , it just depended. 

[quickly reassuring] 

This was a private family discussion, it wasn't as though everyone in Doriath knew you were more than just military. 

**Finrod** : 

Why do people keep underestimating you, cousin? 

**Captain** : [speaking as if to reassure himself]

Gwindor's a good lad -- heart in the right place, if still a little wet behind the ears. 

**Finrod** : [mild]

He isn't all that much younger than we are, you know. 

[pause] 

**Captain** : 

I suppose he isn't, at that. The next generation just seem so much more uncertain of themselves than we were. --Not really surprising, given the hash we made of everything, I suppose-- 

**Aegnor** : [cutting]

Speak for yourself. 

[Angrod elbows him hard] 

**Huan** : 

[low prolonged growl] 

[the Captain stops talking and stares straight ahead; his former colleague leans around and turns her fiercest glare on Finrod's brother] 

**Teler Maid** : 

My lord, I tell you, I shall most assuredly make report of your unmannerliness to Lady Earwen, when I am alive once again, and let her for to know of every least rude word I did hear of you! 

[Aegnor looks suddenly daunted at this, though he does not apologize or meet her angry gaze] 

**Apprentice** : [tolerant]

Well, as a matter of fact, Maiwe, that isn't going to be possible. Once you're rehoused, the memory of this place will fade very quickly. 

**Teler Maid** : 

I shall manage it, nonetheless, let you wait, and I vow you shall see! 

**Apprentice** : 

But-- 

**Luthien** : [raising her voice a little, cutting them off]

\--In any case, I am _certain_ no one here has done anything approaching the level of stupidity of sending my father a letter announcing that his nephew had been done away with and his daughter about to be wed to a multiple murderer, and advising him not to object if he knew what was good for him. 

**Steward** : 

Oh, yes, _that_ \-- 

[he sighs, shaking his head in disbelief, Finrod leans forward and gives him a puzzled look] 

**Finrod** : 

What? 

**Third Guard** : 

Beren told us, Sir -- oh, that's right, you weren't here then. It was-- 

**Finrod** : [flatly]

\--Let me guess. Curufin. 

**Luthien** : 

Writing for the both of them. It's funny, because you'd think that would have made them even angrier at _me_ , for having got myself into such a situation, but instead Dad was so furious with House Feanor that he actually started thinking a little better of Beren-- 

[to her compatriot] 

\--isn't that right? 

**Ambassador** : [nods]

Albeit-- 

[he checks, then goes on with some reluctance at her Look] 

That was in part -- in _part_ , not all -- attributable to the fact of the Lord of Dorthonion's mortality, and your consequent eventual freedom from any such bad match. 

[he flinches under her glare, but this looking-away brings him into contact with Nerdanel] 

I do apologize, my lady. 

[she makes a dismissive gesture with her hand, unable or unwilling to speak just then] 

**Luthien** : 

Anyhow, he decided he was going to solve the problem at least partially, by sending Celegorm West, and rescuing me, so that I wouldn't ever have to see him again. That got another fight going between him and Mom, over the morality of offensive warfare and the problem that killing Kinslayers makes you one just as much yourself, but he went ahead and got an invasion force together without her approval. 

[Finrod and his followers look at each other, completely horrified] 

**Warrior** : [stricken]

The Greycloak invaded Nargothrond? 

**Fourth Guard** : 

Don't be silly -- we'd have heard about it firsthand before now. 

[but he still looks shaken too] 

**Luthien** : [grim pleasure]

I'm glad _somebody_ takes the possibility seriously. 

**Finrod** : [frowning]

They really didn't think -- what, that your father would react with devastating decisiveness upon receiving such a missive, or that he would be capable of carrying out such attempt? 

[Luthien raises her hands helplessly] 

**Luthien** : 

I don't know. Both, I guess. 

[sighing] 

It worked out strangely enough, because just as they were getting ready to go -- Dad and Mablung and Beleg and all our warriors -- they got word of another Enemy incursion along the frontier, and went to deal with that instead, and then by the time that was done with, Huan and I were already long gone from Nargothrond, and then after he found that out he decided it was useless to try to hunt me down again, after the first time had gone so poorly, and to try for a diplomatic appeal to Lord Maedhros against his younger siblings, who after all are nominally under his authority and were moving back in with him. 

[she looks over at the Ambassador, rather sadly] 

\--Of course, I wasn't there for any of this, and only heard about it after the fact, so if I'm getting any of it wrong, you ought to correct me. 

[he shakes his head, his expression somber.] 

**Captain** : 

Your Highness, how did King Elu discover that you'd flown again? 

**Luthien** : 

Beleg sneaked in and listened to the gossip about it all. 

[the Captain puts his head down on his knees with a groan] 

**Ranger** : [earnestly]

Sir, this is _Cuthalion_ we're talking about, not some random stranger. 

**Finrod** : [same tone]

Nor would he have tripped the wardings, not being a minion of the Dark Lord. 

**Teler Maid** : [to the Captain, concerned]

What troubles you? 

[he only shakes his head, not looking up] 

**Finarfin** : 

Aye, wherefore this ado of thine? 

**Captain** : [muffled]

Professional humiliation. 

[looking up, grimacing] 

My people let an intruder just traipse through the Guarded Plain and glean all the private business of the City from their conversing, and then _leave_ , without ever so much as noticing a blade of grass out of place throughout. I trained them better than that -- I thought. And with _Captain_ Telumnar in charge of defenses, everything falls apart in a matter of months! It doesn't sound like Lord Gwindor was getting any better cooperation, either. 

**Steward** : [quietly]

You're forgetting another factor, as you judge them -- and yourself -- too harshly. 

**Captain** : [scornful]

What? 

**Steward** : 

Sorrow. You cannot justly expect them to be as keen and alert as otherwise, when most assuredly the same grief, dismay, uncertainty and guilt afflicted them as ruled in the City proper, as we have heard recounted, soon and late, by our shadowy and sometimes guest. They had not _you_ , and that shall have been no light matter, with all the rest of it. 

**Captain** : 

Then-- 

[checks, with a bitter expression] 

No. I can't say that. Though I think they chose wrong, if then they had stayed faithful it's not unlikely they would have partook of our doom, too, and-- 

[he looks across where the Youngest Ranger is dreaming by the water, and then at his Noldor follower and the rest of the Ten, grimly] 

\--I couldn't have borne more, and yet I still think their misery both just and insufficient, and I can't sort it out in my own heart, and I'd like to scruff them and shake them all until their eyes rattle for being idiots, the more stupidity I hear about. 

[Finrod gives him a very understanding Look, nodding in agreement; Angrod stares pointedly at his nearest sibling, who stares obstinately into the distance.] 

**Apprentice** : [reasonable]

But you can't do anything to affect what happens there _now_. 

**Captain** : [bleak]

I know. --I know. 

[he rests his forehead on his arms, closing his eyes] 

**Huan** : 

[thin whine] 

[the Hound licks the side of his face without getting any response. The Elf of Alqualonde regards her friend with a concerned expression.] 

**Teler Maid** : 

Your City was your ship, your waverunner, for you. 

[he nods without looking up] 

Then no words-- 

[she gives the disguised Maia a Look] 

\--shall e'er truly serve to take the hurt of the loss of your Work from you. 

[she rests her hand on his bowed head and then on his nearer hand, oblivious to the impressed surprise shared by the Ten and Nienna's student who have been witness to her self-centered neediness, at this her first gesture of outreach to another. The Captain straightens and grips her fingers before making a sweeping gesture of dismissal which also conveys a distinct element of relinquishment.] 

**Captain** : [sighing]

The fate of Nargothrond -- so far as it ever was -- is out of my hands now. I know that. The regret -- _that_ doesn't end. 

[he leans back against the Lord of Dogs, his expression resigned but sad, indifferent to the varied looks of concern, understanding, or displeasure directed his way] 

**Finrod** : [neutral]

I'm sure Orodreth will have figured it out by now and appointed someone more competent and less convinced of it, and found Telumnar an appointment with a grander-sounding title and no leverage to go with it. 

[aside, seething:] 

_Invading_. _My City_. --Those bloody _fools_! 

**First Guard** : [frowning, to his companions]

I'm surprised Beren mentioned nothing of this when _he_ talked about the letter. 

**Luthien** : [carefully]

Beren -- was a little _preoccupied_ in Menegroth, then, and I'm not sure how much of an impression it made on him at that point, particularly since it hadn't happened. There were other aspects of that episode which affected him more, unfortunately-- 

[a touch sarcastic] 

\--such as the fact that we'd missed a detachment of Enemy fighters by only a few -- _score_ \-- leagues of rough terrain and I'd not known about it at all. 

[addressing Nerdanel, who has given up even pretending to draw] 

At least Celegorm was genuinely motivated -- at least in part -- by a desire to keep me safe in comfort and civilization, as he saw it-- 

[aside] 

\--at least at that point. 

**Finarfin** : 

For my part, that _none_ of mine own folk e'er did aid thee, nor aught but suffer thee to stay benighted and imprisoned meanwhiles, the while they did indulge upon false gaiety, doth trouble my heart full measure with all the rest of't. 

**Fingolfin** : [indignant]

Indeed, it amazes me beyond words' power to describe, that among all our kindred there, not _one_ had conscience nor courage to speak truth and stand beside you in this, Highness. Even in House Feanor's entourage, there should have been more than a few who did not lack the clarity of thought and strength of will to hold firm against wrongdoing! 

[the Feanorian shade darts a quick, nervous glance at the dead High King] 

**Luthien** : [with a fatalistic shrug]

They weren't very happy about it ultimately either. A lot of Curufin's picked guards took to hiding where I couldn't see them from the door when it was their turn to guard me, after I took to haranguing them about their guest-duty and familial obligations. 

[narrowing her brows] 

The bit they hated the most, besides my songs, was the riddle Beren taught me, that one about the cuckoo. 

[Aegnor and Angrod exchange silent Looks] 

**Teler Maid** : 

What is a -- a cuckoo? 

**Captain** : 

It's what we call a bell-bird, here. 

[half to himself] 

They _wouldn't_ like that, would they . . . 

**Ambassador** : 

How does it go, this mortal wit, my Princess? 

[she lifts her head defiantly, though he was not being sarcastic just then] 

**Luthien** : 

\--Myself in that day was given up for dead, fatherless, motherless. I had no life then, no friend nor elder to turn to. Then came another. She guarded me well, giving me garments and strong protection, held me and cherished as dearly as her own. Even so in her shelter I soon grew high-hearted among strangers, striving ever as my spirit must, though but a guest. Yet still she sheltered me, until I grew stronger to set my sights wider. She suffered the loss of her own sons and daughters for that deed. 

[there are mixed reactions -- those of Aman do not understand all the connotations, while those hailing from Beleriand get it, but the Ten look more vindictively pleased, while Finrod's kinsmen angry-grim, and the Warden of Aglon insulted and resentful] 

**Teler Maid** : 

How means yon riddle a bell-bird? 

**Captain** : 

In the woods back home, the cuckoos lay their eggs in the nests of unsuspecting thrushes and warblers when the parents are foraging, and then go off, leaving their nestlings to hatch and be reared by the other birds. 

**Teler Maid** : [outraged]

Why, that is most unfair, and cheating, indeed! 

[the Feanorian lord sneers at her naivete] 

**Captain** : 

Gets worse -- they're not content to skive off the parents and take some of the other chicks' share, they go further and fling out the real young ones, so that they can get all the food and care for themselves. Then after they've destroyed their hosts' family, they fly off and do the same thing themselves to some other victim. 

**Apprentice** : 

That's _disgusting_. 

[pause] 

And it does fit, in a peculiar sort of way. 

[Finarfin takes his sister-in-law's hand in a gesture intended to comfort, if not effective] 

**Luthien** : [forlorn]

Yes, but it didn't work. 

**Finrod** : 

Not the way you intended, but certainly it had some influence after, or else our cousins would still be in power there. Probably in authority, too, if not legitimate, since it sounds as though they had designs against Orodreth, if Celegorm was talking about making himself King over all southern Beleriand. Undoubtedly your exhortations were very much in everyone's hearts when the counter-coup took place. 

**Luthien** : [unhappily]

But is that really a good thing? What with you being dead, mightn't it be more practical to have a strong leadership, at least, regardless of the _justice_ of it, simply for the common good? Because of the War? 

[a distinct chill settles upon all present, except Finrod himself, who reaches out and takes firm hold of both her hands] 

**Finrod** : 

A King and his Steward who didn't know enough not to antagonize -- further -- their largest and longest-ruling neighbor, whose support covers a broad ethnic base and whose territorial integrity _alone_ has not been compromised during the recent defeats? To put it bluntly -- and insulting nobody present -- Celegorm has less political awareness, I'm afraid, than does Lord Huan, who hasn't any obligations of diplomacy nor would any reasonably expect him, as pack leader, to have. Close contact with those our cousins over an extended time made it increasingly clear to me why Maedhros chose to sequester them prudently a long ways from _civilized_ society, where they weren't likely to antagonize any other Elves outside their own followings. 

[his siblings bridle at this, but check when they see he is teasing them, with a slight twinkle in his expression as he gives them a sidelong Look] 

**Aegnor** : [very gruff]

It isn't funny. 

**Finrod** : 

Parts of it are, nonetheless. 

[turning back to Luthien] 

\--Had our kinsmen remained in charge, your father would have invaded Nargothrond, would he not? 

[Luthien nods grimly] 

And that wouldn't have been a good thing. 

**Luthien** : [almost whispering]

No. 

[the Sea-elf has been frowning to herself in concentration, and finally speaks out again] 

**Teler Maid** : 

Why make your bell-birds yonder such fell murder, when they need not kill to feed themselves, where 'tis fodder free-growing for all the birds of the wood? 

**Finrod** : 

It's the Marring, Sea-Mew. _Everything_ fights itself to some extent, in Middle-earth, needful or not. And they'd rather not work for what they need, when others will do it for them. 

**Teler Maid** : [wrapping her arms around her knees and leaning her chin on them]

Like our ships. 

[simultaneous] 

**Finarfin** :

**Amarie** : [very sadly]

Aye. 

**Finrod** : [lecturing]

Luthien, none of this is your fault. No more than it's Beren's -- you happened to wander into the way of our Doom, just as he did, and you're no more to be blamed for what followed on that than you are for falling in love in the first place. You wouldn't blame the Sea-Mew here, any more than your uncle my grandfather, for the fact that those vessels were coveted and appropriated by our cousins? The uncoerced behaviour of other persons in _or_ out of Nargothrond is not attributable to your own. 

**Luthien** : 

I know that. But-- 

[taut] 

\--I heard a great deal of the _opposite_ of that, in and out of Nargothrond. 

[heavy silence] 

**Soldier** : [somewhat shyly]

My Lady-- 

[as she turns to look directly at him he loses his hesitancy] 

\--could you perchance tell us of our own kin and other friends we left behind back home? 

**Luthien** : 

Of course-- 

[checks] 

I mean -- as best I can -- but I'm afraid it might not be very well at all. I -- met _some_ of your nearest there, more than I know, probably, but -- they didn't all identify themselves as such, and those who did-- 

[getting quieter and more unhappy] 

\--tended to blame all of _you_ as much as they did _us_. 

[the Apprentice straightens where he is sitting, watching with a somewhat detached interest, as might be expected of a friendly onlooker at a family reunion, and his expression grows graver] 

**Soldier** : [shaking his head]

I wouldn't expect any different, given what _I_ left to, and the same for nigh us all, I think-- 

[his friends also nod, their expressions bittersweet as his] 

\--but still it's home, and hearth, and memory of better days, better than naught-- 

[Luthien nods in answer, reaching out her hands towards the Ten] 

**Luthien** : [a little choked up]

Give me their names and manners, and I'll do my best to give report of them-- 

**Apprentice** : [in a worried, responsible tone]

I don't think that's really a good idea. 

[she turns sharply to gaze at him] 

**Luthien** : [short]

Why not? 

**Apprentice** : 

Well -- because -- you're supposed to be leaving the conflicts of the past behind here. It's-- 

**Luthien** : [cutting him off]

Isn't it about _healing_? 

**Apprentice** : [defensive, responsible, and increasingly harried]

Yes and reopening old wounds and resentments won't assist that, now will it? 

**Luthien** : 

But-- 

**Finrod** : [talking right over her]

I don't see anyone putting a stop to our asking -- or even giving stringent warnings against it. 

**Apprentice** : 

Yes, but-- 

**Finrod** : [going on regardless]

In fact, I've never heard of _anyone_ being forbidden to send their dead relatives messages -- even if they don't often get answered -- so by extension it doesn't seem as though there'd be any problem with us asking after our living ones-- 

**Apprentice** : 

\--there's no one else here to-- 

**Finrod** : [still talking over him]

\-- as much as we want. No one told me I couldn't send an apology to my lady, after all -- except for _her_ , that is-- 

[Amarie clenches fists and teeth on a retort] 

**Angrod** : 

No, it's just _you_ , you get exceptions made for you all the time-- 

**Finrod** : 

No. I merely do things nobody else does, and then the Powers that are here have to come up with some way to deal with them. --You should try it some time. 

**Luthien** : [slightly manic tone and expression]

_I_ am. 

**Fingolfin** : [pained exasperation]

Might we _please_ leave the rest of our family out of this? 

[his nephews don't notice] 

**Aegnor** : 

And actually that isn't true, because people who _don't_ stop pestering their dead relations are told off to give them peace and quiet to decide in, and stop hounding them with pleas meanwhile. 

**Fingolfin** : [grimly]

Aegnor-- 

**Finrod** : 

But that's only temporary-- 

**Fingolfin** : [raising his voice loudly for the first time]

\--Grinding Ice!! _Will_ you boys leave your grandfather's memory in peace?! 

[silence] 

**Finrod** : 

Sorry, Father -- Uncle -- Aunt 'Danel. 

**Angrod** : 

\--Sorry. 

[Aegnor bows his head in stiff apology, while their elders share Looks of mild exasperation] 

**Fingolfin** : [offhand]

You see, my brother, they're not irreverent because they are dead, but because death of itself suffices not to diminish overconfidence, unmindfulness, obstinacy, pride, or-- 

[glancing from his nephews to pass with a slow cool gaze over their followers] 

\--a twisted sense of what is deemed humorous. 

**Captain** : [innocent]

I beg your pardon, Sire, but _surely_ you're not referring to any of the present company? 

**Aegnor** : [aside, exasperated]

Is there no _end_ to your stupid jokes?: 

**Fingolfin** : [equally wickedly bland]

But of course not, friends. 

[the Apprentice shakes his head helplessly, and settles down again leaning his chin on his hand as he gives up trying to exercise any control -- while behind him the orb of the palantir flashes again, quite unnoticed.] 


	129. Act 4: SCENE V.xviii

[Elsewhere: the Corollaire] 

**Beren** : 

At the risk of sounding awful sorry for myself -- I've gotta say you must be pretty disappointed in me. And hard up for Servants. 

**Yavanna** : 

Why would you think so? 

**Beren** : [staring out over the plain]

Because it didn't matter in the end. You try, and you try, and you do the best you can -- and some bastard comes along and smashes down everything that you built up over the years, and you fight him off and put it back together again, and it just happens all over again, and you can't defend it all, and each time there's less to fix, and whatever you manage to save means that there's something else that you're _not_ protecting, and eventually there's nothing left because it's so much faster to burn things down than to build them. And nothing can grow when everything's being burned and trampled and no one's there to look after things. And finally you _have_ to go, and whatever you did is lost and ruined. 

[he is struggling to keep from breaking down, his voice unsteady as he finishes] 

**Yavanna** : [a bit sniffly, but proud-sounding]

Yes. Yes, that's it exactly. I _knew_ you'd understand. 

[he gives her a strange Look] 

It doesn't stop hurting even after thousands of years. 

**Beren** : [surprised]

I was talking about -- myself. About us. 

[smaller voice] 

_And_ you. --Not _just_ you. --Ma'am. 

[she looks intensely into his eyes, until his embarrassment and self- consciousness fade leaving behind only the earnest effort to understand] 

I never realized -- that you saw us that way. It seems -- like we'd be, be just _too small_ for you -- for you to notice. 

[wordlessly she closes her hand and then opens it, like a conjurer doing a trick, with something tiny -- a pebble perhaps, lying in the middle of her palm. As he frowns at it, she folds her fingers shut and then opens them again -- and something bright, like a dragonfly-sized metallic green-and- gold bumblebee buzzes forth, remaining in a kind of orbit around her -- Beren stares, amazed, trying to figure out what it is, while the Earthqueen smiles, and beckons it closer, until it settles on her forefinger, briefly at rest. Recognizing the avian nature of it, he gasps in amazement, and the hummingbird takes flight again, attracted to the flowers now rising high over the grass where Vana left them.] 

**Beren** : 

That -- is that _real_? 

[laughs at himself, shaking his head] 

What _is_ it? I guess it must be one of those creatures that there's only Quenya names for because they don't exist back home. --But _that_ one -- was it real, or did you just make it to show me that? And the vole, only they don't usually have ears like that -- I mean, are _they_ just going to disappear when you stop thinking about them? Or are they real like me, at least? 

**Yavanna** : [amused]

You're worried about little animals that might be imaginary. Do you still wonder why you're my Champion? 

[reassuringly] 

Even hummingbirds dream, though they don't rest much. 

**Beren** : 

So when a -- hummingbird -- dreams, it dreams about _you_. 

**Yavanna** : [shrugging]

About being a hummingbird. I simply called it over. Very few people pay much attention to us, you know. Even here. Quite properly -- this isn't for _us_ , after all. 

[as he still looks confused] 

The Song. Arda. It's for all of _you_. 

**Beren** : 

Oh. Okay, I see. --Are their eggs really the size of small beans? 

[she nods] 

That's hard to believe. All right, I get that if you care about a bird that's not much bigger than a big bug, then it's not impossible for you to know about or care about any of us, but that just leaves me even more confused. 

**Yavanna** : 

And you're quite correct. There's too much of Ea for any one of us to attend to every aspect of all parts of it. That's why it goes without requiring interference, mostly -- why we made it that way. You don't think that I have to come and pollinate every seed and ripen every grain and berry by hand, do you? As if there's enough time for that! We're much better artists than that. Things look after themselves, except when Melkor breaks them. 

**Beren** : [noncommittally]

That seems to happen a lot, though. 

**Yavanna** : 

That's why we specialize. If I were to allow myself to get as upset about everything of mine that's been wrecked -- let alone everyone else's Work -- as they deserved, I wouldn't be able to function. None of us could. And that would be very bad for the world. 

**Beren** : [neutral]

I thought you didn't do everything yourself, though. 

**Yavanna** : 

You were never lord in your own hall, with your lady at your side -- but your experience and wits should still suffice to tell you, what happens when those who order the moving of others cease to attend. 

[after a second he looks down] 

**Beren** : 

Yeah. It can't go on very long. After -- after my aunt died, my folks did what needed to be done but if my uncle hadn't pulled himself out of it, he wouldn't really have been Beor any more, even if we still would've called him that out of politeness. 'Cause somebody had to make decisions and get stuff done. 

**Yavanna** : 

But your parents did not do all those tasks themselves, surely? 

**Beren** : 

No. They just had to -- _be there_ , mostly, so people could know that everything was okay enough for them to do their own work and not worry about -- well, everything. They had to do it while my uncle was in mourning and being with my cousins, because he couldn't focus on anything else then. 

[pause -- he looks at her very seriously, working his way through it:] 

That's -- that's _Her job_ , isn't it? Because _somebody_ has to. Because the world deserves it. Because -- _we_ deserve it. 

[she nods] 

But the day's work still has to be done and somebody has to make sure there's enough food in the barns and the cellars for winter. Somebody has to greet travelers and make the little ones toys and teach them stories even if you feel like it doesn't matter if the sun comes up ever again. _It has to keep going_. 

**Yavanna** : [meaningfully]

You do understand. 

**Beren** : [wistful]

Is -- Is it true it would destroy Beleriand, for you all to go there and fight Morgoth up in the far North even? I mean -- I'm not trying to say they were lying to me, but -- are you sure they're not _wrong_? Maybe? 

**Yavanna** : 

You do know that the mountains of your birthplace were _made_ in the course of the last war? I mean really _know_ , not just one more strange thing that you've heard the Eldar say that sort of skates past your self's awareness the way a leaf might drift past you in a stream, there and then gone from your mind the next moment? 

**Beren** : 

Um . . . yeah . . . 

[giving her a sidelong Look] 

How? 

[she shrugs] 

**Yavanna** : 

Unfortunately that part of the earth isn't _my_ field, if you'll excuse the joke -- such a curious thing, using words as toys, I still don't understand how the Eldar came up with it -- but my husband's, and when he starts talking about _subduction_ and _transverse faults_ and so on, my mind starts glazing over. The best way I can explain it is that mountains have to come from _somewhere_ , and something has to go in where they used to be; you can't just have _nothing_ , not within the World. Look-- 

[she spreads out the hem of her skirt in front of her and manifests a handful of fine sand, sprinkling it over the fabric so that it fills up between where the grass makes rises in the cloth] 

This is water. It goes wherever the ground is lowest, you know that. 

**Beren** : 

Because it's always trying to get back to its home. 

[she nods. Sprinkling a handful of small flower petals in between, covering the rest of the cloth] 

**Yavanna** : 

_This_ is everything else. Now-- 

[she pinches up part of the hem] 

\--this is what happens when you lift up a mountain in the middle of it. Sort of. 

[as she pulls the tented cloth higher, all the sand and organic matter pours together and starts running into the grass] 

Aule would laugh at me and tell you this was all wrong, and then go into an explanation that would leave you thinking that the earth was really made out of _numbers_ instead, but as analogies go, it's pretty accurate really. You have to imagine that it's happening in fits and starts and that the fabric of the crust is more brittle in places and so it rips and the hot melted parts that keep everything going are coming out through the holes. 

[he points to a place where some of the biomass has caught in a fold] 

**Beren** : [very quietly]

There's still a little bit left. 

**Yavanna** : 

How is it doing? 

[pause] 

It looks all mixed together to me. 

[Beren doesn't say anything] 

Something would survive. It did the first time, and last time as well. But the ocean will move in where the ground pushes in-- 

[she presses down the edge of her skirt into the grass, which dips over the hem as the remaining sand spills off] 

\--and the fires which come up will burn what is near them, and that will cause storms much worse than the seasonal ones-- 

[she blows at the flower petals, which drift away] 

\--and what was done to Dorthonion in the course of trying to chivy you out will seem like _nothing_ by comparison. 

[pause] 

Do you really want that to happen to Middle-earth? Even if it does come as the price of Melkor's defeat? 

[he shakes his head, not looking up. She smoothes his hair and rubs his back in a consoling gesture] 

\--Neither do I. 


	130. Act 4: SCENE V.xix

[The Hall] 

**Finrod** : [gently chiding tone]

You should have come to visit us before the War broke out. 

**Luthien** : [bittersweet smile]

That's what I said to Finduilas . . . 

[looks around] 

Where _is_ that dog? Huan, you have to come here, you're the hero of this part -- come down where I can praise you properly. 

[reluctantly the Hound gets up, still skulking rather, and squeezes his way through the company, who edge aside to make room for him. He hunkers down behind Luthien on the other side, (since the space in front of the steps is now full of map) and puts his head across her lap. She gives him a quick kiss on the forehead and uses him quite casually as an armrest during the following exchanges. During all this movement Aredhel and Eol reappear, silently and somewhat tenuously, off to one side of the dais. They look about, hackles raised, daring anyone to notice or comment. There is something slightly different about their appearance, but hard to say what. Only now do they look at each other, with closed expressions:] 

[simultaneous] 

**Eol** : 

\--Don't say _anything_. **Aredhel** : 

\--Shut up. 

[overlapping] 

**Eol** : 

\--It means nothing-- 

**Aredhel** : 

\--It doesn't _mean_ anything-- 

[they stop and glare briefly (but curiously) at each other, then look determinedly away] 

**Eol** : 

Some sort of Ainur trick, that's all. 

[she nods shortly; they sit down on the steps, at a distance from the rest but on the same side, though at arm's length from each other. After a moment the Noldor princess gives her husband a sidelong Look.] 

**Aredhel** : [amused]

So . . . _that's_ what you really want-- 

**Eol** : [interrupting, through clenched teeth]

\--Shut _up_. 

[by now it might have been noticed by viewers that neither of the couple is armed, and Eol though still dressed in all black, is no longer wearing his armour beneath his cloak. The Sea-elf leans over and whispers to her former colleague:] 

**Teler Maid** : [impressed]

How knew you, that 'twould surpass the setting of false fire about her blade for diversion and mirth, to let her gain the Lady's notice? 

**Captain** : 

Just insight, lass, just plain old _tercen_. And deduction. 

[shaking his head] 

She'd not be warned by me. And Master Smith has trouble discerning his own best interests, no less. They were bound to fall foul of her soon enough. 

**Luthien** : 

So, anyway, we discussed several possible approaches to dealing with Enemy minions, and Huan definitely didn't think _my_ idea of trying to sneak in and get work working as another slave in the kitchens or something would work, but then I wasn't sure if his idea of pretending to be sick or injured out in the woods beside the river bank away from the bridge and me going and pretending to betray him to Sauron out of revenge for him capturing me and giving me over to the Kinslayers would work. After all, the Terrible One might just keep me there and send a minion out to look for him -- though I was willing to try -- and _then_ we came up with the idea of me luring him out, and Huan jumping on him from behind when he came to try to capture me. 

[through this narration Finrod and his relations, most particularly Nerdanel, are giving her extremely and increasingly strange Looks] 

**Finrod** : 

\--We? 

[he is giving her a baffled smile, which only succeeds in spreading the confusion] 

**Luthien** : 

? ? ? 

**Finrod** : 

You, and Huan . . . ? 

**Luthien** : [frowning]

There wasn't anyone else there -- Celebrimbor had already gone away and didn't come back. 

**Finrod** : 

. . . 

[the Steward leans back, looking faintly amused] 

**Steward** : 

The answer, my lord, is "yes." 

**Finrod** : [still looking confused]

But when did you learn to speak with _kelvar_ , cousin? Or is that something you've always been able to do, like understanding trees,  and never mentioned ere now? 

**Luthien** : [worried]

I'm sorry, I don't understand what you're asking, Finrod. 

**Finrod** : [flatly]

You and Huan were discussing things. 

[she nods] 

**Third Guard** : [earnest]

The Hound does talk, Sire. 

[as the High Kings, living and dead, and the other Eldar, lawful or otherwise, stare at him] 

Beren said so. 

[biting his lip, Finrod looks at Huan, then at Luthien, still not knowing quite what to say. The Lord Warden shakes his head with a look of annoyance and scorn] 

**Aglon** : [intending to be heard]

Dogs aren't _quendi_ , you fools. 

[overlapping] 

**Amarie** : 

What, dost claim yon gangling rebel hound be more and greater nor any whelp other of Lord Orome's breeding? 

[she and the Warden glare at each other, momentarily, both furious at having shared an opinion in public, and ostentatiously look away from each other; Huan whines sadly] 

**Luthien** : [shrugging]

I don't know. I don't know if he's any different from the rest of Tavros' pack. All I know is, he's the best dog I've ever had or heard of. 

[distantly] 

And a better friend I've never had, either. 

[the Ambassador turns his head away, hiding a stricken expression behind his hand] 

**Angrod** : [not quite aside either]

We always did say he _understood_ every word we said . . . 

**Finrod** : 

Are you-- 

[closes his eyes, starts over again. Carefully:] 

Has anyone besides yourself heard him? 

**Luthien** : [straightfaced]

Well, -- Beren. 

[pause] 

And my father. And Mablung. And Beleg. And a whole lot of other people who were there when he died. 

[stroking the Hound's ears gently as she finishes] 

**Finrod** : [blankly]

All right. 

[leaning back to look at the Captain] 

You _weren't_ making a joke about it, then, earlier. 

**Captain** : 

No, Sir. 

**Nerdanel** : [resigned, though her brothers-in-law still look dubious, as do others]

Nay, I do confess me much astonisht withal -- yet truly, ever did we say him wise, clever, and cunning in wit nigh as any Elf, about the House, in lost Day. 

**Huan** : [grinning]

[happy tail thumps] 

**Warrior** : 

Ow! --Huan!! 

**Aredhel** : [very aside]

What utter rot. 

**Eol** : [just as obviously _not_ intended to be heard by Luthien]

Obviously. I told you my royal family were mad. 

**Apprentice** : [generally, smug]

Oh, there'll be _far_ stranger things than a talking dog before this is over--! 

**Finrod** : [struggling to not be incredulous]

So . . . 

[he covers by reaching over to scratch Huan's nose, but is plainly rattled] 

. . . ah, you came up with a plan to draw Sauron out and trap him, between the two of you. I mean, between the two of you, you came up with a plan . . . 

**Luthien** : 

It works the other way, too. 

**Finrod** : 

It . . . sounds very . . . simple. 

[aside, aghast] 

\--And _completely insane_ \--!! 

**Luthien** : [crossly]

Well, I challenge you to come up with a _better_ one on short notice-- 

[breaking off] 

Oh -- no, I -- I didn't mean to say that, I'm sorry, I'm so _sorry_ \-- 

[she clutches her temples, grimacing, (fortunately at this point nothing she can do one way or the other can make her hair any worse) while Finrod shakes his head, trying to reassure her -- but not able to get through until Luthien experiences again for herself the dampening consequences of being distraught around a large friendly canid, as Huan takes advantage of proximity to snuffle in her ear and under her chin] 

**Finrod** : [rubbing her shoulder]

Shh -- I _understand_. 

[Luthien pulls herself together, not entirely over her attack of remorse] 

It's _still_ insane. 

[as she gives him a wary Look] 

\--What _did_ Beren say about it, I wonder? 

[she glares at the ceiling arches] 

That's what I thought. So -- I gather you rode Huan, then, like a horse? 

[the Lord of Dogs wags his tail again before remembering that there are other people about] 

Well, there isn't-- 

[checks -- wryly, glancing over at the Apprentice] 

\-- _wasn't_ \-- a faster mount in my stables, so that part at least was sane, in my judgment. And he'd be better than any warsteed for dealing with any enemy patrols you might have run into. 

**Huan** : 

    [melancholy whine] 

**Luthien** : [concerned]

Are you going to be all right with me telling this? 

[her cousin nods, smiling just a little; she looks around at the rest of his relatives, and continues rather acerbically] 

Just to warn all of you, I'm _not_ \-- and I'm probably going to start crying again at some point. 

[to Finrod, anxious again] 

\--Are you sure? 

[he nods again, not looking away from her] 

**Finrod** : 

It's _over_ for us. 

**Teler Maid** : [very abruptly]

I do not wish to hear this part again. 

[she gets up and goes to the Falls, a little way from where the Youngest Ranger is lying down, and kneels down to watch the water too.] 

**Elenwe** : [considering Finrod's kinfolk with a piercing Look]

Not for self alone doth the child speak, I deem. 

**Finarfin** : 

Thou seest overmuch, good my niece. Yet tales there be, that rehearsal doth not lighten, nor the passing time dull their most hurtsome edge upon the heart. 

**Luthien** : [very quietly]

I'm sorry, my lord -- but what happens after doesn't make much sense, if I leave this out. 

**Finarfin** : [resolutely]

Nay, say on: _aught that hath been_ shall ne'er be made _naught_ , by ceasing to speak thereof. 

[Finrod steals a concerned glance at his father -- it is only now beginning to sink in for him what the other Elf is going through. He does not however notice Amarie's frozen expression; Nerdanel holds out a hand to her, but the Vanyar lady either does not or chooses not to notice, keeping hers firmly folded on her knee as though posing for her portrait. The camera cuts over to the waterfall: 

    by the spill pool, the Sea-elf has already gotten bored of silence and tosses something accurately at the unsuspecting Sindarin warrior. He startles, reaching up to snag it out of the air and sitting bolt upright in one quick motion, then looks bemusedly at the bracelet he has caught for himself.] 

**Youngest Ranger** : 

Rains jewelry here, eh? 

**Teler Maid** : 

Sorry--! 

[she does not sound particularly contrite, though -- he smiles at her, and she giggles] 

**Youngest Ranger** : [straight-faced]

What are these? 

**Teler Maid** : 

Those are pearls, which come of oysters, which are akin to snails, though they do not look it. One finds them underwater. 

**Youngest Ranger** : 

Are you sure? They look like polished white glass to me. 

**Teler Maid** : 

Of course I am sure! I brought them up myself, and we had them for supper. The oysters, I mean. When I was alive of course. The ones I am dreaming of. 

**Youngest Ranger** : 

How do beads come from snails? 

[pause] 

**Teler Maid** : 

I am not quite sure. 

**Youngest Ranger** : [still deadpan]

Are you sure you're not making fun of me? 

**Teler Maid** : 

Yes. No, I am not, I mean. 

[checks] 

Oh, but you are making sport of me! For you are known of Lord Cirdan, and the havens of the Land of Morning! 

**Youngest Ranger** : 

Not I, I'm afraid. I lived my life inland, always -- I was never stationed on the Coast. 

[she makes an exasperated noise, tossing her head] 

**Teler Maid** : 

If not you, then _all_ of you -- and indeed you must know _something_ of them, for there are pearls on the very image of your cloak-pin there! 

[sniffing] 

Do you also know the way of it that pearls are fashioned, then? 

[he shakes his head] 

I must ask my Lady someday, that is all. 

[when he goes to give her back the bracelet she makes a "keep it" gesture, and looks at him thoughtfully with her head on one side.] 

Are you afraid of Lady Uinen? 

**Youngest Ranger** : [at a loss]

I --'ve not had the honor -- never been introduced-- 

**Teler Maid** : [probing]

But would you, if you were to chance to meet her? 

[he starts knotting the pearls into the end of his braid] 

**Youngest Ranger** : [very busily not looking at her]

Probably. 

**Teler Maid** : 

But you are are a warrior, you have fought demons and do not fear to wield weapons! And you are clever, you even know how to call things out of rocks! 

[she waves towards the Falls] 

**Youngest Ranger** : [dismissive]

I learned that from the King. I don't understand what I'm doing enough to teach anyone else, and I think that's part of doing anything properly. And I grew up always knowing that there were creatures of the Enemy out there, and that people I knew had fought them, and might have to again. I _didn't_ grow up knowing the gods as neighbors. 

**Teler Maid** : [even more dismissive in turn]

Yes, but you have met them _now_ , have you not? So why do you yet fear them? 

[pause] 

**Youngest Ranger** : 

I _think_ when you and I look at things, we see them differently. 

**Teler Maid** : 

Of course! Or we should not be different people. 

**Youngest Ranger** : [patient]

I mean, more differently than most differences. --When _I_ look at the gods, it's like standing by the smeltry and watching them cast ingots for the forging. That level of raw energy, even if it's completely controlled, scares me more than I can tell. I trust the smiths, but I don't _like_ being around so much power. I don't think it's the same for you. 

**Teler Maid** : 

You do not like the gods. 

[worried and scolding] 

Are the words of those proud Noldor true, then, though _they_ should not mock anyone for Turning, that you do reject the Powers of our land? 

**Youngest Ranger** : 

That wasn't what I said. 

**Teler Maid** : 

But it was in your thought. 

**Youngest Ranger** : [correcting patiently]

I don't like _being around them_. It frightens me. 

[pause] 

Though a lot of that was my own fears, about being sent back. Now that I _know_ they were right, that no one has to leave before he's ready, the _idea_ of the Lord and Lady doesn't make me sick with anxiousness. 

**Teler Maid** : [with a sulky but self-directed humor]

 _That_ , you might indeed have known, did you but consider _me_ \-- even were you not willing to trust your friends' wisdom! 

**Youngest Ranger** : 

But I didn't _know_ it. Not until I was willing to ask Them and risk the answer. 

**Teler Maid** : 

Are you afraid of Nienna, too? 

**Youngest Ranger** : [surprised tone]

No! 

**Teler Maid** : 

Why? Or _not_ , as it rather were. 

[pause] 

**Youngest Ranger** : 

Because-- 

[checks] 

\-- _because_. 

[she gives him a Look, and he sighs and goes on] 

\--Because when She looks at you, you know that nothing you've done, nothing that was done _to_ you, nothing you could ever do, and nothing you _didn't_ do, could ever make Her look at you in any other way. --Or look away from you. How could I be frightened by Love that doesn't demand anything of me in return, doesn't judge me, has no conditions, and won't ever _stop_? 

[pause] 

I'm not sure why House Feanor is so afraid of her, myself. 

[the other shade looks away, subdued, and slumps down to lean on the rocks and watch the flames on the water for a while] 

**Teler Maid** : [very quietly]

Because it makes one to wish to become worthy of that love. 


	131. Act 4: SCENE V.xx

[Elsewhere: the Corollaire] 

**Beren** : 

You're not saying as much, but for some reason it's making more sense when _you_ explain these things to me. 

**Yavanna** : 

Of course. My family means well, but sometimes they can be a bit overwhelming. And you're mine, so naturally you understand _me_ more clearly. 

**Beren** : [gesturing widely at the distant eastern horizon]

The thing I still don't understand is how anything good can come out of what Morgoth does. It would be nice to think that in spite of himself he ends up doing _some_ good, even if it doesn't make up for the rest, but I don't see how that's possible, 'cause all he does is destroy stuff and hurt people. 

**Yavanna** : 

The best way I can explain is to tell you a story. --And yes, it's real. 

[he grins, abashed] 

Once there were creatures in Middle-earth like pigs, but different. And the King's greedy brother stole them from the Lady who owned them, while they were foraging on the plains for food, because he said they were on his property. And he turned them into monsters, and made them bigger, and gave them round flat feet, and made their tushes as long as spears, and sent them back to trample on her gardens and dig up the roots of them and knock over the trees she had planted there. 

[pause] 

**Beren** : 

How did he do that? 

**Yavanna** : [sadly]

I'm afraid I can't tell you. 

**Beren** : [nodding]

Mysteries of the gods. I understand. 

**Yavanna** : 

No, you don't. That's the trouble. I would if I knew how, but it's so different from anything in your life, from _your_ perspective, that I don't think it will make any sense. 

**Beren** : 

Oh. 

[pause] 

Can you try? 

**Yavanna** : [slight frown]

Yes, but I don't know that I'll be able to succeed. --Do the words "transposable element-induced mutations" convey anything to you? 

[pause] 

**Beren** : 

Nope. 

**Yavanna** : 

That's what I was afraid of. 

[pause -- slowly] 

You know about breeding ungulates, right? How you can change the herd by coupling the hardiest, or select for more milk, or heavier coats, or smaller horns, or calmer temper? 

**Beren** : 

Like cows and sheep and goats, right? Are _they_ like -- ungulants? Because I don't think we have _them_ back home. Since obviously you're not talking about spiders. 

**Yavanna** : 

Yes, you do -- that's what they are, all of them. And others as well. It means the ones with hooves, not paws. 

**Beren** : [embarrassed]

Oh. 

**Yavanna** : [tossing her head, dismissive]

Silly word, really. _I_ know what they are, and _they_ know what they are, but it means so much to the Eldar to be able to organize them with names. Anyhow, Melkor did something like _that_ to them, only because he's a god he can do it far more effectively and in ways that would never occur to most people to think of -- thankfully! -- but it takes a very long time, even for us, to change things, and while he was so pleased with himself for making creatures that could destroy my trees, he completely missed something else that was happening at the same time. 

[she smiles, rather scarily -- her tone is triumphant] 

They became _wise_. They live in tribes, of a sort, now, and they have lore of a fashion, and they teach their young to mind the old ways, and the oldest females are always their leaders. And they do knock down and eat trees, but they also make it possible for many other creatures to live, on them and around them and because of them. So -- _those_ ones are still mine, even though he tried to take them away from me. 

**Beren** : 

You did that? You -- can do that? 

**Yavanna** : 

Of course. But not the same way. Not as you're thinking of it, like that game your friends are so mad for, the one with little bits of stone -- as though Melkor moved one, and then I moved another to counter him. And it isn't just _me_ , either. It's all of us.  Nia and dear Este and Tav', and my kinswomen, Vana and Nessa and little Melian, and my husband, and Irmo and your friends Tulkas and the one you've never met, but know as well as me, Ulmo, and his people, and Vaire, Namo and Manwe and Varda, and all of us, everywhere, the ones you know of and the ones no Elf or Man has ever guessed at. 

[pause] 

\--Huan, too. 

**Beren** : 

You mean the Song. 

**Yavanna** : [nodding]

It pours out across the emptiness, and he tries to block it, and he can't -- all he can do is hold it for a little, or change it from what it was trying to be, but it's like trying to stop a river -- only instead of a river, it's the whole ocean. 

[he is frowning] 

Have I made things hopelessly confusing? 

**Beren** : [quick headshake]

No -- not really. What -- When you said "trees," you weren't thinking about orchards or hawthorns or junipers, were you? _Small_ trees? 

[she shakes her head in turn] 

That's . . . what I was afraid of. --What kind of trees? 

**Yavanna** : 

I don't know what names have been given to them -- but they're probably most like oaks, of all the ones you're familiar with, though the roots are different. But they look somewhat like a particularly thick-boled and gnarled oak tree. 

**Beren** : [hopefully]

But -- not that tall, right? 

**Yavanna** : 

Oh yes. Easily. 

[pause] 

**Beren** : [apprehensive]

How? 

**Yavanna** : 

With their foreheads. 

[longer pause] 

**Beren** : 

How big _are_ they? 

[the Earthqueen shrugs] 

**Yavanna** : 

Very. 

[wide-eyed, he doesn't answer, except with a quick shiver, and an appalled smile -- she looks at him curiously] 

What are you thinking? 

[for some reason this embarrasses him] 

**Beren** : [flustered]

Oh. I -- I was -- and this is just, um, _hypothetical_ , even if it wasn't anyway already, because I don't _want_ to, you understand -- but -- I was wondering how you'd go about _taking_ one. Sorry. 

**Yavanna** : [not offended in the least]

But of course. You're _his_ also. You could hardly help but wonder about it. 

**Beren** : [frowning still more]

\--Mostly about what you'd do with it after. A whole village could hardly eat an animal big enough to plough over an oak tree like it was a shrub! And you couldn't make it into hams, either, not easily. I'm just croggled thinking about the technical problems of skinning something as big as a cottage. And what would you do with the bones? Make houses out of 'em? 

[she looks pensive for a moment] 

**Yavanna** : 

Ye--es, I believe they do. 

[pause] 

**Beren** : 

You mean -- somebody _has_? 

**Yavanna** : [sad]

Your people are very stubborn. And ingenious. 

**Beren** : 

_How_? 

**Yavanna** : [raising her hands]

Hunting is not my Art. I gather it's quite dangerous, however it's done, and often the price is the hunter's life, so it isn't frequent -- a dire emergency, when the certainty of famine makes the likelihood of sacrificing a leader worthwhile. --Which is a fair bargain. 

[pause] 

**Beren** : [wide-eyed]

Okay, what I really want to know is, where do they live, and is it any way near Beleriand, or could they get there? Because this is really scary, even if it doesn't affect me directly. 

[she shakes her head, amused] 

**Yavanna** : 

They only thrive where it's hot all year round -- that's where they were made for, since things grow there without a break. It's very far from where you lived -- beyond several Barriers, and a long ways south besides. And it's very unlikely that they would ever cross a Barrier -- they're not designed for climbing, but _crushing_ , and they haven't much interest in traveling out of their own lands. --Another thing he failed to notice until it was too late. 

[the Earthqueen sounds very smug -- Beren gives a relieved sigh.] 

**Beren** : 

That's good to hear. I guess if it were different they could've used them to knock down the Nightshade instead of trying to burn me out. 

[wistful] 

You know, I'd still kind of like to see one. From a safe distance. 

[frowning] 

I wonder if you could domesticate them . . . and what you'd do with them if you did, and how you'd feed them. 

[looking at her wryly] 

Now I'm trying to think how big of a barn you'd need to put them in. 


	132. Act 4: SCENE V.xxi

[the Hall. There are, as Nerdanel predicted, fewer interruptions and farther between; the audience is much more respectful, or at least attentive. In the background, the Sea-elf is dumping out the Youngest Ranger's quiverful of arrows and investigating his gear, examining its decoration and construction while he answers her questions, the two of them silhouetted against the illusory flames shining on the water.] 

**Luthien** : [mildly exasperated]

Look, Finrod, I simply _don't know_. I didn't choose the route, _he_ chose it, and I couldn't correlate anything we passed to the maps in Nargothrond along the way -- all I was doing was holding on and holding my breath that we wouldn't meet any enemies. 

[frowning hard at the map] 

\--Yes, I do remember, now, we did pass a big rock shaped like a stack of plates, with some bracken at their base. 

**Finrod** : [pointing]

That would be right _there_ , then-- 

[he looks sharply at Huan] 

Why did you go that way? It's a bit shorter, but the footing on that scarp is much worse than if you turn and follow the slope inland a bit here-- 

[the Hound only pants and grins; the Princess of Gondolin leans back on the dais and calls over quietly to her cousins:] 

**Aredhel** : [malicious smile]

You do realize your brother is arguing travel plans with a _dog_ , don't you? 

**Angrod** : [very dry]

At least he isn't going on about the Golden Beast. 

**Aegnor** : [fatalistic]

\--Yet. 

**Luthien** : 

At any rate, we got there, and I realized at once that my ideas of sneaking in undetected were hopeless given the design of the bridge and the approach to the Tower on the other side, and that we were going to have to brazen it out Huan's way after all. 

[she strokes Huan's ears affectionately] 

He was so brave. Any of them could have been his Doom, for all we knew, but he didn't let that make any difference to him. --I was so terrified. 

[with a shaky laugh] 

I didn't know one could be scared of so many different things, in so many different ways, all at once. 

**Finrod** : [deceptively mild tone]

And -- let me get this straight -- you were standing in front of the main gates, on the riverbank, using yourself as _bait_ , projecting as loudly as you could through Sauron's defenses while crazed Werewolves came at you and Huan picked them off? That -- really -- was your plan? 

[Luthien nods] 

**Luthien** : 

That's what I said. 

**Finrod** : 

I know. I just want to make sure that wasn't one of the plans you rejected as being too unchancy and perhaps I was mistaken, surely you'd not have done anything that -- that-- 

**Luthien** : [meaningfully]

 _Watch_ it, all right, you hear? 

[the living High King turns to the Doriathrin lord, as the latter winces yet again] 

**Finarfin** : [fascinated]

How your speech hath variance from ours all that dwell upon this shore! 

**Ambassador** : 

. . . 

**Nerdanel** : [nodding as she takes notes]

Aye, the _sense_ of it, that indeed is plain, as well the significance of every word its own, yet I confess the meaning of't all, cometh not unto the sense, when all are judged as words. 

**Ambassador** : [very dry]

The speech of mortals also has diverged from its original sources in our own pure tongue. 

**Nerdanel** : 

Ah, I do comprehend me now -- this shall be among those fashionings which Lady Luthien declared in counsel her own willful keeping, that by'r very speech she should remind thee and ye ever of her true-love's self. 

[the Ambassador nods, grimly] 

**Luthien** : [rueful smile]

I'm sorry I broke down your castle, by the by. It -- I know it was _theirs_ , now, but still, you did make it-- 

[Finrod shrugs] 

**Finrod** : 

It had outlasted its purpose. Better to remove the strategic value and deny it to Morgoth than leave it in the foolishly-optimistic hope that it could be made invulnerable -- not _again_ , but as we once thought it. 

**Angrod** : [much more respectful now]

Er -- Luthien? 

[she turns towards him; he phrases his doubts very politely] 

You didn't -- well, really destroy it completely, did you? The whole Tower? 

[Luthien nods] 

Don't -- don't you just mean the main gate towers? 

**Luthien** : 

Those were part of it. 

[pause] 

There were some edge bits still piled up. Of the -- the _curtain_ , that's what you call a wall around a tower, right? 

**Angrod** : 

. . . 

**Finrod** : [wicked humour]

Good thing _I'm_ not a gambling Elf, hm? I told you it wasn't exaggeration. 

**Angrod** : 

But -- the whole _Fortress_?! 

**Luthien** : 

I had to free Beren. And . . . I was out of patience, by then. 

**Angrod** : 

\--But . . . _how_? 

[Luthien shrugs] 

**Luthien** : 

It was just a matter of putting enough force into the words. 

[to Finrod, frowning] 

\--What _have_ the Enemy done to the language? It's as if every word was wrenched around to make it as painful-sounding as possible. 

**Finrod** : 

Precisely so. 

[Luthien shivers, petting the Hound for comfort] 

**Luthien** : 

The _aura_ of the whole area . . . 

[pulling herself together] 

\--I'm getting this out of order. At that point the Tower was _very_ solid, gates and all. And full of Enemy minions. Which problem we were working on, right, Huan? 

**Huan** : 

[mournful whine] 

**Finrod** : [rueful smile]

I never realized you had that kind of power, back in Doriath. 

**Luthien** : 

Neither did I -- until I started trying to do things I'd never attempted -- or dreamt of. But at that moment I was only -- I hardly thought about my danger, the only thing that mattered was our success, that we might not be in time, even then-- 

[she stops again, looking bleakly at the map, and the Hound licks her hand] 

**Finrod** : [firmly]

But you were. 

[his father turns his head away sharply, biting back comment] 

**Luthien** : 

Only because of you. Draugluin came-- 

[with a short, shaky laugh] 

It was funny -- I'd even used him in my spell, the one to make my hair grow, but he -- I don't know if I would have _dared_ , if I had any idea how awful he was -- _nothing_ like the glimpses of him we'd seen scrying Morgoth's defenses. 

[wide-eyed] 

It wasn't just the much-bigger-in-person part of him being there in person. He _hated_ Huan. There was more -- _anger_ , there, than -- he could _tell_. He was stronger than the others, they just came to me like moths to my hair-ornaments, but he could tell that Huan was -- he just knew. 

[shaking her head] 

I'm not the right person to tell this part. I -- it's all so muddled, now, so -- disjointed, like things seen by lightning-flash, I-- 

[she raises her hands and let them fall in frustration; in the back row, Nienna's Apprentice looks up suddenly, out into the shadows of the Hall (not at the once-again-dark palantir)] 

**Steward** : [austerely]

Then who else, my Lady? Even were the Lord of Dogs willing, his narration should hardly prove more coherent, considering his own role in the night's action. It is most difficult to report on events themselves hurried and confused, as must any violent encounter in which one is one's self engaged inevitably prove to be. _Your_ attempt at the least strives for unity and clarity -- whereas, were your lord to endeavor to make the same report, 'twould either diverge into some half-dozen other narratives along the way besides, leaving all listeners entangled in the digressions, -- or else be some six words summation, as perchance, "We fought them. Oh -- we won." 

[this has the effect of making her smile despite her best intentions, looking down and closing her eyes in resistance] 

**Luthien** : 

Yes, Beren has -- an interesting style, of recounting events. I remember one evening when we met, and I asked him what had happened that day, and he said, "Salamanders!" and then we made bannocks and I wondered what he meant by that and then we ate and I wondered if it was some human expression that I'd never heard of and then we went for a walk along the stream-- 

[gesturing animatedly as she speaks] 

\--and he started telling me about the first time he saw them, and his cousins told him some creepy little story about them being the ghosts of frogs, only he figured out pretty quickly that couldn't be true, and _then_ he described all the different sorts of amphibians that lived in Dorthonion, and where, and then he started asking about the types of water-weed that grew in the Esgalduin, and then he showed me where he found a different sort of newt that he'd never seen before, and that was what he'd meant when he said "Salamanders!" -- that he'd discovered some. Only it needed everything else that was in his thoughts about them, to get that latest bit out -- it's hard for him to untangle it, usually. 

**Warrior** :  [wry]

Not to mention the rest of us. 

**Aegnor** : [caustic aside]

It's perfectly all right for _them_ to make fun of him, of course. 

**Luthien** : [mild exasperation]

We're not-- We're his _friends_ , talking fondly about his foibles, and he'd join in himself if he were here, _as you'd know_ if you were a friend of his, cousin. There _is_ a difference. 

[forlornly] 

\--I've never had a chance to share recollections of my true-love with anyone who knew him well, before this. I -- I'm _not_ going to start crying again. I was saying, that Draugluin came rushing down the bridge like a glacier might if it were going a great deal faster -- and making as much of a noise as one would! -- charging at Huan and Huan was baying back at him until I thought I was going to go mad from all the echoes, I couldn't even hear myself singing over the ruckus-- 

**Ambassador** : 

But -- you were at least a safe distance away, Highness? 

**Luthien** : 

Well, I -- wasn't underfoot, then. 

**Finrod** : [grim]

She means there _wasn't_ any safe place, then. I'm sure it was far worse than we're imagining, my lord. Or could possibly imagine. 

[Luthien rolls her eyes and makes a dismissive gesture] 

**Luthien** : 

It wasn't that bad. Huan was there to protect me. --Oh, stop growling and put your hackles down. You were _magnificent_ , I was perfectly safe with you there. 

[looks of astonishment are shared all around] 

**Elenwe** : [bemused]

There's belike the greatest gulf e'er spoke within these walls, 'twixt _word_ and _was_ , and uttered yet full honest. 

**Luthien** : 

No, it's quite true -- I survived, didn't I? So I was safe. All most logical. 

**Steward** : [appreciative]

 _Very_ deftly done. 

[she cannot quite conceal an embarrassed smile at his compliment] 

**Luthien** : 

The Wolf-Commander was really impressive, like an ice-dam breaking in spring, but -- it seemed to me-- 

[deprecatingly] 

\--and I know I'm not the one to be judging such matters, I've only seen natural animals fighting in real life, and watching things in water with Mom wasn't -- well, seeing things from a distance when you've not really much idea of what it's like -- but it did seem that he wasn't fighting all that _well_. He was certainly strong enough, but-- 

[frowning] 

\--he was careless. _Reckless_. I think he was overconfident, and I think he was too angry to think straight. 

[Huan thumps his tail several times] 

And Huan just ripped him to pieces, really. He had to break off the engagement and run for the safety of the Tower, or else Huan would have killed him. --He did, actually, but not right there, only we found out later. And we waited again, knowing that our plan was halfway spoilt by that, but what could we do? And then-- 

**Finrod** : [interrupting, to Huan]

You mean you didn't pursue him? 

**Huan** : 

[questioning whines] 

**Luthien** : 

Of course not -- that would have been madness, to dash back into Enemy territory, with no idea how many other Wargs there were, or how badly their Commander was hurt. Huan has more sense than that. 

[fondly] 

More sense than most, when it comes right down to it. 

**Finrod** : 

Quite so. 

[wry] 

I'd not dare to warrant that any two-legged warrior -- Firstborn or Secondborn -- would have shown the same restraint. 

[Huan grins and licks his hand as Finrod scratches his nose] 

**Fingolfin** : 

Too true. --Well done, sir Hound. 

[the lawful Eldar give him disquieted glances] 

**Luthien** : 

So we waited and waited, and kept waiting, and then-- 

[she shudders] 

\--this -- this _Beast_ charges out of the Gates at us, and it was -- so-- 

**Huan** : 

[low prolonged growl] 

**Luthien** : 

\--Huan was even too shocked to move, weren't you, boy? So was I. And he was _fast_. The reek of sheer evil and blind rage coming off of him was twelve times -- a hundred times -- worse than that of all the rest put together. I almost passed out, I was too scared to breathe, and I don't know if he would have killed me or just dragged me away -- not that that would have been any better! -- I sort of jumped back -- well, _fell_ , really, I tripped -- but the jolt shook me out of it and woke me up enough to stun him for a second. That was all Huan needed to recover and jump him -- Shh, you don't need to growl, it's all over-- 

[gesturing with her hands] 

They _crashed_ into each other -- when Huan and Draugluin were fighting it was incredible, but still -- _normal_ , like bears or stags duelling over territory. This was like a battle between thunderheads, or mountains, like one of those storms that uproot oaks. There was so much pressure from the power emanating from them that it was hard to breathe still, the way it gets in a hurricane sometimes. 

[shrugging] 

I wasn't any use, either -- not as if I could contribute anything but moral support. 

**Finrod** : 

Don't underestimate the usefulness of that. 

**Luthien** : 

Well, if it was any use, it was hardly enough, considering what I ought to have been doing, seeing that if it wasn't for me-- 

**Finrod** : [very earnest, but a little bit patronizing]

You're blaming yourself again over something not of your causing. And you're letting it tear you apart. --That isn't very reasonable, now, is it? Nor much help. 

[pause] 

**Luthien** : [wry]

You know, Beren couldn't manage to make clear to me why, exactly, it was that you lost. I could see being overwhelmed, but _not_ losing your concentration on account of _something not of your causing_ \-- which would seem to describe pretty nearly you coming undone with guilt over the Kinslaying when Sauron tossed that out, wouldn't it? 

[pause] 

**Finrod** : [stifled]

That -- was -- different. 

**Captain** : [not at all aside]

Oh yes, very. 

[his lord clenches his jaw on comment] 

**Luthien** : 

Do you know what the strangest thing was, he started Changing while Huan had hold of him, trying to escape, into all different shapes -- as if that would shake him off! --Though I suppose an ordinary hound might have been startled enough if his Warg turned into a snake, or blue flames, or a vampire-demon -- or one of _us_ \-- to let go. But _not_ Huan. 

[Huan grins, and gives a quick tail-wag] 

It's so peculiar, that the gods -- good and bad -- are so _separate_ from their bodies that they can just -- let them go or rearrange them at will, like clothes, not just illusion to change what they look like. 

[with a short, unsettling laugh] 

Once when I was very small, and Mom was telling us stories about her -- _youth_ , I suppose it would be -- I asked her why _she_ didn't ever turn into anything now, like a tree, and she said that she had Chosen to become an Elf, to be with Dad, and Elves couldn't turn into trees or horses or wind any more than those things could have their own little girls . . . --I wanted to talk with her, after all of it, about _being_ \-- about so many things, but-- 

[she shakes her head gloomily] 

**Finrod** : [didactic]

Not all the Ainur can. Those who serve the Dark -- they don't seem to be able to become other things-- 

[snorting] 

If they could, we'd have had a _much_ harder time of it! 

[nods and grimaces from all those who were warriors in Beleriand] 

**Luthien** : 

Sauron could, though. 

**Finrod** : [countering]

Morgoth's first officer, and a damnéd powerful spirit in his own right. 

**Luthien** : [agreeing now]

And he couldn't shape himself another, then if he'd been . . . _killed_ , there, either; he would have had to go get a replacement from Morgoth. That was why we were able to coerce him so easily -- he was petrified I'd have Huan rip his throat out and make him go beg a new one. He was more afraid of being unbodied and at his master's mercy than of anything else. I hardly had to push him at all before he crumbled. 

**Finrod** : 

Now doubt the shock of being so easily stomped by you rattled him pretty badly. 

**Elenwe** : [frowning]

"Stomped"--? "Rattled"--? How mean ye? 

**Ambassador** : 

More mortal perversions of our speech, gentle lady. 

**Finrod** : [edged]

They're not -- Oh, never mind. 

**Luthien** : [rolling her eyes]

I _didn't_ stomp him. Huan did. I just asked the questions until he gave me the keywords. Well, I _told_ him to give me them, really. 

**Finrod** : 

You stomped him. 

[they share a reluctant fond smile of mutual experience] 

**Aredhel** : [to Eol]

Well, he can't have been _that_ impressive of an opponent, if one girl and one dog managed to bring him down between them. 

[with a sly grin at Finrod] 

Though my cousin certainly thought otherwise. 

[the dead High King gives his daughter a look of profound disappointment] 

**Aglon** : [hollowly]

Once I'd have agreed -- and now I cannot even with myself-that-was agree, or else disdain one dearer to me than myself-- 

**Third Guard** : [not-quite-aside to the Soldier]

And how many Maiar has _she_ defeated? 

**Eol** : [glaring]

Don't speak disrespectfully of my wife. 

**Soldier** : [not really aside]

No -- nor your sword, or your horse, or your hound neither. 

**Aredhel** : [sitting up menacingly]

How dare you imply that I'm his chattel? 

**Luthien** : 

Ahem. 

[she turns a questioning glance on her cousin and his wife -- as Aredhel starts to argue] 

_Please_ don't say they started it, either. 

[the couple subsides, though not without grumbling (which Luthien ignores)] 

**Eol** : [aside]

\--Spoiled brat. 

**Fingolfin** : [seriously, to Luthien and the Hound -- but also to everyone else]

To enter into a contest, unsupported, and with little hope, and no certainty at all -- that is a fell battle indeed, no matter what the adversary or who the challenger. Even as my nephew's duel, yours no less deserves respect, my noble lord and lady. 

**Finarfin** : [startled]

Thou dost -- _thou_ didst ken the substance of his Doom? and dost even deem it a matter of great renown? Thou, brother, that didst lame the Enemy him in his person? 

**Fingolfin** : 

Renown? I daren't declare _that_ \-- for fame and glory rest on the knowledge and sense of others, do they not? But certainly should be so, for the deed itself. 

**Aredhel** : [impatient]

Father, he _lost_. 

**Fingolfin** : 

\--As did I, 'Feiniel. 

**Aredhel** : 

You lost against the most powerful Vala ever to walk the earth. While he-- 

[she tosses her head. Finrod only looks amused at her disrespect, though his friends are not at all, any more than his siblings] 

**Fingolfin** : 

Aye -- and _my_ battle was but a few hours in duration, while his lasted for days upon days -- and with no knowledge, as I had, of any other knowing of his valour, to keep it living in friendly memory beyond their deaths. 

**Finarfin** : [softly]

Thy words do convey unto my heart some strange easement, nay, even of consolation a certain smallest drop. 

**Fingolfin** : [with a wry smile]

Oh, no, for all his maddening efforts to provoke me out of my despair, when he grows bored of diverting me, and for all the inconceivable yet not insignificant trouble he devises -- or, indeed, _instigates_ \-- he's a good lad and a brave one, and well I know it, and well you should be proud to call him kin. 

[this does manage to embarrass the ex-King of Nargothrond, as nothing else his elders have said] 

**Aglon** : [aside]

I thought -- before -- it was no more than partiality, on his Majesty's part -- but now I doubt my former senses -- and yet, that itself is my own partiality, that would not lessen one I love-- 

[he lowers his head against his clenched fists; the Apprentice looks again to the other side, where nothing is presently to be seen, and makes as if to say something -- but the Captain sets a restraining hand upon his arm, shaking his head, and he is silent.] 

**Fingolfin** : 

I do wonder that the Terrible One made so poor a showing, given all his power -- I had scarcely thought that even so fine a Hound as our friend Huan should have brought down the greatest of the Dark Lord's minions with mere tooth and nail and brawn. 

[simultaneous]

 **Luthien** : 

I don't think-- **Finrod** : 

Very likely-- 

[they both stop and look at each other apologetically, waiting] 

You were _there_ \-- I'm just speculating. 

**Luthien** : 

Yes, but _you're_ the genius. 

[to Fingolfin] 

\--Your Majesty, I don't think he could actually _use_ his powers, not in any Elven sort of way, while he was being a Wolf -- he just _was powerful_ , if you understand me. And -- 

[pursing her lips] 

He wasn't all that _good_ at it. Not the way Huan was. He seemed -- clumsy somehow, as though his bulk was more than he was used to, or as if he had to think about what he was doing as he was doing it. I don't know. Maybe I'm just putting more into it than was really there. 

**Finrod** : 

No, that makes sense. If he were trying to make himself so much larger than Huan, in order to guarantee a victory, he wouldn't have been accustomed to _that_ body, no matter how often he'd been a Warg. And Huan's always been a dog, all the time. He wouldn't ever get rusty at it, as the Old-world saying has it. 

[Huan pants and grins, and Luthien pets his ears gently] 

**Third Guard** : 

Moreover, my lords, the Terrible was always given to letting his own servants fight his physical battles for him -- you recall how badly it put him out to be shot, Sire, from what Beren said. 

**Finrod** : 

You're right -- that would go a long way to counter any advantages of his nature as well. 

**Luthien** : 

So then he turned into a bat and flew away, leaving this revolting _mess_ behind. I suppose he didn't want to carry all of the bulk of his wolf-body aloft and just left the excess behind instead of dissipating it as energy, but -- _ech_. 

[she shivers, this time in disgust, with a nauseated expression] 

**Finrod** : 

You let him go? 

**Luthien** : 

I made a bargain -- "if you want to live, you have to give me the password." 

[shaking her head] 

I couldn't have broken my word -- well, obviously I _could_ , but -- even my father kept his word to me, that he wouldn't kill or imprison Beren, after all. My family _are_ the law in central Beleriand, from the beginning of Time. I have a duty to live up to. 

**Ambassador** : 

Yet-- 

[stops, looking grim and distraught] 

**Luthien** : [tense]

What? 

[he shakes his head, not meeting her eyes -- with an echo of power:] 

\-- _What_?! 

**Ambassador** : [struggling against himself, still not looking at her]

King Elu did say after -- while you two were making your farewells -- that he only let the Lord of Dorthonion go, because he was sure that he would not come back, with or without a Silmaril -- promise or not. 

[anguished] 

\--I would rather die, than speak such shame of my lord-- 

[pause] 

**Luthien** : [cold]

Too late. In all respects. 

[she bites back further sarcasm, looking both angry and miserable] 

**Fingolfin** : 

I still think it had been better, my lady, did you _not_ spare your foe. 

[aside] 

Now, he will recover, and harry not only your people, but my son and his henceforth. 

**Luthien** : 

Better? I'm not sure. 

[looking seriously at Finrod, and then at his elder kinsman] 

As my cousin said earlier, things go wrong when you try to twist the Music to your own ends. I don't know what would have happened, if I'd made my pledge into a lie after, but -- I saw what happened when the Terrible One tried to make prophecy serve _him_ , and cheat his way into a victory. One result of it was to deliver his citadel to me. The other was -- Carcharoth. 

[the Ambassador flinches, shuddering] 

\--Who was as much a menace to his own side as to ours. Things went wrong enough as it was -- and I can only begin to imagine how much worse they might have gone, if we'd started using the Enemy's tactics. Bad enough that I had to use his magic, in order to undo itself. 

[she grimaces] 

Those words left _such_ a foul taste behind. 

**Fingolfin** : 

Highness, however did you manage to bring down an entire citadel of your own power, unassisted? 

**Luthien** : [shrugging]

Rock wants to be _down_. And mortar is just very small rocks, really. Once I got it started it was relatively easy -- surprisingly so -- but then, the very nature of masonry was on my side. I just helped the stones go free where they wished. 

[the Noldor lords exchange wry Looks] 

**Finrod** : 

So speaks the daughter of a demigoddess. 

**Luthien** : [rueful]

Unfortunately the bridge came down, too. I'm not sure if it's that I didn't know what I was doing, or if it was all tied together and had to follow the Tower . . . ? 

[with a questioning look at the architect of the Fortress] 

**Finrod** : 

Ah. I'm not exactly able to say, since it wasn't ever tested before. Nor was it quite intended to be implemented by-- 

**Luthien** : 

\--Someone who didn't know what she was doing? 

**Finrod** : 

Some _one_. 

**Luthien** : 

Oh. Well, it made it _much_ more difficult to cross the river. But we made it finally, though it was rough going even for Huan with four feet and claws, and into the ruins to find you all -- we didn't know you were dead, then-- 

**Angrod** : [interrupting, shocked]

 _You_ went in-- 

**Luthien** : 

? ? ? 

**Angrod** : 

You -- yourself -- into-- 

[looking at his eldest sibling, upset] 

\--into that Pit? 

**Luthien** : 

Who else should have gone? Ought I have sent another, as if I didn't care enough to find out for myself? 

**Angrod** : 

But-- 

[he gestures helplessly and gives up] 

**Aegnor** : [roughly]

You're not made for such -- such places as battlefields -- and dungeons -- and torture chambers. 

[she gives him a piercing Look] 

**Luthien** : 

And others of us -- _are_? 

[pause] 

I didn't want to. I waited until I couldn't keep hoping that anyone else would come across. And then we went into what was left of the place, imagining what we might find, only -- instead, we found Beren half-dead, Finrod just dead with the hellhound where they'd killed each other, and a lot of bone fragments. 

[she looks around at the Ten with a touch of anxiousness] 

I'm sorry, we weren't able to keep everyone's separate. 

**Captain** : [reasonable]

Why? It isn't as though we'll be needing them again, my Lady. 

[none of the living  are at all happy with the direction the discussion is taking] 

**Luthien** : [still troubled]

I know, but . . . 

**Finrod** : 

Most people here never even got buried, what with the flames and all. 

**Eol** : [glares at Aredhel]

 _I_ didn't -- thanks to your brother. 

**Aredhel** : [lifting her chin]

You should be glad he didn't bury you alive, not just toss you off a cliff. 

[the lawful Eldar, ghostly or not, exchange wide-eyed Looks; her father closes his eyes] 

**Luthien** : 

Can you _please_ fight someplace else? 

[abrupt silence; --pensive] 

I didn't understand why it was so important, but Beren says cairns are the only proper way to honour the dead, so-- 

**Aegnor** : [stiffly defensive, even hostile]

You shouldn't criticize mortal customs without knowing the rationale behind them, Luthien. 

**Luthien** : [patiently]

I didn't say I thought there was something _wrong_ with it, I said that I was trying to understand it because it didn't really make sense to me. That's why I didn't question any of it -- because it isn't our people's way. I _know_ that mortals make hills to remember where they bury their dead, because I remembered hearing about it when Lady Haleth died. And I suppose it matters so much because they're not reborn. And it was important to the liberated prisoners too -- I think because so many of them had died, and were under the Ban, so it was almost the same for them. I _think_. I still don't understand it all. When Beren died, I didn't care where they put his body, because _he_ wasn't there, and looking at a hill of dirt and boulders didn't help me remember him. 

[frowning, to Finrod, who is looking at her very compassionately] 

Please -- _don't_ tell him that his barrow -- that my father built it taller than yours -- not that Dad knew it or meant to -- but it would upset him so. 

**Finrod** : [wry]

Which would be quite unreasonable, and yes, you're right, it would distress him no end. We won't bring it up, I promise. 

**Amarie** : [unable to control herself]

Ah, doth no shame, neither fittest revulsion, constrain ye, that converse so freely upon the severing of self from self? Is't not enow, that house be ruined, that needs must dwell upon the matter of't? 

[it's clear that her sentiments are shared, in some degree, by the other lawful Elves present] 

**Elenwe** : [in a benignly absent-minded way]

And one be housed anew, it me seemeth it should matter naught. --I mind it little for mine own self. 

**Fingolfin** : 

For myself, neither -- but for my son, and for my people, 'twas a mercy to them no less, I am most sure, than the news of it to me for their sake, that the Lord of Eagles prevented my slayer from throwing my body to his hounds. 

[his brother clenches his teeth] 

**Finrod** : [not quite looking at his own brothers]

Yes -- one never minds anything so much for one's self, as for one's loved ones. 

[his aunt looks at him, directly, and very bleakly] 

**Nerdanel** : 

Good my nephew, thou needst it not, I ken -- yet needs must I entreat thy pardon for the sad ungraciousness of my twain-- 

**Finrod** : [sighing]

'Danel, it isn't rational at all for you to blame yourself for what my cousins did, when you tried to forestall everything that led to it. 

**Nerdanel** : [dry]

Even as thou most reasonable did bear the wound of Alqualonde in thy heart. 

[pause] 

**Finrod** : 

Just like that. 

[two of his companions look at each other] 

**Fourth Guard** : 

What did I say? I told you it was only a matter of time. 

[he holds out his hand; the other Elven shade passes over a small dagger] 

**Warrior** : [grumbling as he does]

It still doesn't make any sense. 

**Apprentice** : [incredulous]

They were -- they weren't betting that Lady Nerdanel was going to apologize for her sons' actions? 

[the Captain nods] 

That's -- rather crass, isn't it? 

[the Steward hides his face in his hands] 

**Finrod** : [biting his lip]

Er -- friends, I fear that -- regardless of intent, any -- anything that seems to make light of our discorporate state, is going to seem disrespectful to my family. If you'd not mind delaying any bets until later, I'd be most appreciative. 

[but his aunt shakes her head, with an unsteady smile] 

**Nerdanel** : 

Nay, gentles, and ye find aught of light within these walls, do ye keep it, as merrily as may -- I begrudge it not. 

[there is still a high level of discomfort visible among the living audience] 

**Elenwe** : [to Amarie, puzzled]

Art thou not much wrung, for thought of thy consort's fate? 

**Amarie** : [coldly]

His own fate, he did him choose. 

**Elenwe** : 

Thou answerest not. --Why? 

**Amarie** : [sharp]

Wherefore I answer not unto thee, kinswoman. 

**Elenwe** : 

Again thou answerest not. 

**Luthien** : 

Are you -- really -- all right with me talking about this? 

**Finrod** : 

No. The thought of you standing there, unarmed, being wolfbait upsets me more than I can convey, even though I know that worse things happened to you afterwards, and they're all in the past anyway. 

**Steward** : [grim]

Past -- but news nonetheless. 

[he and Finarfin exchange significant glances.] 

**Luthien** : 

What would have been _worse_ \-- 

[she closes her eyes for a moment] 

\--is if Sauron had learned what it was you were there for, and who you all were. I don't know what would have happened then, only -- I doubt very much that we'd be dead yet. If -- if he had known that Beren and I -- and he -- and used him as a hostage against me -- there, or before, in Doriath. I -- it would have been everything Dad feared, only it would have been his fault-- 

[with a fierce look at the Ambassador] 

\--for sending Beren on such an errand, it would have _made_ him the tool of the Enemy to get hold of me, to make me crazed enough to fall into their hands, if they had brought him out to bargain with -- I-- 

[her cousin grips her shoulder with one hand and the muzzle of the snarling Hound with the other] 

**Finrod** : 

Shh -- it _didn't_ happen -- he didn't drag Beren out and torture him in front of you, _you_ didn't surrender to try to stop it -- it didn't come to pass. 

**Luthien** : [fighting a holding action against tears]

I know -- and -- I know _why_ \-- 

[she turns a strained, watery smile upon the Ten, who are a bit embarrassed by her gratitude] 

**Aglon** : [aside, anguished]

Yet I do not -- or why no _other_ \-- 

[this time, the shade of the former Healer appears again, where Nienna's Apprentice had been looking earlier, though rather tenuous and transparent still] 

**Ex-Thrall** : 

_We_ had no leader to believe in us, and no cause to believe in but ourselves, and in the end . . . that was not enough. 

[she has eyes only for Luthien, who regards her steadily in turn] 

You -- _knew_. You always -- _saw me_ for what I was. 

[the half-Maia nods slowly] 

And yet you never turned from me, even then. I did not understand that until now. That -- _changes_ . . . 

[she bows her head a little to the Princess] 

I give you my thanks, for that -- if late. 

[stepping slowly back into the shadows, the Feanorian lady vanishes again, despite the beckoning gestures of the Ten welcoming her among them, though she hesitates briefly when the Captain reaches out a hand to her. As she disappears from view entirely, he casually unclips the brooch at his neck and shrugging out of his cloak, tosses it into the dimness after her.] 

**Aredhel** : [frowning]

Who's _that_? 

**Finrod** : 

She hasn't decided yet. 

[she gives him an askance Look at this cryptic answer] 

**Finarfin** : [slowly and heavily]

'Tis burdensome to say, yet perforce I must yield me unto the truth: 

howsoever I would to set all blame, else cause, upon some others -- the Lord of Beor, no less than Orodreth, no less the like than Curufin and's brother, even as that most fractious Rebel fraction of our House -- still, 'tis equal measure at the least thine own deed, Finrod, and thyself answerable for consequence to thee. 

[this neutral but loaded statement evokes guarded, wary glances from all the company, most particularly his sons] 

**Luthien** : [with some reluctance]

My lord, I don't wish to grieve you more than I can't help -- but really, you did forfeit your right to criticize your children when you abandoned them in the course of the Return. 

[nods of agreement and quiet assent from the Ten as well as the Princes, though Finrod himself only looks gloomy at her words] 

**Nerdanel** : [pulling herself together a bit]

Nay, and dost declare, that none mayeth rightfully to advise, saving only them that do stand in most present authority above? Else might not friend e'er proffer word, each unto the other. --I deem thou hast greater sense, than such to be propounding? 

**Luthien** : 

Um, no, of course -- I meant, as a parent. 

**Finarfin** : [extremely serious, but with a certain grim playfulness]

Then, King Felagund-- 

[his eldest stiffens, drawing back a little, but is thrown by the faintly humorous expression his father is wearing] 

\--do thou hear me neither as elder, nor as sire -- nay, but only as peer even as friend, and thou will't. 

[long pause; Finrod nods warily] 

For mine own self, I comprehend not _thee_ , nor this thy deed nor choosing, yet-- 

[he is cut off by his eldest] 

**Finrod** : [extremely patronizing]

Father. --Is there any child in all of Valinor -- of all our kindreds -- even of one whose parent set forth bloody-handed in direst refusal of mercy -- for whom you'd not set your own life at risk, did you see that one in danger? Though you knew it in all likelihood should cost you breath, would you stand aside? 

[intense] 

\--I _know_ you would not. 

[Finarfin bows his head, with an grimace of mixed exasperation, grief -- and gratitude] 

Then how, how, should ever I--? How might I abandon the Singers I was born to find and lead out of their simplicity, the Children whose life I did in some part _make_ , for them, from roughest beginnings of little more than earth -- save for the inmost Spark, that was already there--? Not when -- though _I_ had failed them, failed to defend them from the Enemy we have ever underestimated, _they_ did not fail me in that Night of our land across the Sea -- _he_ did not rebel against me, though slain his father and ruined his home! 

[this explicit self-comparison to the Valar rather unsettles nearly all his audience, even among his own followers] 

**Amarie** : [desperately]

Finrod, kennst thou nay the _least little_ how thy words doth resound? Deemst it _naught_ , deemst thou the Holy Ones should be not 'fronted by this thy manifest pride? 

[the late High King frowns judiciously] 

**Fingolfin** : 

Actually, Lord Namo did term it a . . . _markéd improvement_ that he understood Lord Aule's temptation and therefore now might correlate it to his own experiences -- and empathize, rather than shake his head in baffled pity the way we were used to. 

[silence] 

**Finrod** : [airily]

Look, if They didn't smite down uncle Feanor in the Mahanaxar on any of _his_ numerous outbursts of hubris, not even the last -- you surely don't think the Powers are going to punish me for comparing certain aspects of my life to Theirs? 

**Aegnor** : [aside]

Yes, but you're so much more _annoying_ , you never know. 

**Finrod** : 

You don't want me to have heard that, do you? 

[pause] 

I thought not. 

**Finarfin** : [with a strange half-smile]

Alas, my wiseling, thou didst end my speech ere I, nor learnéd thee my thought its end, the which doth colour all the rest a most changéd hue-- 

[Finrod looks slightly abashed] 

\--Held thou silence but a little longer whiles, thou hadst heard me out: _for mine own self_ , I comprehend not _thee_ , nor this thy deed nor choosing, yet for mine own self I do comprehend it well, for such selfsame choice had been mine own, were it allotted me, the span of distant time and Sea made naught, that turning back unraveled, that _I_ had banish't been, and tasted shame and taken death in thy self's stead, that thou didst take upon thee for thy dear friend. 

[as his speech progresses his eldest son's expression changes to one of shock and dismayed comprehension, followed by agitation at the idea] 

**Finrod** : [stammering in his distress]

No -- Father, that -- that isn't -- I don't _want_ \-- I wouldn't want -- wouldn't have wanted _you_ to go through that -- ever -- still less in my place-- 

**Finarfin** : [fond]

Aye, so I ken and well, that thou hadst liefer shield me from woe even so much as harm; but thou needs must ken as well, that I perforce must wish it so, and e'er regretting choice that once made, ne'er be undone, hath made such choice as thine to follow, and I powerless to change. Yet were it given unto me, even so little as this least relieving of thy hurts, that I should take thy place, not in night nor iron withal, but only in this twilit even' -- I'd will it, as thou'd most surely refuse it. 

[Finrod shakes his head, with silent tears, too overcome to speak] 

**Angrod** : [ice]

But not for us. 

[Aegnor snorts, nodding agreement; Finarfin looks at his other sons coolly] 

**Finarfin** : 

Said I yea, or not so, child? Then speak ye not presumptuous, aught that _I_ did not. But do ye speak to me, that have not heretofore, nor do ye grant me even so much as glance, be it no more than pity, still less to counter me with words, as I were less than thy murderous cousins, nay, less than stone even? 

[the Princes look offended, but also somewhat taken aback at the realization that their attitudes have succeeded in hurting their father] 

Thou didst not even give so much as wrath, nor coldest scorn-- 

[Finrod winces] 

\--thy brother Aegnor hath sent only word that he returneth not, nor even so little courtesy to bespeak us why nor wherefore, so that perforce thy mother and myself must seek from others, what in mercy ye twain had best sent of yourselves -- I presume me not to speak of _duty_ , nor to me; yet hold ye not, that aught be owed the Lady Earwen, no less? 

[the living High King and his ghostly sons carry on a brief duel of stares, but the Princes yield almost instantly] 

**Angrod** : [choked]

You _left us_ at Araman. 

**Finarfin** : [dispassionate]

Aye. We did in sorriest truth forsake each the other, that had been all together one House, one strength. Thy wrath at that abandoning I do comprehend full well, for having borne so many scalding hours in mine own breast. 

[pause] 

**Aegnor** : [hoarse]

What can we _say_ to her, after abandoning her for Cel and Cur's friendship? Even before they killed Ingold. Even -- even leaving aside myself-- 

[silence; Nerdanel turns away, wiping her eyes.] 

**Finarfin** : [very gently]

Belike, -- that ye do love her, for all that ye be fools, for folly 'tis no bar to love. 

**Angrod** : [hurt]

We're not-- 

[he cannot continue his protest, however] 

**Finarfin** : [very dry]

Thy lady mother well hath most great and practiced skill, to deal with sorry fools, my son. 

[the Princes look at him warily, as it dawns on them that he is jibing at himself] 

[overlapping] 

**Aegnor** : [pointing to his eldest brother]

None of this changes the fact that he's _dead_ \--! 

**Angrod** : [nodding seriously]

And in some degree, it _is_ the fault of Beren son of Barahir, his liege -- I'm sorry, Luthien, but I must say so, because it's true. 

[their father sighs, trying not to smile in amazement] 

**Finarfin** : [patient]

Children. All ye be full well grown, and the governance of thine own doings _long_ have held unto thyselves. Aught that troubles ye -- _that_ ought ye take up anent thy brother, nor longer with myself -- unless, belike, thou or thou do but seek my judgment, as King of all the Noldor here . . .? 

[simultaneous, outraged -- at the teasing] 

**Angrod** : 

_Father_ \--! **Aegnor** : 

But he doesn't _listen_ to us! 

[their uncle breaks in before any of the rest of the family can] 

**Fingolfin** : 

Nay, lads, do you not see that duty does bind lord no less than liege, that a king's task may require him to die, if that death may save the folk he rules? Or, if there is no people, how can there be any King? That hazard must be cast, in the desperate time, and no mere game or ritual of battle, when the stake is _all_. 

[his nephew the former sovereign nods, looking at his own former liege lord intently] 

**Finrod** : [with satisfaction]

\-- _Yes_. 

[the Steward sighs, and looks down, and Huan stretches his muzzle across to set his chin on the Elf-lord's shoulder for a moment or two] 

**Angrod** : [frustration almost to tears]

But don't you hold _any_ of it against Barahirion? You _must_ , at least a little -- how can you _not_? 

[his elder sibling gives him a deceptively mild Look] 

**Finrod** : [silken]

Should I hold the Ice against _you_ , then? 

**Aegnor** : [through his teeth and at the edge of his temper]

 _Don't_ answer a question with a question. 

[Huan turns his head, looking back over his shoulder at the Princes reproachfully with a guilting whine] 

**Finrod** : 

Would you have forsaken our City, our folk, even had _you_ been the ones exiled? Would you have given them to the Enemy with your names, in hopes of saving yourselves, even after they had turned you out, ungrateful as Tirion in the Darkening? Of course not. 

[fond exasperation] 

Nay, I doubt not, you'd have served Beren as I did, for all your words, had it somehow impossibly fallen out that you survived and I fallen at Serech -- you'd _not_ have failed Beor, not of your own free will. 

[silence: his siblings look sullen, while Luthien looks on wistfully] 

**Finarfin** : [rather sternly]

Was not the mortal lord _of our House_ , my sons, no less than Noldor rebels, that ye did companion even so to lead? 

**Angrod** : [defensively pleading]

But nevertheless -- he's still not _my brother_. 

[Aegnor nods agreement] 

**Finrod** : [dry]

Don't bother arguing with them about partiality, or a leader's duty, my elders -- they know it perfectly well. 

[in a changed tone -- as he speaks, increasingly upset, Luthien and the Steward take his hands firmly in comforting gesture] 

\-- _Resent_ him, Angrod, who came to me destitute and alone -- _not_ to hurl recrimination at the foot of my throne, not to demand my aid as weregild for his father and family dead in my service, but to _beg_ , as though I owed him nothing, still trusting -- despite all evidence of plainest sense -- that I might still be his saving, though he came from the cold ashes of the homeland we gave his tribe -- Resent, perhaps, the reminder of mine own failure thus brought to the fore -- but never its innocent occasion. 

[Angrod looks away] 

**Aegnor** : [whispering]

He should be more grateful. 

**Finrod** : 

You'd have him grovel incessantly, then, -- when it's been all I can do to make him _stop_? 

[rueful agreement from the Ten] 

I don't remember you being so ungracious, so _mean-souled_ in your own gifting to your lieges. 

**Aegnor** : 

That isn't -- you know -- ah!-- 

[breaks off in frustrated exclamation] 

**Finrod** : [with increasing effort]

Do you know -- what he said to me, when -- when we were waiting for the end? He _begged_ me to let him turn himself in -- to the foe he'd spent six of the last seven years taunting and thwarting most egregiously, until the bounty on him was as great as Fingon's -- to give up his name and submit to what punishment would follow that revelation, because he said no debt could possibly require such a price, and he should give in to save my life, at least. 

**Aredhel** : 

Huh. That was stupid. 

[at Luthien's fierce Look, with a dismissive flip of her wrist] 

\--Well, it _was_. They were both about to die regardless. 

**Huan** : 

[loud growl] 

**Eol** : [sniffing contemptuously]

He was your servant. It was his _job_ to protect you, no more. 

[raising an eyebrow at Angrod and Aegnor] 

\--Much as it pains me to agree with any of my wife's kin. 

[the Princes bridle; their father breaks in, in a very calm voice, steadying Finrod who is shaking with anger and distress:] 

**Finarfin** : 

What refusal madst thou? 

**Finrod** : [brittle]

Exactly what 'Feiniel said -- I mocked him for a naive fool, too young to have learned that the Dark are all liars, not clever enough to realize that what he was thinking of doing would only have made our situation worse. And then -- I proceeded to do far worse than that, by pointing out that not only would Sauron _not_ honour his own "offer" and spare my life if he surrendered, that  far from setting us free, we would both be interrogated and punished far more savagely, if the Terrible knew it was the Lord of Dorthonion and the King of Nargothrond he had happened to snag in his sweep. 

[with a narrow, uneven grin] 

You all see the irony, I'm sure -- even my most pacific lady. 

**Aegnor** : [incredulous]

No -- no wards? You let the enemy hear you? 

**Finrod** : 

"Let" --? That's one way of describing it. I couldn't prevent it . . . any more than I could prevent my stupidity in giving us both away -- a far worse folly than Beren's, I might add. My only excuse for what I said -- for any of it -- is that by my best guess we'd not seen day in seven sennights, at least, and I was not remotely rational. 

[he gives his father a worried, somewhat guilty look, but Finarfin is controlling his reactions well] 

**Amarie** : [edged]

Thou art Eldar, nor kelvar, far less olvar, that dark nor light nor any outer variance should e'er o'ermaster will nor sense nor sensibility -- withouten willing so. 

**Finrod** : [blunt]

You've never been a slave. 

[as she recoils in affront, to the rest of his relatives] 

None of you have. You don't understand what happens when every element of life, saving only life itself, is taken -- what _havoc_ is wrought upon the mind, with senses broken -- far less flesh -- when there is no hope of cessation or escape . . . how even momentary respite from pain becomes a torment, as all the mercy of it is ruined in anticipation of its ending, and no clarity of perception remains, or can be attained . . . how the soul becomes scarce other than any other terrorized animal's, how the mind is stunted and sickened like a plant deprived of light -- _Injury_ does not compare. Nor does swift and sudden death, however violent. 

[there is a general awkwardness among most of the outsiders present (living and dead) who do not know where to look and do not particularly wish to encounter the Nargothrond contingent] 

**Fingolfin** : [mild]

Some of us, however, do recall well -- too well -- the Grinding Ice. 

**Finrod** : 

As I said -- you _don't_ understand. 

**Nerdanel** : 

And yet -- thou didst yet hold. 

**Finrod** : [terse]

I had help. 

[he makes a controlled sweeping gesture, taking in his followers] 

I wasn't alone. 

**Finarfin** : [same quiet, reasonable tone]

Was he wroth with thee, for thy words unmindful cruel? 

**Finrod** : [shaking his head]

No. Not even then. Not even to blame me for betraying us myself -- any more than for having led him into a trap to begin with. He only grieved for my passing -- not for his own fate, present or anticipated -- to the bitter end, he considered my life more valuable than his. 

[Luthien lets go of his hand and puts her arm around his shoulders at his distress] 

**Angrod** : [far too reasonable]

Yes, but that's partly _you_. You know you have that effect on mortals -- you've always had. There was-- 

[Finrod makes a cutting-off gesture with his hand, accompanied by a fierce Look, but the urgency of it is not understood] 

\--What? I don't know why you're surprised that a Beoring should worship the ground you walk on, given all the trouble you had convincing them you weren't one of the Powers at the start. --I don't know why you're trying to hush it up now, either. 

[his eldest sibling grimaces, shaking his head; their Noldor cousin straightens and leans forward:] 

**Aredhel** : [incredulous]

What?! They thought _you_ were a god?!? 

[she laughs out loud] 

**Eol** : [grinning]

They're even stupider than my relatives. At least Melian _was_ one. 

**Finrod** : [to his brother, through clenched teeth]

 _That's_ why. 

[the Ten glower at their lord's relatives; Luthien frowns slowly, with a very thoughtful expression] 

**Aredhel** : 

What's your problem with it, kinsman? You were just comparing yourself to the Smith and the Hunter only now. It's too funny, the idea of you becoming all flustered at the thought of such -- _impious_ \-- comparisons, and the savages thinking you were one of the Worldsingers. 

**Finrod** : [suppressed fury]

 _That's_ the problem. 

**Aredhel** : 

That they were stupid enough to mistake you for Lord Orome? 

**Finrod** : [voice shaking]

That you're mocking them for an innocent mistake. They had never seen one of _us_ before. 

**Aredhel** : [condescending]

You really are so sensitive about these servants of yours. I suppose you'd _have_ to be, now, given your experiences -- not as though you could back down at this point. But, objectively --what's so special about them? From what everybody says, they're _essentially_ talking kelvar that look a bit like us-- 

[Huan gives her a Look and a short snappish bark; before Luthien can say anything:] 

**Aegnor** : [savagely pleasant]

Ar-Feiniel, -- shut up yourself, you've _no_ idea-- 

**Aredhel** : 

Don't-- 

**Finrod** : [with an echo of power]

Quiet!! 

[he glares dauntingly at all of his relatives despite his own agitation, then gives them a chilling smile] 

We are _not_ going to reenact the Kinslaying right here. _Is_ that understood? 

[silence] 

**Fingolfin** : [voice of elder wisdom]

Nephew, 'twas never such a gall to your temper in life, that light words and merry should be made of that meeting. 

**Finrod** : [stern]

Before the Bragollach, yes. When it was only you and Fingon enjoying the thought of my embarrassment, in private -- when it was the Lords of Dor-Lomin and Dorthonion teasing each other at your banquet table, as kinsmen do -- it was one thing. Now that they are all dead in our War, in our behalf, it's quite another matter. 

[he stares the late High King down] 

**Fingolfin** : [quiet dignity]

I have mourned my own Men, too, Finrod, -- albeit not sufficiently for your liking, that I have mourned my kindred more, and my father most of all. 

[Finrod only Looks at him] 

**Finarfin** : 

Ingold? 

[Finrod gives him a brittle, wary glance] 

**Finrod** : 

Yes, Father? 

**Finarfin** : 

Thy folk, thy friend his people -- they did in truth at first deem thee from amongst the kindred of the gods? 

**Finrod** : [defeated, trying to explain]

They'd -- they _knew_ we were not like the Eldar they'd met before -- some mortals do have a measure of tercen -- they'd heard from them the tales of our Awakening and the great journey -- they were more than half expecting to run into Orome themselves, on their own March -- 

[shaking his head] 

It was a natural -- nay, an inevitable -- mistake. No more. 

**Nerdanel** : 

Thou saidst "we" -- yet wert thou not alone, else meanst _ye_ or thee only? 

**Finrod** : [conceding]

I meant -- us generally, from Aman, not -- yes, I was riding alone, then. 

[Finarfin and Nerdanel exchange meaningful Looks] 

**Finarfin** : 

And what didst thou, in answer of such erring? 

**Finrod** : 

I disillusioned them as quickly as I might, though-- 

[sighing] 

I was never sure how thoroughly I succeeded, with everyone. 

**Nerdanel** : 

Nay, and _how_ didst? 

**Finrod** : 

With some difficulty. It -- was an interesting problem. Since they had no direct experience of the Powers, any time I said, "Well, would one of Them do _this_?" or "Wouldn't They do _that_ instead?" Balan and his family would look at each other, and look at me, and say, "--Maybe," and it became fairly clear that _that_ wasn't going to work. 

[shaking his head] 

It finally came down to reason, pure and simple. --Did they not hold the gods were good? I asked. Obviously, for they were seeking after them. Did they not hold it ill to speak wanton untruth, even as we? Even so. Then, said I, must it not be so that I should be speaking only the truth, in my denials? For if I were lying to them, then should I not be evil, and thus no rightful Power?  That pretty much settled it, where saying things like, "If I really were one of the Valar, I could turn into something else entirely, but I can't, therefore I'm not" -- would have some bright child come out with, "But maybe you just don't want to. I can spit all the way to where you are, but I'm not, because my Ma's watching. But I _could_. So maybe you're not turning into a tree because _we're_ watching." Which was impossible to refute, I discovered. 

**Luthien** : [faint smile]

It's all very different, the way that Beren's family remembers it. 

[Nerdanel and Finarfin share another Look, and then glance at Amarie, who is finding the map surprisingly fascinating at the moment. The White Lady shakes her head.] 

**Aredhel** : 

I think it would have been _fun_ to play them along for a while longer. You're far too stuffy and conscientious, Finrod.. 

**Finrod** : [acerbic]

Along with being far too nice for my own good? 

**Aredhel** : [mischievous]

 _I_ would have let them think I was Varda -- for a bit, at least. 

**Angrod** : [not-quite-aside]

And when would you have _stopped_ , cousin? 

**Nerdanel** : [definitely, with sad but humorous overtones]

Nay, I do confess thee right in this, nephew; and that the world hath fallen out so that it hath, will we, nil we, then must I grant thee, forasmuch as some there needs had been, that had met the Secondborn whensoever and where yon meeting hath befallen, 'twas better far that thou hadst been that one, than any of mine own offspring. Such tempting, as freely given as most innocent its offer, had bettered e'en the noblest hearts amongst them, I do fear. 

**Elenwe** : [nodding gravely]

They would to have been kings, Oversea, even as father, even as father's brother-- 

[Fingolfin bows his head, sighing] 

\--but unto thee was given greater power yet than any of thy kin -- the which thou didst refuse. Of this thou did make no mention, Ingold. 

**Finrod** : [very dry]

It isn't as though I could have carried it off for very long, now. 

[in a clipped, end-of-discussion tone] 

Luthien, would you mind explaining _exactly_ how it was that you demolished Minas Tirith? No one's ever done such a thing, and while I realize that some of it was you alone, and nothing that any other Eldar will likely every be able to duplicate, still, there's got to be something that we can learn from the fall -- the real fall -- of the Fortress, from a technical perspective. 

**Luthien** : [sighing, understanding very well]

I'll give it my best shot -- but you know I was never much of an archer. I just _did_ it -- I'm not sure the answers will be more helpful than Mom's when you asked her about making Arda. 

**Finrod** : 

Yes, but you're overlooking the fact that there are quite a few of us who -- unlike the continents -- were actually present at and involved with the construction of the Tower. 

**Aegnor** : 

You're changing the subject. 

**Captain:** [rolling his eyes]

And you noticed. 

[the Prince gives him a dark Look, and gets a raised eyebrow back; he ignores the officer, very pointedly. 

**Finrod** : [disregarding the by-play]

Very likely we'll be able to understand some of what you're talking about, this time. 

**Luthien** : 

Well, don't go correcting me as to the proper technical terms, _this_ time, all right? It's going to be hard enough. 

**Fingolfin** : [wishing he could disbelieve]

My son did in truth presume, to issue word of remonstration, in the Song's regard, unto one that did assist the Lady Yavanna in her Singing? 

**Ambassador** : [aside, unwilling smile]

Oh, much more than one . . . 

**Finrod** : [defensive]

It wasn't only me-- 

**Luthien** : [to Finarfin]

 _Mostly_ Galadriel, in fact. --My mother didn't speak Quenya. Not until your family taught us. 

**Steward** : [wry aside]

The which surprised no few of us; countless assumptions in those days were shattered no sooner than revealed. 

**Fingolfin** : [innocent]

Brother, that your children lack nothing in either boldness nor certainty of intellect should hardly come as a surprise, so late in the year. 

[Finarfin's turn to look abashed, but he isn't offended; the two High Kings exchange glances of rueful, amused understanding at their scions' behaviour] 

**Finrod** : 

I _told_ 'Tari it didn't exist when our ancestors began the great journey. 

**Luthien** : 

Yes, but I don't think it had fully impressed itself upon her. 

[innocent] 

Obviously _all_ the gods must speak High-elvish, that being the language of Valinor -- and the Noldor -- right? 

[they share a reminiscent grin] 

\--Can you make a map of the building for me? One that you can see all the parts in it, through it? 

**Finrod** : 

A schematic, you mean? Of course. --Sorry. 

[as she gives him a Look] 

\--Edrahil, you want to help me get the scale right on this? 

[as the effort of creating a representation gets underway, requiring concentration and thereby preventing easy discussion:] 

**Nerdanel** : [half to herself]

Doth it no more weigh upon him than air, how great a power for ill- doing he did hold upon the Secondborn, pendant on their innocence? Surely he must ken too well--! 

**Ambassador** : [quietly]

Of a certainty -- perhaps. It always seemed . . . that the honour of my lord's nephew never ventured to explore deeper into the shadowy tangles of that possibility, its thorns presenting no attraction. 

[Finarfin smiles wistfully] 

**Fingolfin** : [with a melancholy glance across at his daughter]

I am grateful that no such snare was e'er laid before mine own path -- or before that of mine own. 

[the ghostly Vanya looks at her living kinswoman] 

**Elenwe** : 

Doth not thy true-love's humility weigh for aught with thee? 

**Amarie** : [raising her voice loud enough for Finrod to hear]

Aye; yet humble earth doth elevate lofty and most prideful blossom. There's more than one current, in any stream, and one diveth deep enow. 

[the ex-King of Nargothrond stiffens a little, but resolutely goes on drawing traceries of light, while Luthien gives Amarie a narrow Look across the Work-in-progress] 

**Finrod** : 

_That's_ the boundary of the foundations of the bridgehead -- past that it's bedrock outcrop, going back towards the riparian forest-- 

[focus tracks to the back of the dais, where information is being assimilated] 

**Apprentice** : 

I never quite realized, how much power was at your behest (or potentially so) over there. 

**Captain** : [snorting]

Hm. For all the good it did us. --Or we with it. 

**Apprentice** : 

\--Still -- I've got to say, your lot seems to have done a much better job -- more responsible, at least -- of handling it, than, well, than we would have expected, if we'd realized it. 

**Captain** : [modestly]

We tried. 

[pause; there is an inevitable shifting of attention to the Feanorian lord] 

**Aglon** : 

Well? 

**Captain** : 

Heigh-ho, here we go again. Well, what? 

**Aglon** : [biting off his words]

What we were speaking of before. Is that _all_ you've got to say on the subject? 

**Captain** : 

Er . . . Well, I would _much_ prefer being completely autonomous, to having someone stupid, lazy, or malicious in charge, if it came to that. 

**Aglon** : 

I was not referring to that, --sir. 

**Captain** : [flatly]

Guessing games aren't really my style, though I like a good riddle as much as the next soul. _What_ are you getting at? 

**Aglon** : [harsh]

Aren't you going to say -- "but he deserved it, after all"--? 

[pause] 

**Captain** : 

I wasn't planning on it, no. 

[silence] 

\--Do I look like the Doomsman? That's _not_ \-- thank the One! -- my job to decide such things. I don't know your brother well personally: most of the occasions I met him he was trying to pretend he didn't know _I_ existed because of his embarrassment over the first time we met in Beleriand, when he assumed I was Grey and told me to look after his horse for him. _Obnoxious_ , yes, but nothing I'd ever say worthy of torture. 

[the Warden flinches at that bluntness, then checks] 

**Aglon** : [slightly disbelieving]

I never heard about that. 

[his adversary shrugs] 

**Captain** : 

It didn't reflect well on him, and not just from our perspective. 

[silence] 

Am I correct in presuming you want to hear about it but don't want to stoop to asking me? 

[more silence] 

**Apprentice** : 

Well, _I_ want to hear it, if you don't mind telling it. 

**Captain** : 

I _never_ mind. 

[pause; the Lord Warden sits stiffly looking ahead, clearly attending just as much as the disguised Maia, who is waiting expectantly for the rest; the two Princes are also trying to pretend that they're more interested in the architectural project, and not amused by memories of the event.] 

Now, if you knew me a little better, and not just as a patient here, you'd perhaps have said something to that, like "Without a doubt," or "Yes, sir," depending, or-- 

[tilting his head and looking loftily down his nose at him] 

"-- _Manifestly_ ," if you were Edrahil and not too busy moping to crack a joke. Because "mind" can signify thoughtfulness and taking counsel, as well as-- 

**Steward** : [raising his voice a little but not looking round]

I heard that. 

[his friend grins] 

**Apprentice** : 

This Old World humour is very strange. 

**Steward** : [still not looking round]

Do _not_ neglect to consider the source. 

[the Captain grins still more] 

**Apprentice** : 

So what happened? 

**Captain** : 

Feast of Reuniting-- 

**Apprentice** : [interrupting]

When you all decided that enough was enough and to act as though everything between Tirion and then hadn't really happened? 

**Captain** : [nodding]

 _Then_. Big affair, as things go over there. I was helping according to my own Gift, and it had been a long night and day, if productive, so I was rather looking forward to handing over my game bag to the cooks and locating some meat that was further removed from its feathers than what I was carrying, and then after that some heated water and clean clothes and so forth, and besides all the business of the upcoming business I was preoccupied with some observations about differences between various zoological forms in Aman and their corresponding types in Middle-earth. Stuff like the cuckoos and the like. 

[sidelong look at the Warden] 

Consequently I didn't realize that someone shouting across the field was shouting _at me_ , particularly since his words were, "Hoy! Sinda! Look after my horse, would you?" When he repeated it I looked around to see who he was shouting at, so I could make him apologize to whomever it was, but then he put his steed right in my way -- which would have been very rude, if I _had_ been Grey, after all-- 

**Apprentice** : 

Why? 

**Captain** : 

Our horses are a lot bigger, or were back then, than the native breeds. There was an element of -- _intimidation_ , or at least of overaweing-with- humorous-intent, involved. After a few more jocular remarks regarding my inattentiveness, he jumped down, walked off, and left us two standing there looking at each other with the same expression -- "Who is this strange person and what am I supposed to do _now_?" 

**Apprentice** : 

So what did you do? 

**Captain** : 

Took the mare to our pickets and brushed her down and got her fed and watered. 

**Apprentice** You just did what he said? Without saying anything to him? 

**Captain** : [shrugging]

Wasn't _her_ fault. And I couldn't think of anything to say. 

**Apprentice** : [very dry]

Somehow I find that rather hard to credit. 

[Aegnor gives a harsh snort of laughter, and angrily suppresses it] 

**Captain** : 

Not any _one_ thing. Lots of 'em, but nothing that I wasn't sure would do more harm than good. This _was_ supposed to be a renewal of peace and family feeling and so forth. I just made report to our lords when I was done. 

[looking at the Warden] 

You can check with the High King, if you still doubt me, though I've noticed you've not made any of the usual, "He'd never--!" noises. 

[the other Noldor warrior does not deign to comment] 

So, anyway, we were at the Feast some whiles after, and I was debating whether or not I dared presume upon Edrahil's sensibilities far enough as to point out to him that I did, after all, own _some_ clothes that weren't all "the color of dirt," and deciding that I didn't-- 

**Apprentice** : [disbelieving]

 _You_ didn't dare tease _him_? 

**Captain** : 

Not at that point, particularly since he wouldn't have been able to come back at me afterwards, since we were still on most formal terms then and amid people who but a little since were our enemies. _Now_ , of course, I could get away with it, but that took a while and some-- 

**Apprentice** : [irrepressible]

\--Long story? 

**Captain** : 

Very. You'll hear it eventually -- or-- 

[with a slight edge] 

\--you could just go _look it up_ for yourself. 

**Apprentice** : [instantly crestfallen]

You haven't forgiven me my mistake. 

**Captain** : 

I've not _forgotten_ it -- nor ought you. 

**Apprentice** : 

So it _was_ a mistake, then . . . ? 

**Captain** : [shrugs]

I don't know yet. But-- 

[darkly] 

\--you must ever be prepared, that any deed or act or decision you make may prove mistaken, because of what you do _not_ know. 

[the Warden rolls his eyes at this bit of lofty advice] 

**Apprentice** : [shaking his head, exclaiming]

Why must it be so difficult? It all seemed so -- _clear_ , so beautifully simple and obvious, before I came down here. 

[before he can go further, the Captain breaks in, with a warning edge] 

**Captain** : 

Yes, I imagine it must have seemed so, _from the heights of Valmar_ , -- seemed as though it would be _easy_ to come and set straight all us dead and chastened rebels with your Vanyar wisdom, no doubt. 

[it sinks in, as the Warden of Aglon is beginning to give Nienna's student a curious Look] 

**Apprentice** : [glumly]

Everything turns out to be more complicated than it should be. 

**Captain** : 

Not always. Sometimes there's _less_ there than meets the eye, which is just as bad in its own right. At any rate, when the time came I went to my place at table, in my full regalia as one of House Finarfin's commanders, and found that I was still on duty, since persons _far_ outranking me had determined that the best way of administering a lesson was by setting me to share a cup with the gentle who had presumed to give me orders so curtly earlier. 

[confidingly, including both the Warden and the disguised Maia:] 

You know the _real_ reason we started that tradition, is that we didn't have enough good tableware to go around. We'd traded off so much of the finer work, and hadn't established ourselves to start making our own gold and silver pieces, that it was a choice between setting out our bowls and cups of wood from daily use, or sharing. There was a lot of haggling among our lords about which should be the most hospitable, but Lord Fingon carried it with the point that it was nicely symbolic of amity and friendship, which was what the Feast was all about. And it did look no end impressive, given that we'd carried it all there ourselves and made this establishment that was far grander than theirs on the other side, and besides it made it much less obvious that Lord Maedhros required help, when two partake of the same plate -- a concern which has become _far_ more comprehensible and in the forefront for me of late. 

[there is a slight tension in his expression and voice at the last] 

**Apprentice** : [frowning]

But -- no, that wouldn't help, would it? I was going to say, but you've done your best to take care of Beren throughout. 

**Captain** : 

No, it doesn't. All that's peripheral, anyhow. Milord's brother here kept on looking at me trying not to give away that he'd met me beforetimes, or that he was trying to figure out if I were Grey or not, and I admit I didn't help by not only sticking to the Common throughout but doing the best Beleriand accent I could manage, slang and all -- and never once letting on that I'd met him earlier that day either. It also wasn't helped by the fact that Doriath's captains were there as well, and Beleg's a giant, so every time he'd look up and I could see he was thinking I must be Noldor for my height, he'd get doubtful again. 

**Apprentice** : [a touch resentful]

You deceived him. 

**Captain** : [shaking his head]

He deceived himself. If he'd known Sindarin better I couldn't have succeeded, and if he'd simply asked my lineage he'd have known at once. But he was too proud to admit he couldn't tell. 

[the Warden glowers at them, starts to say something and stops] 

**Apprentice** : 

Why didn't you just say anything to begin with? When he handed you his horse? 

**Captain** : 

What, complain at him for thinking I was Teler? --That's how he would have understood it, I warrant you. No way under Isil he'd have taken it otherwise, such as the way I meant it. 

[shaking his head] 

No, I left the judgment to those wiser than me -- and they adjudged me the proper one to administer correction. And thus I saw fit to do it, to let him wrestle with the fact that he had so insulted one who so outranked him, at least in our command and understanding, and that his assumption that we Noldor were so much superior that we could never be mistaken one for another was just _wrong_. 

**Aglon** : [aside]

And still you do not understand the shame, to boast so of it, you braggart! 

**Captain** : [ignoring him]

So I went through the whole affair discoursing on all the unusual things that had been noted by my counterparts in Lord Turgon's retinue about the foreigners from Oversea, in such a way that it could either be an ironic commentary on us, or a quite naive remarking on strangers, and making silly jokes about being the fourth commander-- 

[Angrod ducks his head down to hide his expression] 

**Ranger** : [aside]

That pun got old _very_ fast. 

**Apprentice** : 

I don't understand -- why is that funny? 

**Steward** : [grimly]

It wasn't. 

**Captain** : [bland innocence]

Because the words are so close in both languages, and that made it a good pun for the occasion since it could have meant me being doubly clever or just utterly simple, answering whenever anyone started to say _four_ anything. 

**Steward** : [looking back with an eyebrow raised]

His superiors were only _half_ joking when they discussed having some one of them step down or else get killed so he'd not be able to do so any longer. 

**Captain** : 

You want to tell the story? 

[pause] 

Wouldn't have helped, anyway, "cano cantea" just started it, "con nelui" wouldn't have ended it. --So, eventually, as the banquet part was winding down someone comes over with a question for milord's brother from their side, and he can't answer it, and is about to translate it into the common for me, being reduced to asking one of the locals, and I go and answer it before he can finish turning it into bad Sindarin -- in perfectly good Quenya -- and he sort of withers there like an early frost had got him, as if he'd known it was coming but hoped it wouldn't nonetheless. And after his colleague had thanked me and gone off, he just sits there waiting for me to gloat, and I just go on as if it's every day that strangers press their horses on me, and not worth remarking about, and call for more wine for us. And after that when we were out East or up at the Leaguer, he always suddenly had an unexpected but urgent errand to be about whenever House Finarfin was in the vicinity. 

**Apprentice** : 

Hm. It's funny -- and it isn't. I understand the impulse myself. 

**Aglon** : [aside]

I don't understand . . . he always said that he'd die before giving in -- that only weaklings would be willing to live as thralls, that it was a sign of the Dark-elves' inferiority that they would -- that he should remain so long, then . . . 

[shakes his head in baffled distress] 

**Captain** : [very seriously]

Hope dies hard. And when hope falters, -- there's always fear to keep you going that last little bit further, and then the next, and-- You weren't at Serech. 

**Aglon** : [exasperation and even more distress]

Why am I saying this to _you_? 

**Captain** : 

Because you've no practice in discretion, I gather. You've not ever had much experience of diplomacy. 

**Aglon** : [caustic]

I was Doorwarden -- which is a post of no small responsibility, involving dealings with _multiple_ strangers. 

**Captain** : [innocent]

You don't say! Singly, or all at once? --Seriously now, how often did you have to deal with any not of your own House or close aligned to your lords -- and when you _did_ encounter travelers or petitioners, how often did they not speak your own language? How often did you have to worry if your words -- or even attitudes, might jar against theirs, and so undo some delicate work of your master's, for ignorance of those not Noldor like yourself? Or not even _Eldar_ , with far less to be presumed in common between us, though such similarities might be deceiving, too. Whereas such discretion was daily consideration, for us who were out and about King Felagund's business -- and had his counsel to _keep_ , as well. 

[the Warden sneers] 

**Aglon** : 

We dealt with the Naugrim --and you can't get much farther from _us_ than _that_. 

**Captain** : [noncommittal]

Yes. We've heard about House Feanor's dealings with the Children of Aule -- firsthand. You've not made the best impression, you know. Your lords' brothers aren't the only ones to deal with Belegost and Nogrod. Word gets around, below-ground as above, with echoes as far as Menegroth and Nargothrond -- roots do spread as well as branches. Did it never occur to you that someone might _understand_ what you're saying, even if he doesn't speak your language? It's quite amazing what you can reveal by tone of voice, by expression -- even by your posture alone -- that you've neither intention nor idea, if you're careless. It's as good as hand-code, for the attentive. 

[the Warden looks somewhat taken aback, and then chagrined; the Captain continues not unkindly] 

Not that it's all your fault -- you hadn't any better leadership in that regard, so don't be too hard on yourself for being obtuse. 

[his adversary glares at him] 

\--What are you _really_ trying to say? I'm certain you're not starting these obscure conversations with me for the joy of it, but I'm not sure what you can be getting at, given that I don't know your brother well at all. He hasn't stopped avoiding me _here_ , if that's what you're trying to ask. 

[after another angry Look, the Feanorian lord gives up] 

**Aglon** : [desperate, if resentful]

Do you -- Is -- 

[breaks off, resumes with difficulty] 

Are you -- still _haunted_ by the recollection of your ordeal, the way that those who were captured by Orcs or escaped from slavery, never -- never _stop remembering_ what happened to them? 

[silence. The Apprentice watches them both with some apprehension] 

**Captain** : 

No. No more than the recollection of the wounds we give each other here, once forgotten. My lord holds it so, that pain itself scars the flesh, invisibly, and those invisible scars, which hold the memory of pain in them, the way the remains of old wounds themselves do, for mortals, cannot persist in this place where flesh itself does not exist, because they are not part of our true selves, and so not recalled in the form of ourselves that is in (or is) our thought. --That's a direct quote, of course. If he's here -- not holding out on the other side still in rebellion -- then he is not suffering anything save guilt, or the lack of it. 

[the Warden looks slightly less troubled, but still doubtful] 

**Aglon** : 

You're not winding a snare of falsehood with true words again, are you? 

**Captain** : [bemused]

Don't you remember it yourself? 

**Aglon** : [awkwardly]

I -- died quickly, I didn't even know I'd been hit until it was too late. I remember . . . confusion, and a certain amount of surprise that I could no longer take part in the fighting. Then -- I had no place else to go, but _here_. 

**Captain** : 

Ah. 

[pause] 

What abides . . . is what was not truly of the flesh to start with. The dark, the dread, those memories of things you said or did or didn't -- housed, unhoused, doesn't make the difference. 

[this does not appear to comfort the Warden much] 

**Apprentice** : [intense]

What does? 

**Captain** : [giving him a sharp look]

Time -- and the Gift of my Lady and yours. 

**Aglon** : [making the word sound like an offense]

Why are you being _kind_ to me? 

**Captain** : 

Well, you're not attacking anyone dear to me, verbally or otherwise. --Though I warn you, if you haven't figured it out already, that if you try to stab Edrahil in the back you'll regret it before you've a chance to finish the thought. Your presence is being tolerated, but aggression won't be. 

**Aglon** : [haughty]

I have no _intention_ of doing so. 

[pause] 

I am here to see the Lady Nienna. 

[he does not quite look at them, when he continues tersely] 

\--If any were to attack my brother, I would not stand -- have stood -- stand by nor even warned them, if I were at hand. 

[longer pause] 

**Captain** : 

I'm not exactly being _kind_ , you know. Among my people, we call that _civil_. 

**Apprentice** : [very curious]

Which people do you consider _yours_? 

**Captain** : [faint smile]

I serve House Finarfin. My people -- are the Eruhini. After that, _Eldar_. --In the widest possible sense. 

**Aglon** : [fierce]

We're not-- 

[breaks off abruptly, unable to go on; the Captain turns a flashing Look upon the Feanorian partisan.] 

**Captain** : [ice]

 _Not what_? 

[waits for answer, but none forthcoming goes on:] 

\--Kinslayers? Murderers? Thieves? Savages? Only now you shoved a maid aside as though she were a branch across your path and no more. Who are _your_ people, eh? 

[he looks pointedly at the two talking by the Falls and back again] 

**Aglon** : [righteous protest]

I never killed any children, I sw-- 

**Captain** : [cutting him off]

Your friend has admitted freely to giving the order and the suggestion to fire the houses along the waterside -- denies there's anything wrong with it -- _did_ you stand aside at Alqualonde? 

[pause -- the Lord Warden makes several false starts before he can answer] 

**Aglon** : [angry and pleading]

We -- We're _not_ \-- we're not _evil folk_. 

**Captain** : [coolly]

Then that just makes it all the worse, doesn't it? 

[he looks deliberately at the Teleri again, and back, until the Feanorian partisan drops his head in anguish and humiliation, closing his eyes] 


	133. Act 4: SCENE V.xxii

[Elsewhere: the Corollaire] 

**Beren** : 

\-- _Trees_. 

[While he is shaking his head over the idea, Yavanna parts the grass beside her with her fingertips, as a huge, iridescent beetle struggles up from its newly-completed metamorphosis out of the dirt. (It might be of the sort with ornate 3-D carapace and pincers as well.) As it lumbers clumsily over the folds in her skirt and up onto her knee, Beren gives the scarabaid a respectful nod.] 

**Beren** : 

That one looks like duck feathers. Only more so, all over, not just from one side when the light's on it. 

[the Earthqueen smiles the pleased smile of an artist whose efforts are understood] 

I've never seen one like that. 

[he carefully grabs it along its lateral edges, so that it's stuck walking in place for a moment, to look at it more closely, until it buzzes with indignation and he lets it keep trundling along. Ruefully:] 

\--Tinuviel doesn't get along with those, very well. 

**Yavanna** : [nodding]

They give Vana the heeby-jeebies, too. 

[as he frowns, cocking his head at her idiomatic expression, she sniffs a little] 

\--Though anyone who comes up with the things _she's_ thought of shouldn't call anything creepy -- have you seen those caterpillars with the spikes that have spikes on the spikes, and the ones with the enormous painted-on eyes? 

[Beren nods, bemused] 

I asked her about them once, after she tried to tell me that beauty was entirely relative and they were _quite_ as gorgeous as the smooth ones with stripes and as darling as the fuzzy ones with the little black snouts, and couldn't do it without becoming quite incoherent with giggles. --It can't be _defense_ merely, I said, because you could just camouflage them like the green stripy ones -- or that other joke of yours, the ones that look like bird droppings -- so _what_ are you trying to do? She finally admitted that it was for the effect of surprise -- she just thought it was so much fun to have something as elegantly-sweet as a giant rose-tinted moth coming out of something as shocking as that. --It's like a present, she explained. 

**Beren** : [dry]

Usually, when you give someone a gift, you put it in a nice carved coffer or you wrap it up in a pretty piece of cloth -- you don't disguise it as something gross or boring. I mean, I guess grubs are kind of weird, but you don't _see_ them before they turn into goldbugs and chafers . . . 

**Yavanna** : [even more dryly]

Yes, well, you've met Vana. She's _very_ fond of surprises -- the more unexpected and improbable the better. 

[he struggles not to grin, not very successfully, as the Earthqueen scoops up the giant coleopteran and lifts it up level with her face, then blows on it, so that the carapace parts as if in surprise and the filmy, flimsy-looking wings are opened to the air -- the massive bug takes off, like a flying gemstone sailing over the countryside, lapis and chalcedony and jet.] 

**Beren** : 

Wow. 

[shaking his head] 

\--I've seen 'em do that a thousand times, and it still doesn't seem like they oughta be able to. 

**Yavanna** : [serenely pleased]

I like surprises, too. 


	134. Act 4: SCENE V.xxiii

[the Hall] 

**Luthien** : 

Um. Mostly. He -- he wasn't the same, after -- of course, neither was I. 

[sighing] 

I tried to explain to my parents that I wasn't the same, that I wasn't a child any more any more than I'd been when I left home, and now _less_ , but when I tried to _make_ them understand, when I tried to show Mom in detail, so she'd stop telling me I didn't understand myself -- she wouldn't, she made me stop talking because it was too horrible. 

[bleak] 

Luthien-of-Doriath never came back from Tol Sirion, either. 

**Finrod** : [carefully]

Changed _how_? I'm not implying that you didn't know what you were about in Healing him, but it's possible that being unfamiliar with Mortals, you might not-- 

**Luthien** : 

No. It was nothing that one wouldn't consider normal for someone who had been through some terrible experience, surviving a battle or a raid on a village, it's just -- I never thought -- I didn't anticipate -- not _Beren_. 

[wringing her fingers in Huan's fur] 

He was -- quiet, but he was _always_ quiet, and serious, except when he found something to delight him, so it's not easy to put in words how exactly he was different, but he _was_. How couldn't he be? Part of it was just the way he was so _grateful_ to me -- so utterly glad to have me there -- not blaming me at all -- the way he was when I first came back to him in Doriath, but _all the time_. There was a -- a _reflective_ quality to those days -- you know how reflections are so much sharper and clearer than the real things-- 

[Finrod nods again, not taking his eyes off hers] 

It was like that, like a reflection of Neldoreth, for so long as we could -- not _pretend_ , exactly, but so long as we could avoid disturbing it -- but it wasn't possible, to keep still, to keep out the world's winds, forever. I didn't know what to feel then, either -- on the one hand I was simply glad to have him back, but it wasn't quite true, because he was like the ghost of my Beren and-- 

[she blinks hard, fighting back tears, while her hearers display varying levels of discomfort and sympathy and Huan licks her hand] 

Do you know what bothered him most -- to hear him speak of it -- that he'd missed the leaves turning at their full colour. 

[Finrod nods, but says nothing] 

It took me a while to figure out what he was really saying, so far as I was able. 

**Apprentice** : [troubled]

I'm afraid I don't understand. 

[Luthien shrugs] 

**Luthien** : 

I don't suppose you do. I didn't, either. 

**Finrod** : [surprised]

No? 'Tari wrote an epigram once in a letter to me not long before she and Celeborn were married, commenting on the strange custom of Beleriand to drop every matter of business when the autumn-fires began: 

"This year's gold is full-risen: we must go live in the trees!" "Why _must_ \--? They shall be as bright tomorrow." "But not the same. Haste, make haste, my love!" 

[melancholy smile] 

I couldn't help remembering that, a few years after, when I overheard her explaining earnestly the principle of "the beauty of the transient" to artisans from the Blue Mountains, and why the Laiquendi hadn't been playing tricks on them to declare that gold did grow on trees, as it was the same quality of light which made metal valuable as one beheld in the leaves, the _colour_ which gave value to the permanence, and not the other way around. 

[rueful aside] 

\--I'm rather afraid she changed history, then, as evinced by the more naturalistic trends that started showing up in work for local use, not simply commissioned pieces. There's something weirdly fitting about an Eldarin student of Aule's crossing half the world to learn Elven folkways and explain them to Aule's own people . . . 

[shaking his head] 

The idea that that this year's are immeasurably valuable and unique, not to be substituted by another season's, was something she learned in Doriath. 

**Luthien** : 

_That_ , of course -- but it seemed so minor compared to -- well, everything else that he lost. Only I came to realize that that was what he _meant_ , but that was the only way he could say it. 

[closing her eyes] 

The rest of it . . . I didn't understand until after he died -- that this year's were irreplaceable not only in themselves, but because for humans, there might not _be_ a next year. We never -- we never got to see them _together_ \-- 

[she breaks off in pain] 

**Ambassador** : 

We did not mean for such to happen -- none of this. 

[Luthien tries to say something, but is too overcome; Finrod and Huan endeavor to comfort her] 

**Steward** : [cold]

When you choose a course of action, you are responsible for the consequences. 

**Ambassador** : 

We could not have forseen-- 

**Steward** : 

\--that the daughter of Melian and Elu Thingol would not have tamely yielded to thwarting in love and duty? When _I_ was emissary upon Middle- earth, 'twas mine the responsibility to reckon well all options that might befall, from best to worst, and ready against each before speaking forth. Claim you yet, that Doriath is blameless in all that followed? 

**Ambassador** : [stiffly]

I cannot. 

[to Luthien] 

Yet _still_ I would lay blame at another's feet. 

[she grits her teeth at his words] 

**Steward** : [very dry]

Nor could you have foreseen that to do even as you did, should place her at greater risk still that you sought to preserve from harm, if her courage and resourcefulness should prove so great as all her kin before her? 

[his counterpart from Thingol's court draws himself up to retort, but then his shoulders slump and he does not answer] 

**Finrod** : [gently]

Don't chide so much: he could no more have dissuaded my uncle, than you myself. 

**Ambassador** : [still stiffly, but with pained intensity]

\--He might, however, have yet made some attempt-- 

[he breaks off, hiding his face in his hands] 

**Luthien** : 

Don't -- please, don't -- or else I won't be able to help apologizing for everything-- 

[she looks away sharply, blinking hard, and finds a welcome distraction by the waterfall] 

What _is_ she about? 

[the Sea-elf has jammed one end of the Teler Ranger's bowstave between some rocks and is determinedly hauling down on the upper nock of it trying to force it down into a curve, difficult because it is nearly as long as she is tall.] 

**Captain** : 

I think she's gotten it unstrung and is trying to remedy it. 

[as she continues to jump up and down without any evidence of progress or attempt] 

Or possibly not. 

**Nerdanel** : [shaking her head]

Yet a child is she. 

[Luthien frowns] 

**Finarfin** : [sadly agreeing]

She might have been nigh of age, yet for all her willing it other -- a most young twoscore and ten. 

[his daughter-in-law leans forward, confronting the Steward with her expression] 

**Amarie** : [passionately]

Her spirit was still fledgling, for all her heart bade her nay, aye, and seek to match her untried wings unto thy falcon restiveness. And yet she too is bid by One higher to soar no less, and her path be high and far afield, and other than thine, and thou hadst crushed her to thee like a careless babe with blossom, that kenneth no better, and bade those half- stretched pinions bide folded e'en as thou wouldst thyself to soar! 

**Fourth Guard** : [indignant]

How should _she_ know so much about it? 

**Amarie** : 

I heard more on't than I had wist, that day ere my espousing: the Lady Earwen together with myself did spend longsome time endeavoring to console yon's broken heart. 

**Angrod** : [aside]

I never did understand what it was the Sea-Mew saw in him. 

**Finarfin** : 

Alas -- perforce must I assent, though courtesy doth wish it other. 

[the Steward winces a little, but with a lurking wry smile, though his friends are not at all amused] 

**Amarie** : [with a curl of her lip]

Nay, gentle sirs, as to that -- she shall be scarce the first maid to be caught by a fairest voice, a shining mind, the twain indwelling a hall resplendent-- 

**Captain** : [lightly, trying to divert her]

Oh, well, that's much the same as my mother said, when Suli and my father were wondering the same on an earlier day -- though she said cooking, not singing-- 

**Steward** : [urgent and low, very differently from his earlier tone]

The time for jests is not yet. 

[his friend checks at once] 

**Finrod** : [hackles rising still more]

Amarie, I _never_ tried to set limits to you or control you-- 

**Amarie** : [biting calm]

Peace, sir -- I address't _thee_ not, my lord, but I do speak unto thy friend, and of _their_ state, and not of thee -- nor is _all_ that occupies my thoughts, nor the wide world its own, of thee, little thou dost guess it though 'twould seem. 

[ignoring his reaction to this rebuke she continues to the Steward] 

Thou didst ever place _thyself_ first in thine own regard -- yet the same didst demand of her! 

**Aredhel** : [taunting]

Isn't it against some rule for the gracious Vanyar to argue with us lesser Elves? 

**Fingolfin** : 

For shame, child, you mock your very grandmother in such wise! 

**Aredhel** : [resentful]

She didn't approve of me, anyhow. 

**Aegnor** : [dry]

Do you really wonder why? 

**Angrod** : 

_We_ came in for it too. Don't forget, and make it sound as if you were the only one. 

**Finrod** : [to all three of them]

And _only_ after you -- and others in our generation, along with certain of our elders-- 

[aside to his uncle] 

\--sorry, Sire -- started listening to Melkor, and talking all that nonsense about being prisoners and slaves here, and "our necessary and rightful destiny to rule in Middle-earth," even before the first sword-blade was hammered out. She knew there was more going on than we ever let on, you do realize, from things you said, and others said about our elder cousins, and you all did run pack together. Indis was impartial, no more, in her disapproval of the family's behaviour, blood descendents or adoptive. 

**Amarie** : 

Thou dost seek to divert me, that I say not until my heart is satisfied against thy friend. 

[Finrod can't deny it] 

**Steward** : [serious]

What would you say to me, my lady? 

**Amarie** : [lifting her chin]

Yet again dost thou mock me. 

**Steward** : 

I do not. Though I fear you shall. 

**Warrior** : [aside, baffled]

What's he asking _her_ for? He never could stand the lady Amarie when we were alive. 

**First Guard** : [confident]

Yes, but that was because he was jealous of our lord's friendship. It's the same reason _she_ couldn't stand him, either. 

[Amarie goes bright with anger -- before she can retort:] 

**Steward** : [looking directly at her]

Oh, I do not doubt there was considerably more to it than that, on both sides. 

**Nerdanel** : [dismayed]

How might ye abide this bareness of secret thought so generally display'd, that all should witness--?! 

**Fingolfin** : [very dry]

 _Some_ here mark it less than others, for whatever private reason. Most of us unhoused prefer a certain modicum of privacy as well as peace, whether we get any or not at all. 

[he gives Finrod a pointed Look] 

**Elenwe** : 

'Tis the place of truth here: and it do hurt, then spirit must needs make shift, to flee, else grow in strength to stand the sear of't. 

**Finarfin** : 

I fear me, there bide others here I had judged more ready to bear such disquiet of profligate description. 

[the Nargothronders look somewhat worried and apologetic at their first officer, who isn't at all abashed] 

**Steward** : [mild]

When others have witnessed one stark mad and bereft of all self-restraint by terror -- a few minor social infelicities between friends are no matter. 

**Elenwe** : 

E'en so -- for love's truth hurteth but as the cleansing of a wound, nor may aught of shame abide in't. 

[although her words do not embarrass him, there is a certain abashed reverence in his nod of acknowledgment at her remark] 

**Steward** : [warmly]

Even so, my lady. 

[to Amarie, matter-of-fact] 

As I said, there were reasons beyond jealousy when we both did walk and breathe beneath the unseen Stars: for you, the presence of one so prideful of his gifts and yet so lacking in gratitude towards those who had made such talents and their free exercise possible, while-- 

**Finrod** : [taut, setting both hands on his counselor's shoulders]

There was always more than that. 

**Steward** : [ignoring his affirmation]

And for my part, the knowledge that you Saw me for what I was -- and your dismissal was not erring. 

**Amarie** : [slowly]

Thy words do leave my sails slack -- how shall I continue, that hath uttered the half of it ere might I? I must appear the oppressor, as I judge me was thy words their intent. 

**Luthien** : [remote and somewhat stern]

That which you would have said does not become less true, because you now feel awkward saying it. As you've begun, you really ought to finish, not leave him with an unresolved discord. That's hardly fair. 

[the Vanya looks at her sharply, but after a moment looks down, and then back again with a resigned expression] 

**Amarie** : 

Aye, then, and thou wouldst-- 

[to the Steward] 

Thou woudst hear? Then hear thou shalt. --In the Day when thou and I alike were guest in the house of thy King's son, thou didst bear thyself even as a child new-come to words, nor only in regard of yonder maiden, but of all things thou wouldst first wish, no sooner that wish granted wearying, whether of company else place else doing-- 

[with a toss of her head up towards Finrod, though she does not look away from the Steward] 

\--saving only 'twas his presence -- moreover, thou didst grow ill- humoured for impatience, were thy wish even as unwish thwarted, and melancholy. So 'twas ever, when her we did ken as Maiwe was about -- for was she not, thou didst seek her out, yet swiftly tired of her lightsome ways, yet wert thou discontent did she seek out other, for all thy morose looks, eke gloomsome silence, did quench her heart. Even so a babe might cry, beholding another reach hand to take up bycast pebble, "Mine! Nay, _mine_!--" Nor wouldst thou _stoop_ , for so thou didst perceive't, to entreat what thou wouldst have, be it companioning, else diversion, else that thou e'er didst seek the most, the wreathéd words of praise -- lest any see thee weak, and seeing deem thee so indeed -- but only ever didst compel all those about thee to strive to guess, what thou shouldst favour. Aye, and blame for failing so, in truth! Nor was thy vaunting in thine own blood made less, for all thy heart's inclination to one thou held far 'neath thee, for subtlety as skill, but grew the fiercer for thine own self's self-treason. 

**Apprentice** : [aside]

Harsh. 

**Captain** : [quietly]

But true, alas. 

[the Lord Warden darts a sidelong glance at them, frowning] 

**Amarie** : [still more heatedly]

Aye and oft I did wonder me greatly, that thou shouldst compel her to accept thy friendship, that had so little of _friend_ , still less of "ship"--! For I saw naught, _naught_ 'twas common between ye, to draw such unlike together despite inclining. 

[she grimaces] 

\--And now _thou_ shalt answer me, Edrahil Enedrion, as I have answered thee. For what sought thou my condemnation on thee? Thou, that didst disdain me with words most smooth, didst deride me in company as _simple_ by speaking of my people's simplicity, our simpler ways, and deem'd I did comprehend thee not! 

[the Steward winces, but does not look away from her indignant glare] 

**Finrod** : [softly, doubtful]

You never made mention of that to me, Amarie. 

**Amarie** : [ignoring him]

As I do adjure thee, answer, spirit forlorn! _Why_ dost thou entreat of _me_? 

**Soldier** : [aside]

Because he still doesn't think he's suffered enough -- yet. 

**Steward** : [ignoring him]

Because I judged that you would speak me fairly, regardless of our past and present enmity, and in your words some better understanding of a conflict that has utterly confounded me might be revealed. 

[Amarie recoils as if he had shouted or struck at her] 

And indeed, your judgment on me is far milder than is my own, so that my failings I must grant in some part owing but to folly, and not _all_ to villainy. I thank you. 

[Finrod tightens his grip on his friend's shoulders, protectively] 

**Finrod** : [addressing Amarie as well]

There was _always_ more than skill -- and pride -- and need. 

**Steward** : 

Only because you Saw it, and kindled it as coals wakened from beneath the ash. 

[Nerdanel looks at her former liegeman and shakes her head sadly] 

**Nerdanel** : 

Aye -- yet of those sunderings that prideful folly did formerly to magnify so greatly, they have not lessened in th'intervening Age, nor grown lighter; for thou art yet elder, and _thy_ days thou hast spent amid busyness and the changéd realms, and thy knowledge hath great increase, nor hath she any gain of her hours in death, to match against thine own most learnéd wit, nor even of this shore, but doth remain e'en so young as when the World no less was young, while thou art more solemn yet for all thy gentled heart, even as thy skill in words and I do guess in song, hath increased no less. 

[the Steward glances involuntarily at the Sea-elf - who is presently teasing her foreign-born companion by waving the bowstave over his head, then whisking it away before he can take it, and then down, closing his eyes] 

**Luthien** : [very slowly and meaningfully]

None of those things . . . being older -- _much_ older -- or having lived through more things -- or coming from vastly different backgrounds, makes any difference . . . or _has_ to. --Unless you choose to let it. 

[drawing herself up, and changing the subject to much relief] 

I'm afraid you all are going to have to fill in some of this next bit for me, because we hadn't any notion what was going on meanwhile in Nargothrond after I left, and after, and we only found out some of it later, and put the rest of it together with a good deal of guesswork, because Huan didn't want to talk about it. 

[frowning, as if struck by a sudden thought:] 

I wonder why not Huan either. 

[at the curious Looks directed towards her by Finrod, and others] 

\--Changing. Since _he_ certainly isn't evil. 

[Finrod starts to answer, then checks, looking taken aback] 

**Finrod** : 

Hah. --Of course. 

[he gives the Hound a wry smile and an almost reverent stroke along his muzzle] 

That -- makes perfect sense. 

[shaking his head] 

Funny, how one can overlook something because one's too close-- 

**Aredhel** : [piqued]

What are you muttering about now? 

**Finrod** : 

Oh, you'll only say I'm crazy. 

**Luthien** : [wry smile]

No, that's _me_ these days. --What _are_ you trying to say? 

**Finrod** : [glinting mischief]

If there are Wolves -- then there must be Hounds mighty enough to guard against their depredations, must there not? 

[long pause] 

**Nerdanel** : 

But -- nay, mighty indeed is the Lord of Dogs, but Hound of Orome or not, he remaineth yet a hound. I did behold him a blind pup with mine own eyes, suckling in milky sleep amidst his littermates, no more -- no less -- than any other dog else of Lord Tavros' pack. Inded, I did first much favour his sibling, that did constrast coat as white of silver with red-copper ears, still, my son would have none other than this selfsame hound. 

**Finrod** : [pleasantly]

And? 

**Finarfin** : [wry aside]

In truth, there's one fashion of far-off words I care little enow for its taste. 

**Ambassador** : [glum agreement]

Indeed, it is _most_ annoying, Majesty. --Hence its employ by our dear ones. 

**Aegnor** : [wrenched out of his gloom]

\--Are you trying to say that _Huan's_ a Power? 

**Finrod** : [innocent]

Well, he's certainly a force to be reckoned with. 

[the Lord of Dogs gives a playful tug on his sleeve] 

**Aegnor** : 

Oh, come on! 

**Angrod** : [frowning]

But wouldn't that make all of the Hunter's dogs the same? 

**Finrod** : [shrugging]

Perhaps. I'm not sure necessarily so. 

**Angrod** : 

But -- he's an _animal_ , whelped in a litter, he didn't embody himself, so how can you say he's also divine? You're cr-- 

[he stops himself guiltily] 

**Luthien** : [austere]

 _I_ was born. 

**Angrod** : [placating/defensive]

I wasn't insulting you, cousin -- so was _I_ \-- so weren't we _all_ \-- I was just pointing out the facts of the matter, that _none_ of us are mirroanwi just supports my argument-- 

**Eol** : [to Aredhel]

I take back what I said about your relatives being good for nothing -- they certainly are _entertaining_ , I've got to give them that. 

[she makes a face at him] 

**Fingolfin** : [shaking his head]

Still, 'twere beyond belief, to declare that one or many of the Holy Ones, like to those who inhabit the airs and waves, should instead run subject on the earth even as our own servants, and wear our collars and gambol in the fields or lie basking in the dust beside our doors! 

**Finrod** : 

Would it? How would we know? If we've been surrounded by demigods all our lives and didn't recognize them, then how can we judge what they would or wouldn't do, if we missed half the data all along? 

[the Ten are carefully not looking at the Apprentice at all, who is looking both amused and apprehensive of blowing his cover once more] 

**Fingolfin** : [gesturing]

But we all of us have thrown gilded balls for Huan and matched his fleetness against our horses, in peaceable times, and Celegorm bids him go here and there and do this and that, in the hunt and on the field of battle! 

[Aredhel nods agreement] 

**Luthien** : [aside]

Not any more. 

[the Noldor princess gives her an angry Look] 

**Finarfin** : [forestalling escalation]

Yet, good my brother, I recollect me well how we all did throw the ball for our disport unto Lady Nessa, the whiles we guested 'mid our mother's kin, aye, and bade Lord Tulkas bear us hither and yon, and all the gods and demigods of Valmar did most gladly answer our multitudinous commands. 

**Fingolfin** : [mild exasperation]

We were _children_ then. 

**Finrod** : 

And--? 

**Fingolfin** : [tolerant]

And you'll say, nephew, I guess, that we are but children now, to those who made the Song, even did one such Power find his way belatedly hither. And I cannot gainsay you, but I cannot agree with you either, beyond its _possibility_. 

[Finrod suppresses a grin] 

**Nerdanel** : 

Yet must I question -- _how_ might it e'er be so? 

**Finrod** : [shrugging]

You'd have to ask Yavanna as to the -- not _mechanics_ of it, but -- _practicalities_ ; after all, it's in the old story, isn't it? We just never thought about it actually happening among us. 

**Aredhel** : [getting impatient]

Look, Ingold, everybody knows perfectly well that Balrogs and Wargs are fallen Maiar living in Middle-earth as monsters. But they're not natural -- their bodies were given to them, as you know as well as I -- so there's no comparison between them and Lord Orome's wolfhounds. 

**Finrod** : [somehow managing to be even more so]

'Feiniel, weren't you listening to me at all? That's what makes it all so _obvious_ when one considers it closely. The Enemy devises monsters to be his Champions in the field -- and there are heroes, _not_ of his making, who come to face them down.It's the exact same thing we learned as children -- the only strange thing is that we should have assumed the Wrestler was alone. Or that Immortals could only take Elven form. After all, we've all seen the Earthqueen in her arboreal body. 

[frowning] 

\--Nahar's got to be one, too. 

**Luthien** : 

You didn't know that? 

**Finarfin** : [keenly interested]

Thou dost hold, then, this noble Hound hath come from far beyond this World's realm, even as his first Master, yet hath entered as beast, subject unto all the laws of nature that do govern the Lady's earth? 

**Finrod** : 

Well, not quite _all_ \-- there's a little too much of him for that, eh, boy? 

[fondly scratches Huan's jaws; the Lord of Dogs blissfully closes his eyes] 

\--Makes one wonder rather what those who will -- or do -- inhabit the olvar will be like, doesn't it? 

**Finarfin** : 

Assuredly. 

[they share an intimate smile, the understanding of those who are both friends and fellow-seekers after knowledge, as well as family] 

**Finrod** : [diffident]

It opens up other possibilities as well-- 

**Aegnor** : [barely controlled]

Don't. Say. It. 

[his eldest sibling does not look round at him] 

**Finrod** : 

I haven't. 

**Aegnor** : 

You're thinking it. -- _Don't_. 

[Finrod only half-smiles, bittersweet, ignoring the bemused exchange of Looks this cryptic interchange gets them from his lawful kin] 

**Aredhel** : 

But Huan was born _before_ Morgoth made his move, so how could he have _known_ \-- to -- become a hound, _if_ what you're saying is correct. 

**Finrod** : [raising an eyebrow]

It was all in the Song. Obviously. 

[behind him Aegnor makes an exasperated noise and covers his face with his hand, pounding on his knee with the other] 

**Angrod** : [not sounding entirely confident]

You know, he _was_ reared here, in Aman. He could just be strengthened like all living things grown here, by virtue of the land itself. 

**Luthien** : [very acerbic]

He _talks_. I don't think that's _quite_ the same thing as being six hands taller and having greater stamina and fortitude or even being as clever as Valinorean horses are. Being able to talk -- and make independent decisions against his own instincts, even more -- says to me that he's no ordinary giant dog. 

**First Guard** : [without irony, despite using the Hound's back as an armrest]

And Beren thinks the same as well, gentles. 

**Ambassador** : [sarcastic aside]

\--Who is, of course, an authority on Immortals! 

**Captain** : 

Well, he's met a good few more than _you_ , milord -- granted most of them have been _evil_ , but _some_ authority, wouldn't you say? 

**Elenwe** : [wry]

I mark me friend Huan sayeth nor aye nor nay. 

[Huan wags his tail at his name] 

**Finrod** : [edged bantering tone]

Does not the _loyal_ Vanya present offer some counter absolute, of her greater knowledge of such high matters, that he surely cannot be more than merely kelvar, by virtue of his _rebel status_? 

[his wife only shrugs] 

**Amarie** : [same tone]

Nay, forasmuch as there be great precedent, eke for rebellion even as repenting; or hast thou forgot Lord Osse quite, my lord? 

[this round is hers] 

**Steward** : [musing]

Perhaps the Lord of Dogs remains in one fixed form owing to his birth upon this world: perhaps a dwelling not wrought of mind's force but of earthly substance in natural fashion _cannot_ be reshaped as 'twere but wax, but like cast glass or metal must keep to but _one_ shape. 

[checks] 

Or in better-fitting comparison -- I trust -- as the plant that springs from its shell must be and grow into only that which it is the seed of, and cannot _change_ into another, as if an iris were to become a rose midcourse. 

[the Hound just grins at him, panting] 

**Ranger** : [but quietly]

But gladden don't grow from seeds, they're rhizomes-- 

**Warrior** : [earnest]

Shh! that doesn't matter, it's the principle. 

**Luthien** : [smiling a little]

Or maybe -- he just loves being what he is. 

[Huan whines at all the attention, then yawns hugely with a resounding snap of fangs and settles his head back on her knees, content in purely canine fashion.] 


	135. Act 4: SCENE V.xxiv

[Elsewhere: the Corollaire] 

**Beren** : [gesturing as he speaks]

I don't know if you can tell me this, but do you know if -- if what they said -- well, showed me, was true? I mean, could have been. I mean, the other one -- I know that getting captured and killed could have been. 

[as the Earthqueen looks at him, waiting] 

You can't. 

**Yavanna** : 

I can't tell what you're _asking_. Do you think you could include a few more details this time? --Such as which "they" you're referring to, and _what_ other one? 

**Beren** : 

Oh. Um. The Skylord and the Starqueen. Sorry. --About having a normal life. 

[she keeps waiting] 

If I'd gone west. I mean, to Dor-lomin and all, and not stayed in Dorthonion. Would it have worked out so that . . . I just wondered . . . 

[he sighs, frowning] 

Could I really have had a normal, peaceful life with my own home -- at least, as peaceful as anyone's got, serving the High King, on the right side of the defensive line, instead of out in the woods until we lost? 

**Yavanna** : 

  "Would" and "could" are two different words, dear one. 

**Beren** : 

  I know. But . . . Was it _possible_? Could that have been my life instead? 

[pause -- the goddess looks at him sympathetically] 

**Yavanna** :

The mortal leaders of that seawards Barrier are your kindred, are they not? Through several couplings? 

**Beren** : [confused]

Er -- yeah . . . ? 

**Yavanna** : 

What followed, the _last_ time that aligned lords of a related House arrived as war-displaced with their own separate retinue and took up residence with their kindred-hosts? 

[long pause] 

**Beren** : 

Are you saying . . . that _I'd_ be like Celegorm and take over Dor-lomin from Marach? That I'd throw out my relatives and make myself lord there instead? Even if the High King allowed it, which I can't think he would, -- I -- _No._. I-- 

[he is very upset] 

I haven't seen my cousins in years and years, and some of them are real losers, and some of them I love dearly, but that hasn't anything to do with it. It's _theirs_. I wouldn't take it away from . . . Hurin, it's got to be, if his father's dead like I heard -- at least, I hope it is, that _he's_ still alive . . . I would _never_ betray hospitality like -- like House Feanor. I would never start a rebellion against the lawful rulers. 

**Yavanna** : [calm]

But could you prevent it? 

[as he looks at her, uncomprehending and distraught] 

Were you to arrive there, of the same bloodlines and your own heritage of renown, with an element loyal to your name alone, and remain there -- do you think you could avoid becoming a . . . focus, for conflict, whether you wished it or not? Or to put it another way -- _could_ you remain silent and not object, if you thought matters were being handled poorly by those in charge, whether you were subject or not? 

**Beren** : 

  . . . 

**Yavanna** : 

And if you raised your voice -- whether you were leader or not -- do you think nobody would listen? Have not Men always listened, when you spoke, with word or deed? 

**Beren** : 

But -- I wouldn't have any authority -- except what the House of Hador was kind enough to give me. And I'd have been just a kid, anyway. 

**Yavanna** : 

Do you really believe that? As young as you were, did not your own people -- elder or younger -- follow you? 

**Beren** : [puzzled frown]

Well, they had to. It was war. And it was only because of Da, anyway -- it was really _his authority_ I was borrowing, before he was killed. People listened to me because I was the chief's son, and then the Beoring. 

**Yavanna** : 

  Or was it the other way round? 

[he only Looks at her warily] 

Do you think that it was only being given responsibility that allowed you to become a leader, or did you receive that authority because it was latent in you to wield it, reaching from within you as the stem within the oak-nut when the right circumstances presented themselves? 

[pause] 

How do you think your friend became ruler? Or his kinsmen? Or Feanor for that matter -- none of us gave leadership to any of the Eldar, except insofar as giving opportunities for knowledge, ability, and benefit provides a means for those inclined to order things themselves to flourish. You don't just hand power to somebody in a lump, no more than understanding -- as if the act of handing someone a loaf were to end their hunger without the work on their part of eating and digesting it! 

[looking at him curiously] 

That's why I ask you: do you truly think you could ever have mutely obeyed without question what you saw as folly, and do you truly think that if you had challenged your cousins, on however small a matter, that _none_ would have heeded you -- and of such small cracks and slips are landslides made, as my husband likes to say. 

[silence] 

**Beren** : [stricken]

Are you saying that's what would have happened instead? Because that's even worse than it meaning only that I'd never have known Tinuviel and married someone else. 

**Yavanna** : [shrugs]

Why not _both_? They don't rule each other out. 

**Beren** : [heavily, but with some irony]

It sounds like you're saying that wherever I ended up, I would've just brought trouble no matter what I wanted. 

**Yavanna** : 

Very likely. You have to think of the roots as well as the leaves -- ah, look at it from all sides, is that how you say it? There's never just one consequence to any deed. 

**Beren** : [bitter smile]

I guess it's a good thing then that I died instead of going there -- too bad it wasn't any sooner. 

**Yavanna** : 

  I don't remember saying anything like that. 

**Beren** : 

But if my going there instead of Ma would have started a civil war in Hithlum-- 

**Yavanna** : 

If you'd gone and not stayed in your land -- that is, if you'd even survived to reach the other mountains -- so many _other_ things might have gone differently, that it might have been a _good_ thing for your kinsmen that you were there to take over. How can we know what might have happened in the battles that followed? You might have been the only one left. Or you might have gotten killed yourself, instead of your kinsman, aiding Fingolfin's lad. _I_ certainly don't know, and you don't either. 

**Beren** : 

  But it could have happened that way instead. 

**Yavanna** : [patiently]

Well, yes. That's the way of it, I'm afraid. You do one thing, and either it works the way you hope it will, or it doesn't. And if it _does_ , then other things happen as a consequence, and some of them are good, and others aren't, and other things _don't_ happen as  a consequence, and some of them are good, and others aren't. And if it doesn't happen, well, then -- it's the same thing, only different. 

[Beren snorts] 

**Beren** : 

So what are we supposed to do? Nothing? 

**Yavanna** : [same innocent tone]

Well, if you don't do anything -- then things happen anyway, and some of them are good, and others aren't, and the things that would have happened because of what you didn't do _don't_ happen, and-- 

**Beren** : [dry]

\--So you're saying we're stuck with the situation no matter what? _Whatever_ we do, it's gonna cause problems? And no telling what? 

**Yavanna** : 

  I'm afraid so. 

[he snorts again] 

We make the best decisions we can, or we try to, given what we know, and sometimes . . . sometimes all the endings are sad. I _think_ that's what Varda and Manwe were trying to convey, from what you've said. I'm still not sure that you believe it, yet. 

[she looks at him questioningly; he finds the ground very interesting] 

**Beren** : 

No . . . I _believe_ it. I just . . . don't want it to be true. I want there to be some way that things can just _work_ , dammit, without it breaking somewhere else, either by accident or because of it. 

[he jams his fingers into the dirt savagely, scowling at the grass] 

**Yavanna** : [sighing]

I wish it wasn't Marred, either. 

[as she gazes out sadly towards the horizon, he stares at her in concern, wondering how to console a Demiurge] 

**Beren** : [not a question]

There's no way to fix it. 

**Yavanna** : [suspiciously level]

We haven't found it yet, if there is. 

[humorless laugh] 

We can't even patch it, thanks to Feanor, as we might have been able to -- thanks to Feanor. 

[with a sidelong Look at Beren] 

He made the Three because he was afraid that Something Bad would happen to the Two, you know -- and he was right, only it was partly because of the Jewels that it happened. But Melkor might have killed them anyway, whenever he did choose to take his revenge, whether or not the Silmarils had been made or not. And then there would have been _no_ hope of restoring them at all. 

**Beren** : [choked]

I'm sorry. I know -- it's nothing I could have changed, but-- 

[aside] 

\--I wish more than ever that I hadn't failed. Even if it wouldn't have helped. 

**Yavanna** : [softly] 

_You_ would have given them to me, had I asked you. 


	136. Act 4: SCENE V.xxv

[Beside the waterfall, the Elf-girl is still teasing the Sindarin warrior by dangling the bowstring over his face like a fishing line, but when he continues to ignore it with a smile she stops and starts prodding him in the ribs with it instead. This is harder to ignore -- he sits up, and very casually scoops up a handful of water, splashing it towards her. She squawks (definitely a squawk, even if Elven-melodious] and scrambles hastily out of the way, dropping the longbow as she escapes.] 

**Youngest Ranger** : [amused]

You a Teler, and afraid of water?! 

**Teler Maid** : 

I am not fearful of water. I do not want to hear what it would say to me, that is all. At least, what it would say to me if it were real, but I did not think of that only now. 

[she frowns at the stone floor -- it's definitely wet where she was kneeling before] 

That _was_ real! 

[severe] 

Someone could slip, for the pavement is not graved for proper footing like to a quay here. --How did you _do_ that? 

[he shrugs. --Grumpily] 

I need no more of being told that I should go home. 

**Youngest Ranger** : 

\--Oh. 

[pause] 

But now that you know that none of your friends were part of the Kinslaying, why not still? 

[longer pause] 

**Teler Maid** : 

Because I will have to face my people's reproach for having stayed away so long. And for it being for having fallen in love with _him_. And-- 

[stops suddenly] 

**Youngest Ranger** : [anxious]

You do believe that Lord Edrahil is innocent, don't you? 

[she nods, disconsolate] 

**Teler Maid** : 

He has truly changed, then? 

[he shakes his head] 

**Youngest Ranger** : 

I've no knowing, of that. I'd heard of the King's foremost Lord, who was more exacting for having things all as they ought in word or making than any bee was ever in building hive, long before I ever thought to go to the City. He was a legend to be so fierce in the flyting, whenever work went wrong, all over the Kingdom. And then I found it was all true, but only the half of it. 

**Teler Maid** : [skeptical]

How mean you? 

**Youngest Ranger** : 

When I went to the City at last, against my elders' wishes, it was-- 

**Teler Maid** : 

Why did they not wish it? Or wish it not? 

**Youngest Ranger** : 

They thought it was a bad idea. That I wouldn't be happy there, and that it wasn't a good thing for an Elf to want to go to a-warring, that those were Western matters and we should stay well out of them, and that my voice and my boat would be missed from the village, but that the Noldor hadn't any need of me with all their power. And the like. So I stayed at home a score longer, and then I _had_ to go and see what there was above the hills I could see looking upriver over the willows and the morning mists. So I took my skiff and the sword my grandfather found when we came back from the Havens after the King's folk made the great Shield-Wall up North -- only not me, because I wasn't born yet then -- and I poled up the Narog until I found the High-elves. 

**Teler Maid** : 

_My_ family thought it a fine thing that I should go and stay in the house of our Princess, and learn all the arts of our elder Kindred -- until I learned there _sorrow_ , too, and discontent of heart, and only then did they press me to return thence. 

**Youngest Ranger** : [sighing]

My family didn't know what to make of me when I returned home to visit after, it wasn't comfortable for either of us. They didn't understand _why_ , when I'd belike try to tell them of the High King's stone towers in the mountains that went up like the very mountains themselves to the sky . . . By then I'd found my place following King Felagund, but before when I first came to the City it seemed they were right and I shouldn't have left home. The King wasn't there, but Lord Edrahil was, and-- 

**Teler Maid** : 

Are you trying to say he was not good to you either, when you arrived? 

**Youngest Ranger** : [still patiently]

Look, I'm trying to tell the story, but it's very hard when you keep interrupting. I don't know how to tell stories, very well, not real ones that I've been in, that aren't old tales -- what I was trained to do was make a report and tell things in order exactly first -- except for something that was an emergency, of course -- and then give opinions and impressions after. 

[pause] 

**Teler Maid** : 

I will listen. 

[Note: when he is relating others' words it is in a fairly level recitative, unlike his normal speech mannerisms -- clearly he doesn't have his commander's gift for imitation, as though not monotonous he delivers it in a straightforward, unadorned way that gets the job done.] 

**Youngest Ranger** : 

Well, when I first started working there, I just showed up and said I wanted to go to the City and serve the King by helping defend it. But he wasn't there, and I didn't explain myself very clearly, because I was too shy to say very much then. So somebody put me to work helping make weapons, which wasn't what I'd meant, but I didn't dare speak up. But I was wretched at it, because I'd never seen molten metal like that -- I'd never seen anything but a little forge with a charcoal blaze, and this was a foundry with the white-hot stuff pouring like water from a pitcher. Even though they just had me working on tempering, I was so scared to be in that place I couldn't think, and I kept making mistakes in the order of words and ruining bars and so they sent me off to work in Household, but that wasn't any good either. I never saw glass before that, and I thought it was rock crystal, and I wasn't careful with it because of that. 

[with a rueful grin] 

_That_ was something special, no one had ever managed to break eighteen glasses and two in one go like that before. It got me sent to the Steward. I got lost again trying to find his office. All he said when I got there was, "You're late." 

"I'm sorry, my lord, I got lost," I said. 

"How is that relevant?" he said. "It is one's own responsibility to make certain that one has adequate information before undertaking an obligation." I didn't say anything, because I didn't know if I should, or what. He said, "What are you doing here? Nothing seems to suit you, the simplest skilled labour appears beyond your ability, and quite plainly, you don't seem suited for this environment at all." 

"I wanted to fight for the King," I said. 

"Then why didn't you say so?" he said, still all impatient and cross with me. And I said, "Because nobody asked me, sir," and he just stared at me, and I got scared that he was reading my mind like some people said the Lords out of the West could, but then I figured that I'd not done much wrong except make stupid mistakes and he already knew all about that. So it didn't really matter but I was still embarrassed. He got up, he bowed to me, and he said, "I'm very sorry that we've been negligent towards you. Please sit down and we will try to discern what you are meant to be doing." He didn't make any excuses about there being a lot of people in Nargothrond or being busy. He said, "Why do you want to be a warrior?" 

"Because the King looks after us, and his soldiers keep us safe and free," I said, and he said, "Well, he's the King. That's his job, and theirs." And I said, "Yes, but it seems like we should give something to help, my lord," and he said, "And you are that something?" and just kept looking at me. I got more and more embarrassed, because I was sure he was Seeing in me the arguments with my tribe about going to fight alongside maybe Kinslayers in the Leaguer, but then he said, "Are your parents requiring this of you, child?" I was surprised. I said, "Oh no, sir, not at all!" and then I got too ashamed to talk. 

"I don't think you are looking for glory or vengeance," he said. Then he said, "Are you afraid?" I didn't know if he meant of him, or of going to the War, so I just said, "Yes, sir." 

"You're far more intelligent than I was at your age. Have you ever had any Visions of being in battle?" he said. I had to think about that one. 

"Sometimes while hearing a ballad or after a tale, it seems like I'm one of the people in it," I said, but he told me that could be just ordinary Dreaming and wasn't conclusive. I had to ask him what conclusive meant. Someone came in to complain about something and just started talking away, and he made her stop. He said, in the Common, "Gentle lady, I know the ban on Quenya doesn't mean much to the High King's court away in the north, but here we respect it, and it is particularly discourteous to employ it before a visitor." And then after she finished saying it all over again -- it was something about something that I didn't understand even in our language -- he said to her, "It is also one of our quaint Old-World customs here to excuse one's self with apology before interrupting, when a matter is so pressing that it cannot await the end of a meeting -- but afterwards will suffice." I figured out what suffice meant from the context. 

**Teler Maid** : 

That was not very kind to say. 

**Youngest Ranger** : 

No. But I was too shy to complain, and the lady should have known better. On both counts. He said, "What are you good at?" I said, "Um, fishing." 

"That's very useful, but we have the provisioning arrangements for the City generally under control at present," he said. I turned red all over again but he wasn't being sarcastic. He got a little bit embarrassed and said, "I don't want to make any assumptions, but are you good with a bow?" I said, "Oh yes, but everybody is, I thought you meant something special, sir." 

"Sword?" he said. I said, "I've got one, but I don't know how good I am with it. I've never had to use it." 

"Spear?" he said. 

"Fishing," I said. 

"Of course. What about horses?" he said. 

"I've seen them, sir," I said, "sometimes. They seem like big pretty dogs. Are they?" He nodded. He didn't say anything for a while. Then he said, "You've had unpromising experiences with metals and glass, to date." 

"Er, the metal was last week, sir," I said, because I didn't understand the expression. Only he didn't laugh at me. He just said, "Yes. How do you feel about learning to work stone?" 

"I don't feel anything, milord. Not yet," I said, because it was true. He said, "Fair enough. Would you object to learning?" and that surprised me some. 

"Could I, sir?" I said. He said, "Of course you could. But I'd prefer to find out before, not after." I must've looked a proper picture at that, because he said, "I think you're meant to be a Ranger. But the people you need to speak with about that are several hundred leagues off at the moment, and I daren't make a mistake with your destiny. If you want to wait here and no more until King Felagund and his senior officers return from inspecting the front, and employ your time visiting the rarities of the City and reading--" 

"I can't read, my lord," I said. Then I said, "I'm very sorry for interrupting." He just said, "Or learning to read, that would be perfectly acceptable." 

"But I wanted to serve the King. Even cleaning things is fine, even if it isn't what I meant," I said, and he told me that it served the King to have the City serve its purpose, which was a haven for people and things, and for the things in it to serve their purposes, which was to be appreciated properly by the people. I figured that meant it was all right for me not to be doing anything, but I wasn't easy with it. So I said, "If there isn't any Work I can do, sir." He said, "There is, but it's dull and no one will see it." 

"So is mending the bottom of my skiff," I said, and then I got embarrassed for being flippant, only I hadn't meant to be. But he smiled for the first time in our talk, and said, "All right, then; I'll put you on the condensation project. A branch of the river has shifted and it's starting to cause problems with moisture buildup. No one wants to spend their time making plain tiles and drainage gutters these days, but we need to get this under control before it gets out of hand. Any questions?" I had one, but it wasn't about stonework, but he did say _any_ questions. 

"Can you really read my mind, sir?" I said. He didn't laugh. 

"No. His Majesty can understand thoughts, when directed towards him, as he can speak his thoughts to others, over greater distance and more clearly in hearing and utterance than any that I know of. Even of strangers, and of more than one at a time. But there's nothing unnatural in it," he said, and when he saw I was embarrassed about being worried for it, he said, "Nor in being fearful of an unknown. If you experience anything else here that unsettles you, of rudeness, or of witnessing power usage you've not seen, or ways of ours that don't make sense -- or if you should think better of City life and wish to go home, before you swear fealty to our King as a warrior, come to me directly." 

"But aren't you too important for that, sir?" I said. He didn't say anything for a minute, and I wondered what I'd said wrong. He said, "I think you may be the first person who has ever asked me that. That's very thoughtful of you, but no, this is my job, stopping problems. --Or managing them. --You aren't the problem, by-the-by: the fact that you've been drifting about like a lost scrap of parchment on a breezy day, into situations you're not prepared for, however, certainly is." Then he took me to the workshop he had in mind, because he didn't want me getting lost again, and he explained how the caves fitted together around the river, so I understood it better. 

[sighing] 

The master mason wasn't very pleased, he wanted no part of a tribesman who didn't know how to hold a hammer let alone a chisel, and said he hadn't anything I could do but cut rough slabs. Lord Edrahil said no, I didn't know anything about machinery and he wasn't to put me on the hydraulic saw straight from the marshes. He said, "He's illiterate, or I'd take him back and put him to work in Records right now." --That was before he gave up completely on that. He said, "But if you won't take care of him, I'll teach him how and start him filing things until the King's return. I thought you were in need of willing hands." The stonemaster said that it wasn't any good if I was only temporary help, and besides I wouldn't be any good at it, it would be wasting my time as well as his to teach me. 

"Do not, as the saying goes, hazard on that," Lord Edrahil said to him, and I worked there for a fortnight, polishing finished pieces and then doing some roughing out on blocks that others pointed up for me. Then I got called back to the Steward's office. He said, "You're not late." 

"No, my lord," I said, because I didn't know yet then that that was by way of his making a joke. He said, "No complaints?" and I said, "I don't think there have been any, sir," and he said, "From you, not about," and I said, "Oh. --No. The job's fine." He said, "Good." Then he said, "They'd like you to stay on there, you know." 

"Must I, sir?" I said. 

"Do you want to?" he said, and I said, "I want to help defend the realm for the King." He just looked at me again the way he did before. Then he said, "It shall be, I fear, much harder -- even for you -- as well as more dangerous, than this Work." 

"Yes, my lord," I said, and he said, "Very well. Someone will notify you when his Majesty returns, so that you may ask your boon of him, and he decide if he wishes to send you for testing. He may tell you that you're not suited for battle, you do understand." I hadn't thought of that. I said that. He said, "You should, then, and prepare yourself so that when the choice comes, if it comes, you will know whether you wish to return home, or to remain here doing something other than you had planned to do. Neither one is without its trials." Then he said, just like before, "Do you have any more questions or requests?" I did, and I said, "Could you still teach me how to read, sir?" 

"I am afraid my time is not my own to dispose of," he said. I couldn't hide my disappointment. He shook his head. "There are other literate persons in this City, many of whom are not occupied at all times," he said. I didn't know that was another joke, or what he was being sarcastic about, not back then. He said, "Here is what you shall do -- if you want to learn. Go to the Gardens or the Hall of Hours in your next free interval, and find someone who is reading or writing there, and tell them that Lord Edrahil commands them to teach you the cirth. --What?" 

I said, "Um, don't you mean ask them to teach me, sir?" He said, "No. After you have learned your runes, do the same thing again, but this time tell them they must teach you to read tengwar. In between, and after, practice forming the letters -- you may requisition whatever materials you need from the Scribes, in my name -- and of course, actually reading books. We have a few in our libraries." That was a joke too, but I didn't know that then. He said, "If any Sage objects or raises concerns about you taking anything, invoke my name as your warrant." I said, "Yes, sir," even though I didn't understand yet then. 

**Teler Maid** : 

Understand which? 

**Youngest Ranger** : 

Why he said for me to go boss people around in his name. 

[pause] 

**Teler Maid** : 

So wherefore did he? 

**Youngest Ranger** : 

Because that way they would be annoyed with _him_ , not with me for interrupting them and taking up their time, and not take it out by being short or hasty with me, but go for him afterwards if they were so minded. 

**Teler Maid** : 

\--Oh. 

[she looks very thoughtful, but not much happier] 

So what then did happen? Or is that the end of your story? 

**Youngest Ranger** : [reasonably]

Well, it's not over yet. There's a lot more of the world to happen, I'm guessing. 

**Teler Maid** : 

Do not tease me! You know well what I do mean. 

**Youngest Ranger** : [deadpan]

Oh, you mean the part before I became a Ranger, what I was telling you about? 

**Teler Maid** : 

Yes! 

**Youngest Ranger** : 

All right. After a season the King came back to the City and he interviewed me and so did the Commander and I proved I was good enough at archery and not too insane to be worthy to be a Ranger, and that's what I did for the rest of my life. My master and the other artisans on the project tried to convince me to stay and train as a mason, they said I had a real Gift for working with stone -- the words "untutored native genius" were said several times -- and I would be wasting it if I went off and just fought in the wars. 

**Teler Maid** : 

And was it so? 

**Youngest Ranger** : [shrugging]

I don't think so. We had problems in one of our guard towers with the chimney never drawing right, and I was able to fix that up in a trice when I was stationed there, stuff like that. So it turned out to be pretty useful sometimes. 

**Teler Maid** : 

Oh. --What is cirth? 

**Youngest Ranger** : 

It's a kind of writing we use over there, basic runes invented by Master Daeron, that don't have dozens of different ways they fit together and mean. 

**Teler Maid** : 

That same Daeron who hated Beren, or another? 

**Youngest Ranger** : 

The same. 

[pause] 

**Teler Maid** : [acerbic]

I think you are right in the matter of your skill at recounting stories. 

**Youngest Ranger** : [shrugging]

Sorry. 

**Teler Maid** : 

It is a very plain story, notwithstanding your plain telling of it. 

**Youngest Ranger** : 

That's just me. The most exciting thing that ever happened to me before I came to the City, was when there was a wet season so bad that we had to move three times, and my Gran couldn't stop it, and she sent my my Dad and his sisters upriver to ask the King for help. And he told them not to worry about it, and sent back a convoy of troops with foodstuffs and stuff and engineers with cut timber to shore up the pilings of our village high enough we wouldn't have to move it again. I was almost two, and I didn't get to go to the City until I was sixty, so you can tell that our lives were pretty plain. 

[brief pause] 

I never did figure out if his Majesty it was that made the weather change, or did he just know it was about to, when he said not to trouble over it. 

**Teler Maid** : 

Why not then ask him? 

[he shrugs noncommittally] 

\--It is not a very _good_ story. 

**Youngest Ranger** : 

But it's a true one. 

[pause] 

I'm thinking you'd like it to be more like a song, where things happen so everything balances out in the end and there's a great fine note at the end of the tune. You'd like for Lord Edrahil to have set down the cooks and the smiths who berated me and maybe for him to have taught me the reading as well, and us to have been friends and I to have taught him things that all his cleverness hadn't fathomed, because that's how a tale should go. 

[she doesn't say anything] 

But he was too busy for such purposeless meddling, or to spare time to indulge my curiosity. He saw to it that I found my place, and he made sure that I might learn if I willed. Beyond that -- we had work, that rarely, _rarely_ brought us together, only a little more often than might've been, for the Commander's friendship. But he was too preoccupied to think on me, when I wasn't a matter of trouble to him, and he was far too old in years and knowing alike for me to be giving him any lessons. --I only ever surprised him once after, I think. 

**Teler Maid** : 

You mean-- 

[glancing over at Luthien and the rest] 

\-- _then_. 

[he nods, once, and she shudders] 

Why did he make apology for holding you should yield to the foe? Or rather, why did he think so? 

**Youngest Ranger** : [matter of fact]

Because I almost did. I would have, without his help. I think -- in a way -- it was worse for me than Beren. 

**Teler Maid** : 

But the Atani are weaker than any of us, everyone does say so, so how can that be? 

**Youngest Ranger** : [shrugging]

I don't know about weaker, now. _Different_. They burn faster, but maybe more fierce for that, like grass at summer's end, not the hardwood logs that last the night in low coals. And besides, he couldn't See the Dark, not the way we could, and there's a difference between afraid when you know something's out there, and afraid when you know exactly what's out there. I was -- it was -- for me at any rate it was like the Terrible One's power was a giant claw, pressing down on us, and I was this little bug under it, that couldn't get away. I couldn't hide from it, and I couldn't fight it. I kept saying, "I can't stand it," and he'd get angry -- Lord Edrahil, that is, not Beren -- and remind me of my oath to the King-- 

**Teler Maid** : 

And that was _help_?! 

**Youngest Ranger** : 

For a little. I cursed him. I told him, "If you'd not held back from changing my mind, I'd be a master mason and safe in the City today. You could have seen to it that I gave it up, or that they'd never have considered me for a soldier." And he said, "Yes, but you gave your oath. Be silent now," and he was right. But then-- 

[he breaks off] 

**Teler Maid** : 

But then what? 

**Youngest Ranger** : 

I don't think you want to know about this. 

[this provokes a strong outburst] 

**Teler Maid** : 

I am not a child! _I_ have died, no less -- I recollect me well what it was to be trapped and not to be able to escape from pain and to be unhoused! _But then what_ \--? 

[he looks at her anxiously for a moment -- she is very frayed and increasingly upset right now, but he obeys her insistence] 

**Youngest Ranger** : 

Then I went crazy. I broke most of my teeth, trying to bite through the chains. I think I cracked my skull against the stones, but that might have been a hallucination, I'm not sure. No one could help me enough, until Lord Edrahil did what Beren would call putting a spell on me, only that wouldn't be wrong, really, because I still don't understand how he did it or could have, except that he's that much stronger than me or any of my near-kin. He put illusion over me, so powerful I couldn't tell 'twas a Dream, nor could I leave it even had I wished to, as if I were not Eldar at all but mortal, which none of us should be able to do to another. 

**Teler Maid** : 

Of what fashion was it? 

**Youngest Ranger** : 

A little space of a garden, fitted into a corner of walls, but under a sky, only the sky was gold like sunset, only _not_ either, and there was a low bench in another corner, and all of it stone, but the bench was carved soft and rounded like a fallen log, and there was a pool in the other corner with a low spill into it, and water-lilies that were blue, not white or yellow. And there were squared stones around the pool, but someone had put a twisted weathered branch on them, and across from that was a single shell like a snail's, only it was all purple-blue as gladden-blossom. 

**Teler Maid** : 

But that is here -- I know that garden. 

[checks] 

Not _here_. I mean at home. --At the House. 

**Youngest Ranger** : 

I knew it was no place in Beleriand, for the taste of the air and the color of it, and the shape of the fish in the pool, but I didn't know then there was a real place of it, just like that. For all that time, almost until it was my turn, he kept me there. I didn't know then that he'd hurt himself so badly doing that for me, that he'd not any longer the strength to _remember_ for himself, not then or after, and I wouldn't have cared then if I had. I was too broken. 

[throughout he watches her to see how she is taking it; her expression and posture are very tense, but she does not hide behind her hair or otherwise retreat from his account] 

And then it got dark, and he apologized for that, and spent the rest of the time telling me about them crossing the Ice, and how frightened he'd been then, and it was like he took my fear for himself, and I could stand it, until I had to die. Then he ordered me not to resist, either, he said it wasn't any shame to follow my people's way and hide when the Enemy was too powerful, and I might get through fairly unscathed. And I did, only he paid a heavy price for it. But I didn't know about that at all until the Commander arrived and was able to explain a little of it. 

**Teler Maid** : 

Wherefore did _he_ not help you? 

**Youngest Ranger** : [flatly]

He couldn't. The only thing he could do was blame himself, and that didn't help. At all. 

[struggling not to smile -- she gives him an outraged Look. Apologetic:] 

It's sort of funny that he complains about _them_ doing it, Lord Beren and the King, is all. 

**Teler Maid** : 

There's _naught_ amusing in it -- at all. 

[he ducks his head a little] 

**Youngest Ranger** : 

You had to have been there, I guess. 

[very serious] 

When Lord Edrahil came here it was as he said, he was unlearnéd as a newborn child, saving only that he knew us for his friends -- but when I returned him the memory he'd shared me, of that small safe place in bright Tirion, it filled a gap of lacking in his wits, and he was able to remember all manner of thing, not that only -- but that time it worked as it should, nor I to lose it for the sharing of it. 

[curious] 

\--So it's a real place, that garden, not only one he Dreamed of making on a day? 

[she doesn't pay attention to his last question] 

**Teler Maid** : [suspiciously-brittle tone]

Then for what does he hold he wronged you by fearing for your weakness? 

**Youngest Ranger** : [shrugging]

He doesn't believe it, as I do, that I couldn't have held out without his help to it. 

**Teler Maid** : 

Then for what does he call himself a coward, when that is not at all the way of it? 

[he shrugs again] 

**Youngest Ranger** : 

It's like when he told me he couldn't read my mind. It was the truth, but not the whole of it, because what he didn't say was that by his Insight he could tell far more of me than I could of him by mine, all manner of things that I didn't know to say, and didn't know I was revealing, that would have seemed close to what I meant by mindreading. 

**Teler Maid** : 

Why did he deceive you? 

**Youngest Ranger** : 

He didn't. He just didn't _tell_ me, because I couldn't understand the answer then, and it would have worried me, and by the time I would have understood about it, I already had realized it anyway, and so it didn't distract me from my tasks then. 

**Teler Maid** : 

I do not understand. Are you saying that he did it -- or did it not -- not of mercy for you, but to further his purposes, or for that he was kind? 

**Youngest Ranger** : 

_Yes_. 

[she glares at him] 

When he helped me -- when he forfeited his right to leave to the Commander, it wasn't of mere kindness he did it. He was afraid we would break-- 

**Teler Maid** : 

Then for what hold you it to his credit? 

**Youngest Ranger** : 

\--and speak to the Terrible One and name the King to him. 

[pause] 

**Teler Maid** : [looking over at Finrod]

He did it for friendship of Lord Ingold, then, and not of ye. 

**Youngest Ranger** : [following her glance]

Only -- that was our own worst fear, all of us, that we would fail _him_ , and Beren, and _her_ , and the City. --That would have been worse than any death. Was that a friend's deed, to spare us breaking, or not? 

[she shivers] 

**Teler Maid** : 

That is too cold and tangled for me by far. 

**Youngest Ranger** : 

But it's _true_. That's who he is -- cold and complicated and not easy in friendship. But he's just to a fault, and merciful within his duties allow, or outside it, and he gives his skill at songweaving without any pride in it. The first part he can't help more than he's done -- and I think that must be greatly, for all you've said, and others, of him past. So I can't say if he's changed or not, but I think what _really_ you're wanting to know is dare you trust your heart to him. Someone could change for the _worse_ , after all. Only he hasn't, not since I've known him. I'd do anything he asked of me, without question for it. I trust him as I trust my King, and my Commander. 

**Teler Maid** : 

But all ye do make sport of him with light words and many. 

**Youngest Ranger** : 

Only now that we're all dead, and he's himself again. --If we didn't, he'd worry there was something wrong. More, that is. 

**Teler Maid** : [skeptical]

You tease him but of duty, now? 

**Youngest Ranger** : 

Well . . . it's not so hard a duty, that. 

[they share the beginnings of a smile, her unwilling, him wry] 

Look . . . I'll tell you something, that I wouldn't say among the others, because I don't think but what it'd upset the Lady Amarie very much and probably other people too -- but I don't think you'll mind the same way, and besides it's true. It seems to me like I understand a bit better why the Rebellion happened, only not for some, because I knew them so well, it wasn't so hard a thing for me to see the King threatened -- I didn't lose heart in him, nor his lords, because I was at the Fens too and so I'd not got left any false ideas that they were all-wise and indestructible and so on, and if I'd not lost heart _then_ why would I after? And that makes me like the Vanyar, more. 

[shaking his head] 

But his lord brother and the rest of the great folk of the City, that weren't there in Serech in the mud, they'd not that knowing, and so when they saw him challenged, and realized he could be overthrown, they didn't stop to think that every chief's but as strong as the folk will have it, and so they lost heart in him, and so he lost. And that makes them like the Noldor. --I mean, apart from them being Noldor anyway. 

**Teler Maid** : [taut]

I do comprehend. 

**Youngest Ranger** : 

And then most people, they didn't know what was going on, no matter what tribe they were of, they didn't really know or care much about the shadows under the houses, the old rivalries of the King's sons, they were happy to believe all was peace still,  not dreaming how much temptation it was to be guests in a rich hall of a younger kinsman, and to worry over that once they had wanted all of Middle-earth for themselves. And that made them like you Teler, not expecting any evil to happen, because they weren't thinking to do any. But sometimes the shadow in the water's no log, but a pike to bite your ankle. 

**Teler Maid** : 

If you are like the Vanyar then how can you fear the gods? 

**Youngest Ranger** : 

I didn't say I _was_ one, I said I was like them when the Trees were killed but they didn't turn on the gods like the Noldor did. 

**Teler Maid** : 

But that means you are saying the Noldor -- some of them! -- are like the Powers to you! 

**Youngest Ranger** : 

That's right. 

[smiling] 

I guess Beren was right after all when we were fooling about. 

**Teler Maid** : 

No, it is not right! You are not so much weaker than they! --Besides which, 'tis as much folly to fear the Holy Ones as 'twould be to fear Lord Ingold. 

[he doesn't say anything] 

Surely you do not fear _him_?! 

[he starts fixing the beads again -- she reaches over and tweaks the end of his braid out of his hands impatiently] 

But how might you be even so? --And how if you know so well how little they might help, do you honor your companions as the very gods? 

**Youngest Ranger** : 

They locked shields above me, when I couldn't defend myself. 

**Teler Maid** : [discontented]

And thus you are _grateful_ to them, because they protected you, and so because they felt sorry for you. 

**Youngest Ranger** : [shaking his head]

Because they are my friends, for long or for a little while. That's all. 

[pause -- she looks over at the Captain and the rest, and then back at him] 

**Teler Maid** : [shrewdly]

Your friends do think that you are most brave. And wise. I have seen it -- they _attend_ you, and not only to protect -- and heed your rare commands. Were none else to be leader here, I think you would be leader among them. 

[he follows her glance, and then looks down] 

Is that not how it was, when you first were dead? 

**Youngest Ranger** : [conscientious]

Not at first -- I was as lost and wracked as any, before they caught and calmed me, like a runaway steed. 

**Teler Maid** : [imperiously]

You know what I am saying. 

[he nods, not looking up] 

Tell me. 

**Youngest Ranger** : [awkwardly]

Whenever anyone started thinking we should go to the Lord and Lady of the Halls and submit ourselves for judgment, I said no, we had to stay and wait, to care for the rest as we had tended each other, at least till the Commander came and ruled otherwise if he would -- for wasn't it true that They must know what we were about, if Lady Nia did know it? 

**Teler Maid** : [knowing]

You held them by your will, and love. 

[narrow Look] 

Are you afraid of them as well? 

[he shakes his head] 

**Youngest Ranger** : 

No more than of Lady Nia. 

**Teler Maid** : 

Oh. -- _Oh_. 

[she looks confused and troubled] 

But why then of _Lord Ingold_? He is not frightening at all. --Nor only for that I have known him all my life. 

**Youngest Ranger** : [quietly]

You've never seen him in battle. 

**Teler Maid** : 

No, but I have seen Lord Ulmo and Lord Osse arguing over a reef, and no Elf could ever be so terrible as angry gods. 

**Youngest Ranger** : [raising his hands helplessly]

You've known them all your life, too. I've only ever seen their Messengers, and only from a high-up distance. Except-- 

[it is his turn to break off abruptly] 

**Teler Maid** : 

Who? Excepting who only? 

**Youngest Ranger** : [looking over at the Hound]

Except for old Huan. 

[pause] 

**Teler Maid** : [shortly]

You did not truly answer why. 

[he looks at the water, and it seems as if he isn't going to for a moment] 

**Youngest Ranger** : [hesitant]

What I learned in the City, now, was that the gods can walk as they do among us, but they don't have to -- that what we see is just a veil over their true power, their spirit, so we can understand them. 

**Teler Maid** : [tossing her hair back with an impatient head-shake]

Of course! Everyone does know that. 

**Youngest Ranger** : [more and more slowly]

It seems like then, _our_ bodies are veils too, only different. And in the Dark . . . there's no more veils. There's just Insight. And I was blinded by him. It was as though -- if the Consuming Fire herself stood between me and the Terrible One, to keep him from taking me, and I but a new shoot, plucked from my native shade and fading to a bleached brittle leaf in her brightness -- I couldn't bear it. It was . . . a relief, that I didn't have to wait very long. 

[silence] 

**Teler Maid** : 

Does -- does he _know_? 

**Youngest Ranger** : 

Of course. 

**Teler Maid** : 

What does he about it? 

**Youngest Ranger** : 

Nothing. --It's my problem, not his. He . . . he treats me the same as he always did. It's only I did change. 

[pause] 

**Teler Maid** : 

That is so very sad. 

**Youngest Ranger** : [shrugging]

Not so very. 

**Teler Maid** : 

But to bide among the friends you love, you must also suffer Lord Ingold's presence that does you dread, and also it is sad that such should come about because he tried to help you. 

**Youngest Ranger** : [shaking his head]

They're not two strands -- like the plies of my bowstring, one my sword-brothers' friendship, the other my fear of the King. 'Tisn't that simple. It's all _one_. I would follow him to the end of the world, the way my cousins followed their lady his young sister. 

[he dips up a handful of water and lets it run back into the spill-pool. Quietly:] 

\--I do love the Sun, and her gifts -- the water-lilies and bluebells, and the smell of the meadowgrass at noon, and the fiery colors in the splash over rocks. It isn't _her_ fault I get overwhelmed by her brightness easily, that I come from a place where the woods shade the water's edge or that my people see best in twilight. 

**Teler Maid** : [forlorn]

I have never seen the Sun. I have tried to conceive of Lady Arien's ship in my fancy, but I cannot make any picture of others' thought of her. 

**Youngest Ranger** : [nodding]

Same for me, with the Trees. 

[her self-pitying expression is replaced by an intent frown] 

**Teler Maid** : [softly]

When I was alive, I dared not go to them when the Golden One was wakeful, because -- She was _too much_. I think -- I understand what you would say. And-- 

[looking at him earnestly] 

I think . . . you are braver than any of the Noldor, kinsman. 

[struck by a sudden thought, she nods towards Luthien] 

\--Are you afraid of _her_? 

**Youngest Ranger** : 

A little . . . She's like the stars -- bright and sharp as winter, or notes of trumpets sounding in the night when the High King rides out from his castle, or cut crystal. I can look at her, and long -- but it makes me tremble inside like a flag in a high wind. 

[she looks curiously at his serene expression, and her own becomes still more pensive] 

**Teler Maid** : [half to herself]

Sometimes -- before everything -- I would go up to the masthead, or lie upon the deck, and look far into the sky, and it would seem as though I were in amid the stars, and I were as deep within the Upper Airs as a diver in the Sea, and it would be to me as though I were falling, and so very small, and I was in no danger, and knew it so, even if the dream were _true_ , for only our Swans and the Eagles were aloft, and the stars -- but still I was afraid, though I could not look away from it all. Perhaps -- perhaps _that_ is how it is for _him_ , to look on the Sea . . . 

[with an abrupt change of manner, teasing] 

\--And which, say you, am _I_ most like? 

**Youngest Ranger** : [smiling]

Oh, like the Moon. Definitely. --On a summer evening, when the sky's all periwinkle and green still and the moonlight soft as mallowblossom. 

**Teler Maid** : [offended]

I am not in the least like to Tilion! He does naught but mope about after Lady Arien and hope that she will feel sorry for him or admire him, when she has no thought of him and does indeed find him most annoying, and then he does grieve all his friends with his gloomsome sighing-- 

[she stops abruptly and glares at the water -- long pause] 

\--Besides, he forgets what it is he is about when he is not pining and does much annoy his comrades for that the lightest thing may distract him. _I_ do not go hither and yon like a catspaw on a quiet day. 

**Youngest Ranger** : [simply]

I _like_ the Moon. That's why I had my badge set with pearls, because they look like Ithil at the full, reflected in little pools along the marshes where I grew up. _Everyone_ has flaws. 

[his distant kinswoman gives him a suspicious look -- then jumps up suddenly] 

**Teler Maid** : 

I had forgot! I meant to ask Lord Ingold-- 

[he can't help grinning; she tries to glare at him, but can't help it either] 

I am _not_ like the Archer -- much. 

[she goes dashing over to the dais and skids down to crouch by Finrod's shoulder, tugging on his sleeve:] 

Lord Ingold! I need to know something, so that I may know if I must be angry with you. 

**Finrod** : [quizzical]

All right. 

**Teler Maid** : [glaring fiercely]

Should you have truly let yonder Kinslayer take his vengeance from _him_ \-- 

[pointing to the Steward] 

\--as you seemed to countenance, or was it but a feint to lead them to your true purpose, that they should go away? 

[she glares at the Warden of Aglon, who does a fairly good job of pretending to be oblivious] 

**Finrod** : [seriously]

If I could have justified it, certainly. It would have done him no lasting harm, and then it would have been over with, and we'd not have that ongoing distraction. 

[wry] 

And _he_ would be over his guilt, instead of fretting and agonizing over it indefinitely as is now the case. 

**Steward** : [quickly]

It will not affect my work, I promise. 

**Finrod** : 

I never doubted _that_. 

[to the Elf-girl] 

I don't think that's what you wanted to hear, though. 

**Teler Maid** : [still scowling]

Your words sound sensible -- but still for all the truth of them they do not content me, for-- 

[looking at the Steward finally] 

\--to even _think_ that you might be hurt, in fashion howsoever small or great, hurts _me_ here-- 

[she presses her hand against her chest] 

\--whether I would or no. 

[he bows his head; sharply:] 

But do not think that means that I have pardoned you, and so you now again might do as ever before and once again neglect my will! 

[to Luthien, earnest:] 

Are you done with the wretched part yet? 

**Luthien** : 

No, I'm afraid there's a long while yet to tell before we died. 

**Teler Maid** : 

Oh. 

[somewhat abashed] 

I meant about my friends, for that is what mostly does concern me. 

**Luthien** : [wry]

That's true for everyone, isn't it? 

**Finarfin** : [shortly]

There is no more to be recounted of mine eldest nor of his vassals in this tale, Maiwe. 

**Teler Maid** : 

Good. 

[suddenly she springs up again] 

Wait, _wait_! Do not begin _yet_! 

[and dashes back over to the waterfall without explanation. There she grabs up the Sindarin Ranger's bow and stands imperiously beside him] 

**Youngest Ranger** : 

Don't go poking people with that, all right? 

[she does not even smile or really notice his words, but stares at him very intensely] 

**Teler Maid** : 

Not only would, but _did_ \-- so why bide here afeared? 

**Youngest Ranger** : [totally confused]

Hullo? 

**Teler Maid** : [reaching down and taking his hand]

You _have_ come to the end of the world -- except for the Outer Ocean and the outside edges of the sky where it goes up against the Void -- so 'tis folly to be scared of Lord Ingold now, and I say high time for you to cease! Come sit with us now-- 

**Youngest Ranger** : [reasonable]

I'm not _scared_ , "scared" means-- 

[she makes an impatient noise and yanks him to his feet, dragging him behind her like a sea-anchor, him following with a patient, bemused expression as she leads him to join the others, making him sit down on the other side of the place she has taken beside his Captain.] 

**Teler Maid** : 

Go on with your story! 

**Luthien** : [with a slight smile]

Are you quite settled, then? 

[getting a quick nod she turns back and resumes explanations for those of Aman] 

So the way they _used_ to go, they couldn't, because that was all Enemy territory now, and they couldn't cut through our country -- well, obviously, but even before then they couldn't, and unless you had good boats and knew the river you wouldn't want to cross Sirion at the southern border, and so that left only the way they'd come, back at the beginning during the Battle -- but _then_ they had an army, you see, or bits of one, so that meant-- 

[this isn't interesting enough for the Sea-elf, who fidgets for a moment, then starts reaching over with the bowstave towards the speakers on the step below; her kinsman from the East clears his throat and she starts guiltily, quickly handing the offending implement back to the rightful owner -- but not before having dropped the end of it against Finrod's back. The ex-King of Nargothrond looks over his shoulder to see Lady Earwen's sometime handmaid looking utterly, impossibly innocent with wide kitten stare and hands folded safely in her lap, while the apparent culprit hides his face in mortification -- and helpless laughter] 

**Finrod** : [reflective]

You know, I used to know _someone_ who would ask for cloths full of grain from the kitchens saying she was going to feed the lovebirds in the garden with it, and then wait for unsuspecting people to walk under the trees or the raingutters or the colonnade instead. 

**Angrod** : [faint smile]

I do, too. 

**Finarfin** : 

Aye, even so. 

[to Amarie] 

Dost thou not the same? 

[Amarie nods shortly, not willing to be diverted] 

**Teler Maid** : [reasonably]

The birds did eat it. 

[pause] 

\--After. 

[she is losing the battle to keep a straight face] 

**Finrod** : [to the Youngest Ranger, warningly, but with a twinkle]

Watch out for her -- she's crazy. 

**Youngest Ranger** : [solemnly]

Yes, Sire, so I've noticed. 

[this gets him a narrow glare of mock-irritation from the Sea-elf, who the next instant leans forward and starts tugging furiously on Finrod's sleeve] 

**Teler Maid** : 

Lord Ingold, _make_ me something! All this time and you have not made me one thing, not even a riddle! 

**Finrod** : [raising his eyebrows]

What do you want, then? 

**Teler Maid** : 

Something strange from far away. And pretty. And I might wear it. 

[Amarie's attention alone is not on the Sea-elf's antics, but on her ex's reaction to them] 

**Finrod** : 

Hmm . . . 

[he leans back and holds his hand out over hers, manifesting something large, jointed and shiny into her waiting hands] 

**Teler Maid** : [rather disappointed]

Oh. It is most . . . heavy. 

[frowning] 

What is it? 

**Finrod** : 

It's a bracelet worn by a Dwarf-lord across the Sea. Everything you asked for. 

**Teler Maid** : [critical]

It is not so very pretty. 

**Eol** : [commenting, not quite aside]

 _Strength_ is infinitely more important than beauty. 

[Note: the armlet is made of dark square-cut crystals, cabochon-set in a very geometric framework, somewhere between Art Deco and Mesoamerican or pre-Dynastic Chinese in style -- impressive, with a definite rugged classiness, but not something that would be likely to attract Telerin tastes] 

**Finrod** : [shrugging (and ignoring Eol as he contradicts him)]

 _They_ think it is. It's based on the underlying structures of rocks, not the visible surfaces of things that move over them, like our images based on waves and leaves and animals. It's a style -- it takes getting used to, is all. 

[with a doubtful expression she goes to clasp it around her arm -- and shrieks, sharing her startlement with everyone else as the bracelet silently explodes into a cloud of flashing sparks and gleaming "petals" that drift upwards like apple-blossom or maple seeds in a breeze before fading out] 

\--Now, wasn't _that_ pretty, at least? 

**Teler Maid** : [sputtering]

But -- you -- 

**Finrod** : [straightfaced]

You only said you _might_ wear it. 

**Teler Maid** : 

Oh! 

[she folds her arms and makes a face at him; the Steward's wistful expression, watching their interaction unobserved, is the mirror of Amarie's . . .] 

**Finrod** : [not unkindly]

Now pipe down now, Sea-mew, all right? Let us hear Luthien's story without any more interruptions, please. 

[as she starts to protest] 

\--Are you a grownup now or aren't you? 

[overlapping] 

**Luthien** : 

Oh, Finrod, it's all right-- 

**Finarfin** : 

Son, hast not pity on her? 

**Apprentice** : 

She's only a child-- 

**Finrod** : [in the same tone as before, but firm]

Since Maiwe has apparently attached herself to my following, she can manage to obey me _and_ to exercise the minimal courtesy expected of any adult, Elf or Mortal, in full possession of her mental faculties. --Part of which is the recognition that silliness, like the tides (and every other humour), has its proper times and boundaries. 

[the shade in question, looking rather teary-eyed, does not speak to her ex, but gives him a very speaking Look, challenging him to criticize her or defend her as well. Instead, she gets directness--] 

**Steward** : [grave]

Would you have _exception_ always granted you, in concession of your weakness, or _expectation_ placed upon you, in recognition of your strength? 

[she clenches her jaw, looking very put-upon, but nods quickly and sits very straight and attentively as Luthien starts again . . .] 


	137. Act 4: SCENE V.xxvi

[Elsewhere: the Corollaire. A few white snow-hill clouds are drifting overhead] 

**Beren** : [sounding puzzled]

You said something earlier that made it sound like Melian was one of your relatives, too. But I thought -- from what everyone was saying -- that she belonged to Lorien's following. 

**Yavanna** : 

She does. Not everyone works for their own families, at least not with us. People move around, try new things-- 

[amused] 

\--some admittedly rather more than others! -- and join up with new-met friends to start projects. --At least, that's how we do it. 

**Beren** : 

Yeah, us too. But now I have more questions. How can you -- the gods -- _meet_ \-- I mean, didn't you all know each other back when -- in the Beginning? -- or-- 

[half-smile] 

\-- _before_ the Beginning, I guess. 

**Yavanna** : [with a twinkle]

Do you have _any_ idea how many of us there are? 

[he shakes his head] 

Me neither. 

[sighing] 

It took a very long time for us to understand ourselves enough to be able to start hearing each other and discerning our kinship to begin with, let alone knowing each other. And some of us are more -- limited -- than others. _Of course_ we don't all know each other. Did you know every person in your country? 

[again he shakes his head] 

And even those you did know, did you not know some better than others? And . . . 

[thoughtful] 

It's _different_ , here. Coming here -- _changes_ one. It's easy to become distracted, and to _forget_ . . . especially if one hadn't a strong Voice -- hadn't, erm, focused one's thought to begin with. So many have. It seems to make it easier for them to be lured away, as well . . . 

[she sighs] 

**Beren** : 

Okay, but what does that mean, that Tinuviel's mom is one of your kinswomen? 

[checks -- giving her an astonished look] 

Besides the fact that _we're_ kin too, now-- 

[the Earthqueen only smiles in answer] 

What does it _mean_ , to say Vana's your sister, even, when -- none of you were _born_? 

[frowning, she begins pulling stalks of grass through her fingers idly, as one does while distracted in thought -- but they change as she strokes them, becoming taller, opening more leaves, and unfolding into tasseled heads of grain as her touch leaves them] 

**Yavanna** : [thoughtfully]

You see, for us it's quite different -- I would ask of you Children, what does it mean to say that _you_ are siblings, when you have not -- _affinities_ , I suppose, but that isn't so clear -- in common? We do not fully understand it, because so often you who are kindred _do_ share in the likeness of spirit, so often there is more similarity -- or seeming-similarity -- to us than otherwise. But then each soul has many facets, and perhaps it is only that we see two facets that are the same, in this pair, and two that are not, in those. Even so for us. 

**Beren** : [dry]

The Bride and the Hunter don't seem very much alike. 

**Yavanna** : 

Less so, perhaps, and less still to your eyes. But Tav' isn't _only_ serious, though his lighter side can be rather frightening, too, and like all his pursuits directed towards his Task on some level or other. 

[lurking mischief] 

You've just caught him at a bad time, I'm afraid. 

[pause] 

**Beren** : [wary & confused]

Why? 

**Yavanna** : [shrugging]

Well, things haven't been going very well in the world lately. Melkor just keeps getting more and more control -- people who ought to be working together to thwart him have been squandering all their resources and energy on internal squabbles or oblivious isolationism -- vast stretches of wilderness have been reduced to sterile ash -- and just when it looks like someone is actually _doing_ something proactive about it, he steps in front of a Wolf and gets smashed. 

**Beren** : 

Ah-- 

[chagrined] 

_That's_ why. 

[pause] 

I can't believe I'm that dumb. I -- it didn't occur to me at all. And I've done the same thing, myself, I chewed Hathaldir's ears off for taking unnecessary risks until Da had to take me aside and clue me in that nagging a kid for almost getting himself killed wasn't going to help if I drove him to fall on his sword by it. 

**Yavanna** : [wry]

You understand. --It _is_ all your fault, really -- you raised everyone's hopes so much, accomplishing so much with so little in your favour, that I'm afraid Tav' forgot the wider scale of the situation and started thinking that winning -- _really_ winning -- was actually a possibility. 

[pause] 

**Beren** : [flatly]

It isn't, then --? 

**Yavanna** : [dead serious]

What do _you_ think? You've been there; you've seen it close to for all those years. How much force will it take to overwhelm him and are the Children over there even willing to work together to try to apply it, whether or not they could muster enough? --Why are your friends _here_? 

[silence] 

**Beren** : [terse, because otherwise his voice would shake]

Then why keep trying? 

**Yavanna** : [coolly]

Why, indeed? 

[pause] 

**Beren** : [slowly, choked]

Because you can't _not_. Because you _have_ to do what you can, until you can't any more, because _accepting_ his world is worse. --Even if you can't do very much and it seems like it isn't worth anything at all by comparison. 

**Yavanna** : 

_Yes_. 

[she looks up at the sky, unblinking, and smiles faintly at the sun overhead.] 

It isn't the same, but -- at least I have _something_ left of my darling, my girl of red-gold flame to remind me of her living. She was so bold, so loudly carefree in her shining, while my silver-blossoming boy was always the quiet one . . . 

[Beren looks at her with dawning comprehension] 

**Beren** : [softly]

They were your children. The Trees -- were _your children_. 

[she gives a small pained twitch of a shrug; her voice is a little ragged as she goes on:] 

**Yavanna** : 

After a fashion. I couldn't have Sung them alone. But I Thought of them first, and I knew their lives as none else ever did or shall, each one with a separate note, each one perfect and entire, and both together greater than themselves alone--. 

[with an angry sigh, leaning back to look behind her at the overshadowing trunks] 

Some people think I should let them fade, not leave their ruined houses standing to sadden Aman -- and myself -- with memory. _Some_ say there isn't any hope of bringing them back, and I shouldn't deceive myself, that I should-- 

[lifting her chin] 

\--"move on." 

[with a hooded Look at Beren] 

What do _you_ think, mortal, after having known both life and death from either side? Should I give them back to Arda and forget, and let everyone else forget, for their peace of mind? Shall I dismiss their blackened shells into ash, and unbind their component elements, and "accept reality"--? 

**Beren** : 

No. Even if there isn't any hope . . . it's important to _remember_. 

[she nods once] 

**Yavanna** : 

Thank you. 

[silence] 

**Beren** : 

You know, we used to say that when you were upset -- that is, when there were storms in the woods, that meant you were upset. I guess that was kind of dumb . . . I mean, you wouldn't be in charge of that anyway, because the wind comes out of the sky. Though Finrod said it could be a -- a shared memory from the Laiquendi in the East, associating it with the storms of Lord Orome's huntsmen. But it couldn't be both true -- or could it? But you wouldn't cause storms that would knock down the hay and all anyway. 

**Yavanna** : 

. . . 

**Beren** : 

Would you? 

**Yavanna** : [looking somewhat embarrassed]

Well. Strictly speaking, you're quite correct. I haven't any authority or ability that would let me control the winds. But-- 

[she glances at him, definitely pink] 

\--how much do you know about the weather? 

**Beren** : [frowning]

Um. I know that depending on which way it comes from depends on what we get, and I can tell what's coming most of the time, so if the wind is coming out of the west it's probably rain, but if it's east it's gonna be dry-- 

**Yavanna** : 

I meant on a world-wide scale, not a regional one. 

**Beren** : [dubious]

Well -- it -- comes out of the sky, --doesn't it? 

**Yavanna** : 

Eventually. First it comes out of the sea. 

[he looks even more doubtful] 

It's a collaborative project, like most things. 

**Beren** : 

Okay . . . 

**Yavanna** : 

Firstly, the water comes out of sea to get _into_ the sky, and secondly, it's always touching the air. That means that whatever happens in the ocean, affects the atmosphere above it. Think of how the water moves when you throw a stick into it -- now, even though you can't see it, you can imagine the air moving when that water gets thrown up into it, right? And storms are very much water, and moved by water, even though the sky's Manwe's job. 

[pause] 

**Beren** : 

Okay, but, you know, I learned my myths when I was a kid, and Lord Edrahil drilled me really good on the different gods and their powers, and I don't know that it's _all_ come back to me, but I'm pretty sure that I never learned anywhere about _you_ being in charge of water at all. 

[she isn't looking at him, playing with the seed-heads of the grass in front of her instead] 

**Yavanna** : 

I'm not. But I have friends who are. Sometimes -- sometimes we get upset together about the way the world's going and . . . 

[definitely embarrassed] 

There were a lot of storms the seasons after you died. 

**Beren** : 

Oh. 

[he checks to see if she's teasing him. She isn't] 

I was thinking about -- well, about what kind of storms there would have been, if -- but after the Treeslaying. Not -- me. 

[raising his eyebrows] 

Sorry, I . . . didn't mean to cause this much trouble. Not to our side, at least. 

**Yavanna** : [incredulous]

Did you just apologize to me for having gotten killed? 

[pause] 

**Beren** : 

Ah. --Sorry. 

[she reaches over and gives his shoulder a little shake, then ruffles his hair, smiling crookedly at his shy grin] 


	138. Act 4: SCENE V.xxvii

[the Hall. Luthien is looking rather dauntingly irascible at her present episode of reminiscing] 

**Finrod** : [soothingly]

Well, _of course_ you wouldn't leave him after that. 

**Luthien** : [caustic]

I wish that _someone_ would have understood that as clearly. 

[she lifts her chin in defiant recollection; Finrod winces] 

**Youngest Ranger** : [aside to his friends]

Did I miss anything new we hadn't already guessed? 

**Warrior** : [frowns]

Um. --Her Highness got lost in the City too, only nobody helped her get oriented 

**Youngest Ranger** : [grimacing]

Poor thing. 

**Teler Maid** : [a little subdued]

" _Someone_ " -- do you by that mean Beren? 

**Luthien** : [sighing]

Unfortunately, yes. 

**Teler Maid** : [encouraged by not being quashed]

Are all Men like him? 

**Luthien** : 

Oh -- I -- I don't _think_ so, but I really don't -- my family didn't work directly with humans, you see, so I don't _know_ as much about them -- except from Beren -- as the Noldor did-- 

[she looks from Finrod to Fingolfin for assistance] 

**Finrod** : 

No. Beren is -- _extraordinary_ even for his most extraordinary family. 

**Fingolfin** : 

Moreover, among the kindreds of mortals their customs vary, gentle maiden, even as between our our own, in speech and manner; no less, as well, between one man or woman of their race and the next, as of ours. 

**Teler Maid** : 

Oh. 

[checking] 

Thank you, Lord Fingolfin -- I mean, your Majesty. 

[the High Kings (dead and living) both smile in fond amusement; she glances warily at the Steward, but he is lost in thought with his chin resting on his hands, looking off into the distance, and does not seem to have noticed her question at all] 

**Fingolfin** : [bland]

But, indeed, for the most information, you should apply to my wise nephew here-- 

[Finrod gives him a very askance Look] 

**Nerdanel** : [mustering up her voice at last]

I do aver, 'tis passing strange to hold converse with one so like to us, and yet so far unlike, so that unlike to like exchange with others of this land, be god else semi-sundered kin, one kenneth not e'en what one doth not comprehend, but might only _guess_ , from the edges' shape, as one did touch certain carvéd letters with closéd eye-- 

**Luthien** : [earnest nod]

Right. He would tell me stories about being mortal, and I'd know that I wasn't understanding _half_ of them, like when you all-- 

[looking at Finrod and his siblings] 

\--would talk with Mom about Valinor. There was one that I only half- understood, because I knew that humans talk later than we do, but I didn't even realize the whole of it until Nargothrond and learning more about Men there. He told me how when he was quite young, he didn't speak until long after other children his age did, and people thought that it was because he'd been very sick as a baby -- which made sense to me, since the Enemy would want to stop people singing, if he could -- and his mother had left in the night to take him to the Elves in hopes they might heal him-- 

[she looks around very sadly and seriously at the discomfited Princes] 

\--but before they had gotten there, she and her riding had to stop for water and rest, and they were at this sacred lake which his people revered -- and you know, I never put it together with my parents' stories about their wanderings before I was born, not until they started trying to make small talk with Beren at dinner when we came home -- and Emeldir thought it might help him. And it _did_ , so she went back home, and never made it as far as your place, because she thought it would be rude to the goddess to imply that the cure might not be good enough and the Eldar would be necessary for a reserve plan, and because she was needed at the harvesting. 

[frowning] 

And _some_ people -- not all, but some -- said that it was her fault for not taking him to the King's brothers, and if she'd cared for her son like a proper mother he wouldn't be slow-witted. He would just sit there, as a toddler, very quietly, wherever she told him to do, with one of their dogs to watch over him-- 

[Huan wags his tail] 

\--and _look_ at something, whatever she gave him -- a bit of rough crystal, with the matrix still about it, or a knotted rope, or a carved wooden animal, and never try to take it apart, or make it do anything -- just _look_ at it, all over, for hours on end. Once she gave him a little sprig of beech-leaves, and he spent a morning watching a caterpillar on it, and _listening_ to it chewing. The day that his great-aunt had come to consult, it was a bowl full of water, and she watched him, watching it, sometimes the surface, sometimes the depths, from all different angles, and at the end of it she said, "If your son _is_ touched, Em', it's god-touched, and no worse -- or better. There's nothing simple in that mind." 

[she smiles a little] 

And Beren looked up from the bowl and asked them, "Why do they say I'm touched in the head? Shouldn't it be _on_ the head?" Emeldir started laughing so hard she was crying, too, but Lady An' called him over to her and she asked him, "What do you see in the water?" 

"Light," he answered. "It moves like dust blowing. But does the water move it, or does _it_ move? I can't tell." And she started laughing, too, and said, "Why don't you speak, boy?" and he told her, "But I can't _hear_ when I talk."  And she said to his mother, "Deep as the tarn you washed him in. --But you should have named him 'Headstrong' instead." That's one of the earliest things he can remember-- 

[shaking her head] 

\--he thought it was a funny story, and so I did too -- but I didn't know that mortal children don't usually start speaking in complete sentences, without lots of stumbling practice first, and I didn't realize that the behaviour he described wasn't normal for them, either. So I missed most of it, without even realizing it, when I thought I was doing well to imagine what it must be like, to worry about sickness and diseases as well as injury, and not be able to Heal them properly. Everyone thought his aunt had cured him, too, because he started talking then -- but I think perhaps it was just that they started asking him things, instead of _telling_ him -- and mostly forgot that he'd ever been slow at all. 

[looking at her cousins again] 

How can we live so long and know so little about this world of ours? Because even though in your City they treated me like a naive fool out of the woods, and made a great deal about how little I knew of Men -- you Noldor don't actually know all that much either. I would ask questions, and assume that someone there _must_ have the answers, and afterwards I'd think about it, and realize that wasn't an answer at all, it was just a guess. _Mortals_ don't understand themselves, and Finduilas and Gwindor would say, Well, of course they don't! -- as if I were silly for being surprised -- but they _know_ that, and that's why they have lore, and sages, and come to us for advice. And what I want to know is, how much don't _we_ really know about ourselves, and only think we do, and what questions ought we be asking? 

**Finrod** : [dry]

Now you've just _proven_ you're crazy, I'm afraid. I've been wrestling with these questions myself ever since meeting other Children, and particularly since my brother fell in love with one himself -- and you see what it's gotten me. Sensible people don't question their assumptions, or didn't you know? 

[Aegnor glares at the floor] 

**Angrod** : [plaintive]

You're not being fair. 

**Finrod** : 

Your pardon -- it's only dying for one. It's all right to hazard your life for a friend -- _if_ he's an Elf. And no one thinks anything of it at all, if an Elf-friend dies for us. After all, that's the natural order of things, that the _weaker_ should protect the stronger, the _younger_ their elders. It couldn't be that we're greedy, to cling fast to all that we can lay our hands to, and too fearful of facing justice to run the risk of meeting it, now! 

**Luthien** [aside]

You sound like me . . . 

**Fingolfin** : [shaking his head]

You _are_ bitter, nephew. 

**Finrod** : 

No, merely angry. 

[snorting] 

Everyone has the hardest time telling it, though. 

**Luthien** : [in that tired, dreamy tone of too much stress and crying]

That's because it looks so different from most people's. When _you_ get angry it's like a smoulder that just goes on and on without seeming to interfere with anything on the surface, instead of being fast and loud like a lightning strike or long and dramatic like a wildfire. --Do you know there are fires that can burn underground in the roots and turf for decades? I didn't believe such a thing was possible, even after Beren described it -- I thought he must have been mistaken somehow -- not until I saw it for myself. 

**Finrod** : [fascinated]

Where? 

**Luthien** : 

In the Nightshade. There are places where the layers of leaf-mould and humus are so deep that air can get through the ground, and so some of the root systems which were burned when the Sudden Flame happened just kept on burning, very slowly, and the trees keep growing back and it takes them years to die of it. You have to be careful there, because you can notice a burnt smell, but it's hard to tell where it's coming from, and depending how deep it is, and if it's rained recently, you can't feel it at once -- but if you camp there, it isn't safe, really, because shrubs sometimes burst into flame, or sparks work their way up through. Even if it is nice and warm there. 

**Finrod** : [anxious frown]

When were you in the Nightshade? 

**Luthien** : 

Before we went to Angband. 

**Finrod** : [still more worriedly]

 _Why_? 

**Luthien** : 

Well, I wanted to see what we could of where Beren used to live, so just along the edges where the ground starts levelling down from the uplands. It wasn't _very_ far out of our way back. And Beren was a bit homesick too, I could tell, even if the Nightshade isn't very homely to be in. 

**Finrod** : 

That's not on your way back from the Fortress. 

**Luthien** : 

Um, no -- from the Fens. Up by them. 

**Finrod** : 

What were you doing up there? 

**Luthien** : 

I wanted to see where you all were caught, where Beren had been, the places he could point out to me that you used for cover, or camped by, so that I could feel more properly what he had while I was moping around Esgalduin and it would be more real than just hearing it, if I walked along the same distance myself. --I guess it sounds rather foolish now, to you. And also where the battle where his father saved you was. 

**Ambassador** : [shocked out of formality]

You went sightseeing along the borders of Hell? 

**Finrod** : [looking up at the ceiling]

All right. Is there anyone here who still thinks _I'm_ the craziest person in our family? 

**Ambassador** : 

At least you had -- that Hound with you, to protect you? 

**Luthien** : 

N--nope. That was before Huan caught back up with us. 

**Captain** : [aside]

That's an interesting way of putting it. 

**Angrod** : [horrified]

Cousin, did you think you were _invincible_? 

**Luthien** : [simply]

No -- just invisible. We had my cloak. And there weren't any enemies around -- they'd all high-tailed it out of there and weren't taking any chances. 

**Finrod** : 

I'm still surprised that Beren went along with it. 

**Luthien** : [heavy sigh]

It didn't last long. 

[scowling at the map] 

He started getting better -- really, finally, and -- that was _worse_. I wanted him not to be helpless any more, but then he just argued with me. _All the time_. That's how we almost got run over when the sons of Feanor caught up with us. 

[Nerdanel folds her arms about herself as if chilled, but says nothing, despite the inevitable glances her way] 

**Captain** : [somewhat surprised]

Arguing? Hm. That wasn't what we'd gathered. 

**Luthien** : [curious]

Why? What did he say? 

**Captain** : 

Nothing, in fact, Highness -- only that you two were _distracted_. We'd assumed he meant embracing. 

**Luthien** : [getting more and more exasperated in retrospect]

It wasn't for lack of trying. I'd _much_ rather have been distracted by a kiss than because I was crying too hard to notice if it had started hailing because _he_ kept telling me we had to say good-bye and it was time for me to go back to Doriath! --Why did you think that, my lord? 

**Captain** : 

Because he was so embarrassed. 

**Luthien** : [still snapping with anger]

Well, I'm glad he's ashamed of being so _pigheaded_ even if it's too late to make a difference now. 

[curiously, to Finrod] 

Are all Men so awkward and shy as he when speaking of desire and generation? 

**Finrod** : 

No. He lost his people young, even by mortal reckoning, and though 'tis true that for the Secondborn-- 

[slyly offhand] 

\--and I have, as you might well imagine, various and sundry _theories_ , perhaps mad, perhaps not, on the matter -- there seems to be a not- uncommon sense of disjuncture between the spiritual union of marriage and all other sorts of friendship which makes for a certain measure of awkwardness between their men and women, --mostly it's that he didn't have the chance to understand the roles of adulthood by growing into them among his folk. There's a customary respect for the offices of "husband," and "lover," and "father," that does not quite yet realize -- or accept -- that yes, one _is_ old enough to appropriately hold them-- 

[the following is said with a glint of quiet mischief at the Youngest Ranger:] 

\--rather as when someone who feels _far_ too young for the authority entrusted him must nonetheless employ that authority among warriors a dozen times his age, and does so with _surpassing_ competence and an embarrassingly-diffident manner-- 

[the Teler Ranger grins bashfully at the praise and tries to retreat behind his comrades, only to startle as the Sea-Elf pokes him in the ribs with an "I told you so" expression] 

\--which makes it difficult for him to think of doing so. 

[pause] 

But consider this: if it had been otherwise, he had likely _not_ been free to choose you with unbroken heart, when you twain did meet. He'd have been wed or widowed, already, like the rest of his company. 

[Luthien nods thoughtfully] 

**Ambassador** : 

But Men are free to choose another, without any conflict of their nature, nor any limits saving local custom -- which derives much of _your_ influence, Majesty-- 

[aside] 

\--indeed, who can be certain that this human does not have already another spouse elsewhere, and think nothing of it, any more than the forest creatures whose company he prefers? 

[Luthien's temper rises visibly] 

**Finrod** : [calm]

That -- depends very much on the Man. 

[with a quick, deliberate glance at Aegnor] 

It is not unheard of, for instance, that a widowed mortal would choose to remain alone, deeming it to be gross treason to his soul-mate even in this world's circles, to give his heart unto another; or that one whose beloved did not choose her in turn should pair with no other thereafter, but hold herself as truly bound as any Elven bride, for all eternity-- 

[meaningfully, to Thingol's emissary] 

\--We are not so different, my lord. 

[silence] 

**Eol** : [exaggerated boredom]

Who _cares_ what mortals do or don't or _why_ or _why not_ , anyway? -- _If_ one isn't personally involved with one. They don't endure, and they don't _make_ anything that endures, so it's one of those pointless intellectual exercises like . . . 

[choosing his words very carefully] 

. . . oh, trying to determine the precise distance between earth and the stars, or the reason that birds sing, or the passage of time in the world outside -- a harmless waste of time for people with no lives or jobs to occupy themselves. 

[he smirks as any number of people now irritated with him prepare to pounce, verbally or otherwise] 

**Luthien** : [quite loudly and quellingly]

\-- _Anyway_ \-- 

[her listeners choose the better part of valour and don't interrupt her] 

\--I was trying to make him see reason, or _at least_ to grasp the fact that just because I'd admitted I was homesick -- sometimes -- too a certain degree -- for Doriath _didn't_ mean that I considered it _home_ any more or that I was willing to go back there under any circumstances whatsoever except with him by my side. --I mean, how many times does one have to say _NEVER_! to make it clear that it's going to be a balmy day in Angband first!? 

**Fingolfin** : [straight-faced]

To the Edain, your Highness? 

[Luthien grimaces] 

**Apprentice** : 

Are they _all_ that stubborn, then? 

**Captain** : 

Mm, not . . . _quite_. 

**Luthien** : 

Well, I can be stubborn too, at times. 

[the Apprentice coughs suspiciously] 

**Finrod** : [deadpan]

No, really? 

[she turns to him in mock exasperation] 

**Luthien** : 

You promised you wouldn't try to cheer me up. 

**Finrod** : 

Oh, that's right. --Sorry. 

**Luthien** : 

And I'm getting things out of order again. --Though it doesn't matter so much, about the fighting, I suppose -- really it was all one long _sameness_ from then on. 

[impatiently dashes away tears] 

So we were going back and forth about it, and it _was_ rather windy and the dead oak leaves were rattling quite loudly, and I know that doesn't excuse me, but I didn't notice the sound of hoofbeats until it was almost too late -- Beren just managed to clear the path without getting any bones broken -- partly that was the horses realizing that we weren't Enemy minions, after all and trying not to step on him, but being ridden and all, there wasn't a great deal they could do-- 

**Nerdanel** : 

Thou strivest to make excuse e'en upon my sons their steeds? 

**Luthien** : 

If I could make any excuse for their masters, believe me, I would. 

[in the shadows at the back of the dais, some distance away from the main group, a tall, shrouded figure appears, enough like the Lady of Sorrows to cause a momentary uncertainty, but as soon as the newcomer takes an awkward, hesitant step closer it's obvious she is patient, not healer here. Cautiously the Ex-Thrall moves in and sits down, completely muffled in the Captain's cloak, hiding her face, while nearly everyone tries to ignore her out of courtesy. The Lord Warden stiffens and stares away from her with an even more angry, miserable expression than before, and the Elf of Alqualonde keeps giving her tense, thoughtful glances throughout] 

**Ambassador** : 

My Princess, why on earth would you _wish_ to? Those -- _reprobates_ are fully as Dark as your lady mother and your father the King have named them in past century. 

**Luthien** : [serious]

They're still our kinsmen. It's still a terrible thing that they've gone bad. It would be better if it weren't their fault, somehow. 

[Huan whines] 

Everything that happens after this point is just sort of a blur of grey sky and whirling branches and flashes of people and animals, almost like scrying without any sort of control, so I'm sorry if it's a bit confused. It all happened so fast -- How could they be here? I was shocked that they were still trying to track me down -- that's what I thought then, only it didn't make any sense-- 

[making a sweeping motion with her hand] 

\--they swerved right around us and Curufin reaches down and grabs me around the waist and pulls me up in front of him, as if I were just a big fish he was hauling into a boat, or like a toddler being picked up by her father in the midst of a tantrum. 

[increasingly agitated] 

It was -- very humiliating. I -- I wasn't -- I couldn't react fast enough, I couldn't understand it all, my wits just _froze_ like a partridge under a falcon's shadow and then I was all tangled up in my cape, I couldn't think to do anything to Curufin-- 

[she shakes her head, distraught, her shoulders hunched defensively] 

**Finrod** : [calmingly]

Luthien, Luthien -- you're not a warrior. Your training, your temperament, and all your experience have been directed at thinking things through, observing them and responding carefully to the situation. It's foolish to blame yourself for not being good at rushing in and taking violent, sudden action-- 

**Aredhel** : [conversational tone]

Oh, I don't know about that -- It sounds to _me_ as if she should have listened to all those people who warned her that she didn't know what the real world was like and that she'd be _useless_ in a combat situation. 

**Luthien** : [coolly]

Talk _to_ me, kinswoman, not about me. Leaving aside the fact that Beren would have been dead with our cousin if I had done that, -- _your_ battle skills didn't do you much good, did they? You were still snared despite them. 

[Eol gives her an icy glare] 

**Aredhel** : [voice rising]

I _chose_ to stay with my consort, of my own free will -- I wasn't _caught_ like some stupid tame sheep -- 

[sniffing] 

\--but I think you're making it all up anyway. 

**Luthien** : 

How? 

[pause] 

**Aredhel** : 

You've convinced yourselves that's how it happened. 

**Luthien** : 

You believe what you want. We _know_ what happened. 

[ignoring her] 

Anyway, Beren made up for my inability, and then some, because as they -- we -- were still circling past, he flings himself at Curufin -- who was laughing like a fiend at us -- and catches hold of him to drag him off, except the combination of the impact and all our weight and Horse being off balance turning as it was, spilled us all over in this awful _tangle_. It was strange -- it didn't really seem as though I was moving at all, but as if the woods were a painting being turned sideways. Then the grass tilted up and slammed into me like a door shut in my face-- 

[she claps her hands together in demonstration] 

\--That's what it _felt_ like. Apparently, I was unconscious for a few moments there, even though it didn't seem like any time had passed at all, because when I sat up, Horse was up again, standing there watching the fight all wild-eyed, and Celegorm was roaring insults at Huan, who was -- _roaring_ is the only word for it, right back, snarling with his hair all on end, blocking them every time Celegorm tried to make his mount charge him, and snapping at Celegorm's spear when he tried to jab it at him. He wasn't backing down at all, and Beren didn't even realize that Huan had just saved -- was saving -- his life right then, because he was too busy trying to strangle Curufin. 

**Finrod** : 

Trying? 

**Luthien** : 

And succeeding. Until I stopped him. He'd gotten some good hard blows in too, Curufin's face was all over blood, but right then he was just choking him, completely silently and matter-of-fact like Huan taking out the Wolf- guard, while the Feanorion scrabbled at his hands, gagging, and trying to pitch him off without being able to at all. I managed to get up and stagger over to them, through all that madness, I can tell you I was shaking like a leaf and it all felt so strangely _real_ , as if it were one of my mother's scryings. 

[confused silence -- her audience exchange Looks] 

**Ambassador** : [carefully]

But -- it _was_ real, Highness. 

[uncertain] 

\--Was it not? 

**Luthien** : [matter-of-fact]

I know. That's what made it so strange. Because it was so improbable, and yet it _was_. It was all _happening_ , and I couldn't do anything about it -- just like seeing things in a pool . . . except I _could_ , because I was there, change some of it. And so Beren didn't kill Curufin, because I ordered him not to. And if I hadn't-- 

[she laughs humorlessly] 

\--Either way there's blood at the end of that song, Beren's or Celegorm's. --I was terrified -- worse than when we fought the Terrible, and I felt so sick, but that might have been the concussion I suppose -- that he wouldn't stop -- or couldn't, and then -- but he did, even though he wanted to, and I couldn't really blame him -- but how could I let him be swept into the Curse even further, and be trapped into helping the Lord of Fetters by doing the work of one of his minions and murdering Elves? 

**Finrod** : 

That was very good of you. 

[she only shrugs a little] 

I can guess how tempting it would have been to simply let someone who'd hurt you as he did, suffer without you having to do a thing about it -- by doing nothing about it. 

**Luthien** : 

Well, it isn't as if he didn't -- wasn't -- suffering as it was. That had to hurt a lot, being beaten like that -- but the humiliation hurt far worse, you could tell, being overmastered by a "mere mortal" and notwithstanding all his fancy arms and mail and cavalry and so forth. --And witnesses. Losing his garb was just insult added to insult; going by his expression when Beren pulled off his hauberk, being killed would have been less painful to him. 

**Finrod** : [troubled]

Beren stripped him? 

**Luthien** : 

Not completely -- just his armour and weapons. --Not that that made any difference to how it turned out. He's sort of obsessively conscientious about fairness -- Beren, that is -- I mean, I know it's his job, or would have been, as chief, but the way he won't take anything that he can't justify to himself, good _or_ bad -- or accept, either -- like insults -- makes things harder on himself than they have to be. He said it was only fair since Curufin was responsible for the circumstances that led to him losing his own defenses, and he was taking Horse because they owed some compensation to me, too, and in any case they weren't _fit_ to have care of any beast, and I was. 

[Huan growls agreement] 

And then he leaves him lying there like so much chaff dumped back to the ground, just takes my hand as I'm standing there half in shock at it all, and looks at Huan still guarding Celegorm, and _something_ was said between them, without any words or need of them, and Huan just heels right with us as soon as Celegorm dropped his spear and out of his saddle. He -- Celegorm, that is -- was helping his brother up and comforting him and shouting at us, cursing Beren and making it clear that _still_ he only thought of me as property to be handed back and forth or fought over like treasure -- just like Sauron thinking I was the key to his career advancement and securing his position against upcomers. 

[she frowns angrily] 

**Finrod** : [shaking his head]

More curses -- so many terrible words over three little stones! 

[his chief counselor turns to him with a curious look:] 

**Steward** : 

My lord, what _did_ you say to Feanor's sons ere we departed the City, as they watched us go? I did not feel it fitting to pry, nor had I heart for thought of them in that time; but if you will not now mind such curiosity -- though not merely idle -- I do wonder what silent injunction you did give to your supplanters. 

**Finrod** : [awkward]

Oh. _That_. 

[sighing] 

I told them that although they might have the upper hand _now_ , this victory would come back to haunt them, and they too would have no better luck in their pursuit of the Silmarils, for their Oath would devour _them_ in turn. 

[drily] 

An unfortunate choice of words to express it, as it fell out. 

**Amarie** : 

An thou'd make _less_ of war, than increase, sir -- surely 'twere better then to refrain from calling down more ill, despite thine injuries no less than wrath? 

**Finrod** : 

That wasn't a _wish_. Yes, I was angry at the time -- but that has no bearing on the truth of Foresight. --I'm sorry, Aunt 'Danel. I don't know _how_ , or under what circumstances, any more than I knew the specifics of my own Doom until it happened -- though it's hardly something that takes a Seer to discern, that the path my cousins have chosen to tread, is _not_ one that will have any happy or peaceful destination for them at its end. 

[Nerdanel shakes her head in silent agreement] 

**Luthien** : 

No. Nothing seems capable of awakening remorse in them now. They'd already ridden past your grave, they could hardly pretend to themselves that they were victims any more. There's no reasoning with them now, any more than with Morgoth. 

**Angrod** : 

Luthien, I don't expect you to be objective about this, so please don't get angry with me, but -- Beren did attack Cur, with lethal intent, so of course his brother was going to try to save him. 

**Luthien** : [sharply]

I'm _perfectly_ objective. I don't fault Celegorm for _that_ , but for not stopping his brother in the first place, I fault them both for interfering with us at all. If they'd just ignored us, just ridden past without stopping to harass us, what could we have done to them? They had all the weapons and we didn't even have horses, we couldn't have done anything to them if they'd left us alone. 

[her expression grows colder] 

I saw Huan suddenly leap from the corner of my eye, and turned just in time to see him plunge down like a trout in spring snapping a fly out of the air -- _kchk_! -- and beyond him, Curufin, already setting another arrow to the bow in his hands-- 

[the High King of the Noldor in Beleriand leans forward, thunderously angry] 

**Fingolfin** : 

_What_?! 

[ominous] 

He loosed against you? --Unarmed, afoot as you were -- and from behind? 

**Apprentice** : [bemused aside]

How would it be better if it had been from the front? That sounds like Tulkas' logic. 

**Fingolfin** : [darkly]

No High Elf has ever killed -- or sought to kill -- one of the Secondborn, our lessers and our lieges. Such unchivalry is beyond thought. 

**Nerdanel** : [brittle]

Nor liege, nor less, that one, I fear, my most royal brother -- no more than beyond thought. 

**Luthien** : [with a weird smile]

He wasn't shooting at _Beren_ , either. 

[as this sinks in for those who haven't heard the story] 

It's a very strange thing, to stand there and realize that you're about to die, and that there's not a thing you can do about it, there's no place -- no time -- to run, that your earthly existence depends on the choice of another to spare you -- or _not_. 

[the Youngest Ranger notices that the Teler maid is listening wide-eyed, biting her clenched knuckles, and leans over towards her] 

**Youngest Ranger** : [quiet reassurance]

It's all right -- they didn't die yet, then. 

**Teler Maid** : [not relaxing at all]

I know. 

**Luthien** : 

It was all done in less time than it takes to tell it: Curufin sighted and I heard the string _hum_ , and Beren flung himself between us, using himself as a shield for me, and the _sound_ of it hitting him--! 

[Aredhel shudders involuntarily and folds her arms tightly around herself] 

\--It threw him back a little, and he made a sort of gasp as though he couldn't quite catch his breath, and knelt down, almost as though he were stooping on purpose, only his face was completely white, and this terribly focussed look as if he were trying to remember something crucial, and then he just curled over at my feet, only -- I knew -- 

[Luthien struggles against the recollection, and wins] 

\--I knew he wasn't dead, because I could hear his heartbeat, but I didn't know how badly he was hurt-- 

[tears win briefly, and she scrubs them away furiously; in the silence, the shade of the former Healer gives a rasping caw of laughter -- completely out of place, and appropriate. As the rest of the company stare at the shrouded sitter:] 

**Ex-Thrall** : 

And _there's_ the honour of our Princes, and the _glory_ of the Noldor, shown before Elves and Men! 

[the Lord Warden of Aglon lunges half upright] 

**Aglon** : [shouting]

 _No_! 

[his voice is shaking] 

They wouldn't -- 

[he makes a violent gesture of his arm -- the Teler Maid recoils, staring at him as if at a rabid animal, equal parts angry/frightened/disgusted, as he rushes on:] 

\--my lords would _never_ do such a thing, to shoot at anyone who could not defend themselves, without any warning, like savages incapable of winning in a fair fight -- Lord Curufin _could not do_ such a thing, nor would Lord Celegorm permit it! Not even under the Enemy's power -- I swear that even were _he_ to seek to possess them, they would resist any such command. _It_ _was not them_ \-- it must have been phantoms of his making, to work such evil-- 

**Finarfin** : [very stern]

What warning gave _ye_ unto Alqualonde, boy? ere thou and thine accompliced did smite them down? How equal the contending, between thy heavy swords and heavier hands, practiced in the thought of battle, and the ship-folk unready, all untrained in war? 

[the Noldor ghost stares at the living Elf-King, wild-eyed] 

**Aglon** : [stifled]

The -- the Kinslaying -- was -- an _aberration_ \-- it was an isolated occurrence -- dire necessity-- 

**Finarfin** : [cutting off his stammering]

Of all deeds, there must e'en be a first of doings; yet of none howsoever grim else glad, might any say -- the _last_ of it, within my kenning. 

[pause] 

Still, 'tis well thou seest the deed as ill, nor seekest justifying of it, but must disavow the wrongs done against her Highness and her true-love, _else_ disavow thy masters. Belike in time, as well shall see the Shadow on thine own act of slaughter, no less. --I have some hope of thee. 

[the Feanorian partisan flinches a little at Finarfin's judgment on him] 

\--Pray speak, Princess, nor doubt that _all_ misdoubt thee in this place. 

[Luthien gathers herself to speak, but is interrupted] 

**Aredhel** : [harshly]

I still refuse to believe it. 

**Ex-Thrall** : [suddenly, startling everyone again]

What for? You know well that the Enemy's poisons work in such a fashion -- one can block them temporarily, but unless they are cut out and drawn completely, the blocking agents, whether word or tincture, will not hold forever, and at that point the venom will start to work again. Why should the poison of his words in us Kinslayers be any different? 

[the High King's daughter turns around and gives her an icy glare] 

**Aredhel** : 

Do I know you? 

**Ex-Thrall** : [darkly humorous]

Not yet. Someday -- you may recognize me -- in your mirror. 

[the White Lady looks away in disdain] 

**Angrod** : [desperate hope]

Luthien, you're _sure_ that it wasn't -- I know this sounds stupid, but are you _quite_ sure -- accusations of murder aren't to be made lightly -- are you _absolutely certain_ that it wasn't an accident, or that -- at least, even if it was deliberate -- it wasn't a momentary madness, not -- _not_ fully intentional--? 

[his brothers and the Ten express disbelief, but Luthien only looks sympathetic] 

**Luthien** : 

Madness? It was like they were possessed by the Enemy, or as if they really were Orcs in our shape -- and I'm speaking from experience now, not just secondhand -- especially the way they _laughed_ at us, sat there the two of them, looking at me standing there in shock, laughing at Beren and Curufin _grinning_ with his face all messed up and no remorse, no indication that they had any sense of what they'd done, nothing Elvish at all left in them. Curufin particularly, never once _spoke_ throughout -- never said a word to _me_ , to Beren, to Huan _or_ Celegorm -- I think on some level he isn't Quendi any more. I don't know what they would have done next, if Huan hadn't been there, if they'd have killed me, too, or carried me off to Himring. 

[practically] 

But if Huan hadn't been there Beren would have been dead already and I a prisoner, so that's sort of a moot question. 

**Angrod** : 

But are you quite sure that he was shooting at _you_ , not at -- at Beren, instead? 

[Huan gives him a very dark Look over his shoulder] 

**Elenwe** : [lightly ironic]

How improveth any such a belike? else belike "mayhap" and _that_ , no little reach? 

**Angrod** : 

It doesn't make it _right_ , cousin, but -- at least _understandable_. 

[his sister-in-law gives a hollow laugh] 

**Amarie** : 

Aye, there's Noldor reasoning for thee, no less -- 'tis sound good sense to waylay and molest him that's enemy, lest he harm thee in's stead -- when 'tis thine own harrying of that one that hath set him in counter 'gainst thee! Who else than a simpleton and fool should hold, that fittingest 'twere _supplication_ , as to seek pardon of them that first were done to harm--? Nay, such were be _weakness_ , verily! 

[longish pause] 

**Third Guard** : [apprehensive aside]

I'm not sure _who_ she's talking at. 

**Youngest Ranger** : [cautious reassurance]

Not _us_ , I don't think, this time -- not mostly. 

**Angrod** : [desperate plea to Luthien]

Might it be that Cur thought he was going to attack them again perhaps? 

**Huan** : 

[loud hostile bark] 

**Luthien** : 

_You_ know them better than I do -- they've been _your_ friends for Ages. How bad _is_ Curufin's aim -- at ten paces? 

[gesturing with her hands about a yard apart] 

\--Is he likely to miss by this much? 

[the Prince looks down] 

**Finarfin** : [edged]

'Tis most strange, my son, that thou wouldst yet seek justification for thy friends, that well didst ken bloodguilty of thy kin, _long_ ere thy brother did fall afoul of their long-held ambitions -- and yet do thou blame yet those his friends, that ne'er slew Elf nor set violent hand on maid nor wrested aught from rightful keeper . . . ? 

[Angrod ducks down further, closing his eyes in misery, and the Ten look uncomfortable at his father's compliment on theirs and Beren's behalf; as Finrod starts to intervene:] 

**Nerdanel** : [struggling to keep her voice level]

\--Nay, good my brother, chide him not for his loyalty, I pray, for that there bideth in this worlds-realm yet a soul that kenneth my sons' ill deeds, and yet some love doth burn within's heart that seeketh to cast a better light upon -- so little and so much ease of sorrow thy child granteth me, as one didst find a least fragment of some fair work as yet unbroken, amid a ruin-- 

[Finarfin bows his head, instantly apologetic. She looks from Angrod to Aredhel, with a sadly-knowing expression] 

\--Even if, in truth, 'tis kindled in no smallest part by _pride_ , no less than love, that may not admit of error -- still I cannot help but prize it most dear. 

[Luthien sighs deeply, stroking the Hound's face; he looks up with a whine and licks her chin] 

**Elenwe** : 

What passed thereafter? 

[overlapping] 

**Teler Maid** : 

What happened _next_? Oh-- 

[she gives the Vanyar lady an apologetic look, but Turgon's late wife only smiles at her, cheerfully conspiratorial, and after a momentary hesitation, she scrambles over to sit next to her at the implicit invitation. Elenwe touches her hair lightly] 

**Elenwe** : [wistful]

My daughter shall be e'en so grown as thee, I think. 

**Luthien** : [to Nerdanel]

I'm sorry I can't make this any easier on you. 

**Nerdanel** : [terse and pained]

E'en as I bespoke thy true-love, Curufin did ever take unto his father greatly, and mine own lord prized his own high repute above all else, saving only his father's love, and held vengeance for slight as for great, beyond all claims -- mayhap unto the Silmarils. And of his elder Curufin was e'er the leader. I confess me less astonish't at thy recounting than I had wist. --Say on. 

**Luthien** : [grimacing]

Huan went berserk and charged them, just as if they had been Wolf-cavalry instead -- he was so _outraged_ , it wasn't just the moral indignation at the injustice of it to us, I gathered, but the _betrayal_ of everything he and they had stood for and that he'd followed in Celegorm -- I really think he might have killed them, then, if he'd caught them. I wasn't really thinking about that at the time, though -- although I admit if I _had_ , I wouldn't have cared enough to shed any tears over them. The world had closed down to that bit of clearing, and Beren lying there on the cold ground not moving . . . I'll never forget how it looked, everything grey and bleak and dead all around us, and the blood bright as fire on the dry grass, and so hot on my hands even though he was so cold . . . 

[she shivers] 

Somehow I managed to get the arrow out and the wound purified -- at least it wasn't poisoned-- 

[with a shaky laugh] 

\--the benefit of being shot by your own side, I suppose! -- and seal the major vessels by the time Huan had given up pursuing and come back, and we got him out of the open, out of the wind and a fire going, and get him cleaned up and comfortable with the linen and blankets that were in the Feanorion's packs. 

**Finrod** : [forced lightness]

Kidnapped, rescued, taking a bad fall from a running horse, breaking up a death-duel between mortal enemies, shot at, and called on to perform major critical Healing in a very marginal setting, all in one afternoon? -- You know, cousin, most people would consider any _one_ of those things to be _quite_ enough excitement for one day. 

**Luthien** : [meaning it]

It wasn't all that much. 

**Youngest Ranger** : [smiling wryly to his friends]

You'd not think that, to hear Beren tell it. 

**Luthien** : [turning up her hands helplessly]

Well. What else could I do? Stand there wringing my hands until he died, or do what I was trained to do with what I had on hand? It didn't seem like a choice. Though I _was_ pretty panicked all the way through it. 

[fondly] 

It was Huan who saw us through it, of course, chasing off the Feanorions and catching Horse again and fetching wood and bringing me enough of the Lady's Gift to stop the pain so that Beren could rest and not fight the Healing I was trying to do. It was hard. -- _Different_. Hard because it was different. Not knowing if he'd recover, or even knew I was there trying to help him through the fever, not being able to sense his thoughts at all. --Not being able to _stop_ , because every time I did he'd start to lose ground again, not like us at all . . . as if he hadn't the strength to repair and to maintain at once, and knowing if he _did_ die, it would be my fault-- 

[she shakes her head, remembered distress vivid in her face, struggling not to cry] 

**Steward** : [aside]

Holy Stars, _another_ one -- 

[to Luthien] 

\--No, my Lady, 'twould _not_ have been. 

**Huan** : [snuffling Luthien's ear]

[sympathetic whines] 

**Luthien** : 

I'm all right. Truly. 

**Finarfin** : 

By thy gracious terming, dost thou signify the herb that giveth ease unto heart even as body, the which we in our tongue name _maralasse_? 

[Luthien looks blank] 

**Steward** : 

In your speech it would be rendered _athelas_. 

**Luthien** : 

Er . . . 

[she darts a defiant look at her Western cousins, Finrod very obviously not saying anything, Angrod visibly hesitating between answering and annoying Luthien again and taking the safer route of silence] 

**Aegnor** : [abruptly]

No, it doesn't grow there, Father -- what she's talking about looks something like it, but it isn't the same thing at all although it smells similar and has the same effects. 

[the Doriathrin Ambassador looks at the ceiling, shaking his head] 

**Finarfin** : 

. . . 

**Nerdanel** : 

Nay, nephew, wherefore claimest thou _difference_ , and it be in all respects more greatly of sameness? 

**Aegnor** : 

It grows much lower to the ground, the leaves are shaped differently and aren't the same colour, and it has a different number of sepals _and_ the climate's too cold for it there part of the year. 

**Ambassador** : 

I seem to recall, Prince Aegnor, that you said much the same thing concerning _all_ the creatures of Beleriand, whereupon it was demonstrated that your names and ours were in fact the same, taking into account the variances introduced by the passing of years and leagues. 

[he bows graciously -- and very pointedly -- to Finrod] 

**Aegnor** : [shortly]

That's because our ancestors gave them the same names when they got to Valinor, not because they were actually exactly _the same_ \-- 

**Ambassador** : [silk]

I seem to recall much ado being made of physical changes effected by the same passage of time and distance-- 

**Finrod** : [trying to head off a verbal duel]

Besides, the existence of cultivars decisively proves that _any_ species can have a great deal of variation, under the right circumstances, if nurtured -- just look at dogs, for instance-- 

**Huan** : 

[enthusiastic tail-thump] 

**Aegnor** : 

Brother, I will grant you expertise on the matter of _words_ , but when it comes to hunting and wilderness and outdoorsmanship, -- stick to your books. 

[Finrod only smiles tolerantly; behind them the Captain shakes his head] 

**Captain** : 

Dear Lady, grant me patience with fools! 

**Apprentice** : [gloomy]

You wouldn't like it if She did. It doesn't work like that. 

**Eol** : [deliberately stirring things up]

What would you foreigners know about our lands, in any case? 

**Luthien** : [very decided]

Quiet! All of you. We are _not_ having that silly argument about the living variations in plants and animals between here and Aman again and whether or not they're different species or only subspecies, all right? 

[glaring around at the Princes] 

"Your elk aren't elk, because they've got too many teeth -- they're really something else entirely that just look like elk"--!  If you're so curious about it you can ask the gods later. 

[silence] 

**Finrod** : 

All right. 

**Luthien** : [sharp]

Don't humour me now. 

**Finrod** : 

I'm not. I was noting how much more abrupt and decisive you've become. 

**Luthien** : [shooting a glare at the Ambassador, as Thingol's representative on the spot]

That's a nice way of saying "impatient and rude." 

**Finrod** : 

That wasn't what I _thought_. I was thinking how much you remind me of Haleth. It wasn't the axe that made people jump when she said _frog_ , you know. 

[in the following pause:] 

**Apprentice** : [quietly to the Nargothronders]

Another mortal expression? 

**Youngest Ranger** : [same tone]

No, that's _ours_. 

**Apprentice** : [aside]

How very confusing. 

**Youngest Ranger** : 

Aye, it was, your speech mixing in with ours. 

**Luthien** : [to Finrod, chastened]

\--Sorry. 

**Finrod** : 

I'm not sure which of us is more defensively paranoid at the moment. --Not without some justification, of course. But-- 

[ruefully, glancing at his father] 

\--it _is_ critical for a leader to be able to recognize the difference between _feeling threatened_ and _being_ threatened. 

[he and Finarfin share a quick smile] 

**Luthien** : [bemused]

I'm not a leader. 

[Aredhel snorts in disdainful agreement] 

**Finrod** : 

Really? 

**Steward** : 

Despite the negligent and remarkably chaotic recounting of events which we have previously been party to, there have been definite indications that _yours_ was the motive force and the guiding, too, Highness, of much of the subsequent action. 

**Luthien** : 

But I thought leaders were supposed to _lead_. Not -- follow. It seemed most of the time I was just hurrying along after trying to prevent disasters from getting any worse. 

**Finrod** : [bland]

Not that _I'd_ know anything about that, of course. 

**Angrod** : [dismayed aside]

Are we going to be hearing snide remarks about the Helcaraxe for the rest of Time? 

**Fingolfin** : [glum]

Belike, lad, I have little doubt of it. 

**Luthien** : 

But it didn't help, in the end, I still _lost_. 

**Finrod** : 

Wouldn't know anything about that, either. 

[long pause] 

**Luthien** : 

I _had_ to change. Nobody was going to come rescue me. And then -- I was the only one who could fix things, or who was there to deal with things. My priorities -- no, that's not the right way of putting it. The _most_ important things -- taking care of the ones you love -- become so urgent that _nothing_ else, no matter how valuable they are for themselves, can be spared for any longer. Because there's _no time_. 

[pause] 

Is that what it's always like, for humans? Because I don't think I can go back from that, now. 

**Finrod** : 

To a great extent. --But it's also a consequence of having been in command in situations of crisis, more or less continually. Some people -- _recover_ \-- from it more than others, and faster. But one is always different, _after_. 

**Luthien** : [forlorn]

I don't know that I like it. I would like -- to be able to just relax for a little and not worry about what was going to happen and simply -- _be_ , simply look at the starlight and smell the pine needles and listen to the wind . . . 

**Eol** : [caustic aside]

So would we all, child. 

**Aredhel** : [harsh]

Shut up. You've only yourself to blame. 

**Luthien** : [oblivious to them]

. . . just for a few hours without always wondering what was coming next, or who was going to try to kill us next. 

[she sighs deeply] 

**Finrod** : 

Even mortals do manage it, from time to time -- just ask Beren. 

**Luthien** : [bleak]

That's no good. He's _forgotten_. 


	139. Act 4: SCENE V.xxviii

[Elsewhere: the Corollaire. A huge hawk comes into view, circling in the updrafts rising from the plain and turning with the breeze off the Pass of Light.] 

**Beren** : [earnestly, frowning]

I understand now why you're one of the Great -- it's because you chose to be, right? Because you're doing it _all the time_ \-- trying to build and protect and repair everything, and you just don't _stop_. And I get why you're not like Morgoth, and why you can't be as efficient as he is, even before he destroyed so much of your power with the Trees. Because he doesn't care what happens to the stuff in the way, or the things he uses, so he can just reach over and _do_ things, or make things happen, or make people serve him, like when he'd drive a tusker mad, or a normal wolf, to the point where it wouldn't even back away from fire, when he was trying to drive everyone out of the country. You wouldn't do that, because you _couldn't_ , because _you're you_. If you did -- you'd start turning into _him_ instead. Not really, I mean, but you know what I mean. 

**Yavanna** : [fondly]

They taught you well. 

**Beren** : 

But what I don't understand is-- 

[breaking off abruptly] 

**Yavanna** : 

What? 

**Beren** : 

You're gonna be upset with me, if I go there. 

**Yavanna** : 

I can't imagine anything you could say that would do that. 

[pause] 

**Beren** : [still reluctant]

Well -- first, _was_ I right? That feeling I had that I was _fated_ to take the stone? 

**Yavanna** : 

It looks that way, doesn't it? As it turned out. 

[he frowns at her remark, rubbing his temple with his hand and staring downhill at the empty fields. In the distance the circling hawk folds its wings and hurtles towards the ground. Impact with its unseen target is concealed by the tall grass of the plain, but after a moment it takes off again carrying its prey towards the mountain cliffs. Watching it, Beren does not see the Earth-queen's melancholy smile at the successful hunter returning to her nest . . .] 

**Beren** : 

Then . . . it seems like, if you all _wanted_ me to get the jewels away from Morgoth, maybe you could, you know, could have _helped_ me a bit, and then . . . maybe I wouldn't've failed. 

[Yavanna doesn't say anything; after a moment he looks at her sidelong] 

You're upset. 

**Yavanna** : 

Not with you. 

[she sighs, shaking her head, and purses her lips a little] 

You don't realize how much help was mustered with minimal resources and the shortest of notice to give you all the support possible, do you? Admittedly it wasn't enough but under the present circumstances it represented a considerable outlay on your behalf. 

**Beren** : 

I don't follow you. 

**Yavanna** : 

Well, what sort of help _did_ you get? 

**Beren** : 

But -- you already know -- from the King and Tinuviel and Huan. 

[pause] 

I wouldn't count Huan, even if he is an Immortal, because he came on his own. 

[pause] 

Oh. That's right. There were the Eagles. So, that's _one time_ , which doesn't seem like much, not that I don't appreciate it. 

**Yavanna** : 

What about earlier? In your homeland? You received help _there_ , didn't you? 

**Beren** : 

From other people. 

**Yavanna** : [patiently]

\--And? 

[pause] 

You _know_ this. You said as much yourself. Before, during, and after your Quest. 

[he doesn't say anything, she goes on, gesturing animatedly as she speaks:] 

You got dream warnings. --Do you have any idea how much _work_ that was, trying to speak to _you_ , one of a race that has _never_ spoken with us directly, at such a distance, through all Melkor's interference, without the Trees to draw on? More than once, because Luthien received messages too -- which would have been easier, if she hadn't been too stressed out to pay attention most of the time. You got an environment friendly to and supportive of you alone, and deadly to your foes -- again, against active efforts by our Enemy to realign the region under his power, and everything we and our subjects could give you at such a range, to maintain harmony -- that is, strength and healing and perceptual clarity. _Despite_ everything you did to destroy yourself rather systematically for all those seasons. 

[pause] 

**Beren** : 

None of that felt like divine intervention. It just isn't . . . _you_ know . . . 

[trailing off] 

**Yavanna** : 

\--Dramatic enough? 

[Beren shrugs noncommittally] 

Like, oh, Royal Messengers coming out of the blue? 

[he looks abashed; she continues:] 

There's _other_ help that you received all your life, too. 

[a blank look is his only answer] 

Not you exclusively, of course. 

[leading] 

\--Every day? 

**Beren** : 

Oh. I forgot about the Sun. 

[pause] 

**Yavanna** : [trying to keep a straight face]

My poor husband would be very put out if he heard that. So would the rest of his team, I suspect. 

**Beren** : [flustered]

Well -- we do think about her, just, not, like _that_ \-- I know we shouldn't take the Lights for granted, but, they, they've always been there for as long as we remember. --I do think sometimes about what it takes to keep Anar and Isil up-- 

**Yavanna** : 

It's a good thing _we_ don't. 

[at his confused Look] 

Think _sometimes_. 

**Beren** : 

Oh. Yeah. 

[he is frustrated, upset with himself for being apparently ungrateful and disrespectful to her, and still not satisfied, and therefore not able to see that the goddess isn't insulted or upset in the least] 

**Yavanna** : [intense]

The growing earth is _mine_ , as it is no others' -- 

[with a snort of anger] 

\--certainly not that insufferable _dolt_ Melkor! 

[Beren looks at her with a touch of alarm] 

\-- but it is not me, however much we are identified. You're right, I can't work as Melkor does, seizing and controlling. Whether I fight or build, it's slow, and subtle, as all things which live and grow according to their proper seasons. I can _hasten_ things, just as there are times in all creature's lives when flesh changes swiftly, but that isn't easy, and it takes much strength from other needs, and there are always grave costs after. There aren't any shortcuts -- and there isn't any cheating. _You_ understand the economy of bodily things -- how effort beyond all normal ability is possible, and how much you sacrifice in that effort, be it the taking of rightful prey, or the finding of fodder, or the building of den, or escaping a predator in turn, or rearing of young, or surviving an injury -- the lack can be supplied from elsewhere, wit and skill to assist in it, but always it must come from _somewhere_. 

[shaking her head] 

Even when one does cheat, as Melkor and his people do, it doesn't really come from nowhere, all those powers and abilities of theirs. The land starves when you steal the life out of it to give yourself supernatural strength -- and you can only cheat that-which-is for so long. The price for eternal vigilance is -- exhaustion. 

[pause] 

**Beren** : 

Are you talking about the Enemy, or -- are you really talking about me? 

**Yavanna** : 

Yes. _He_ tries to be all-powerful -- he's trying to be all of us, to do _all_ of our jobs, because he wants to _have_ it all -- and he still doesn't realize that it's too _much_ for any one Power. So he must rob from here to strengthen himself there -- and he doesn't realize that this is self-defeating: that the more he grasps, the more he must extend himself, and that if he does succeed, he will only have himself to draw upon. _You_ understand that there are limits, to what one soul can do in the world -- even if you did push them farther than anyone else did or would have dared. 

**Beren** : 

But it comes to the point where the choice is, keep doing what you're doing and _die_ , or _stop_ and do something else. Sometimes you can't stop, because the alternative is worse than just you dying. But -- 

[he looks away fiercely for a moment] 

\--that's because of the Marring, not because death is _better_. And if it's something you shouldn't've been doing in the first place, like picking fights for no reason except orneryiness, then getting scared when you realize that it's gonna kill you is the only way some people learn to change. But . . . 

[pause] 

\--But _he_ \-- _can't_ die. 

**Yavanna** : [nodding]

And he's too stupid-stubborn to change. 

[looking at him from under her eyelashes] 

\--What about _you_? 

**Beren** : 

. . . 

**Yavanna** : 

Do you remember those days of waning, when your life too waned, and it seemed that you would not live past Sun-Return that year -- and there wasn't any point in trying, because your rebellion had failed and you'd clearly lost? When it seemed as though the only thing left for you to do was to go down fighting in a last berserk stand, taking as many of your enemies with you as possible? 

[he nods soberly] 

_Help_ can come in the breath of a southern breeze at evening, stirring attention to look towards a horizon unconsidered, and the sight of gray woods sleeping far-off waken hope of another Spring, another life . . . _if_ one listens, that is, and is willing to take the hint. 

[pause] 

**Beren** : 

That was a _horrible_ journey. 

**Yavanna** : 

Do you still think it was worth it? 

[pause] 

**Beren** : 

\--Yes. 

[pause] 

But how can you guys help us if you can't actually go to Middle-earth any more and you can't do anything directly because of the distance and the Enemy's magic and all, how can you do anything from over here? 

**Yavanna** : [raising her eyebrows]

Where, exactly, is "here"--? 

[as he grimaces, shoving back his hair in a gesture of frustration] 

We _made_ the world. Designed it, thought of it, crafted it -- and it still works the way it's supposed to, more than not. Not least because we've kept fixing and patching and redesigning it to counter the flaws introduced by Melkor. It isn't _supposed_ to need constant hands-on interference to keep it growing. _How_ do we do it? By asking me how _I_ bring forth my Art -- it's different for each one of my family, of course -- what you're really asking me is how it is that I am myself and know how to act, to think, to _be_. 

[raising her hands] 

\--How do _you_ do it? _You_ think, speak, perceive and do -- how do you yourself, or your people, shape the world around you? _Can_ you explain the process-- 

[with a dry Look] 

\-- _without_ any wiseacre comments like "by hand" or "with tools" -- you _know_ I'm talking about the movement of the will, which starts those outer motions, and the intellect, which comprehends the world and their effects on it. 

**Beren** : 

Yeah, but you're supposed to be way wiser than we are, so you ought to be better at explaining what it was that you did than me. 

**Yavanna** : [slowly, as if searching for the words]

A . . . _way_ of describing things would be to say that . . . I had . . . _marked_ you with my blessing, so that all my dominion would know you for a kindred spirit, and do you no harm, and aid you whenever possible. But . . . it's more complicated than that. --After you found your way to safety in Melian's woods, and shelter  under tree and stone, do you remember how sick you were, and how you hadn't the strength to go search the bush and brush for berries and nuts the birds overlooked or dig for roots . . . but the banks of the water were hardly any distance from your cave, and rich with fish waking and returning to spawn -- only you wouldn't snare yourself a one, tempted though you were to it, whenever you managed to drag yourself down to the stream's edge to drink. 

**Beren** : [stiffly]

I've already heard enough about that from the Hunter, thank you. 

**Yavanna** : 

You don't think I'm criticizing you for that, surely? That vow of yours was one of the most beautiful "thank-yous" I've ever received. It meant _infinitely_ more to me than any Festival of Plenty -- not that I don't appreciate them too, of course. But I was speaking of what happened after. 

[pause] 

**Beren** : 

The hawk. 

**Yavanna** : 

I couldn't cause a fish to fly from the stream to where you were resting, could I? --Of course not. I can't even force another wild animal to catch one and bring it to you, like a trained bird to the falconer. They wouldn't understand what I was getting at. But -- when the turning of the season brings the salmon runs, and the hunters of the woods, the martens and bears and their kin converge, then it isn't impossible that some fisher cat might try to rob another of its catch, and while the two were distracted by their fighting, a firstling hawk might seize the moment and snatch it up, with them unawares -- and flying over the woods, find the wriggling weight too much, and lose its grasp. 

[shrugging] 

Or perhaps, a stray gust of wind from the storm front coming in distracted the inexperienced flyer, and staying up and holding on were too many things to do at once. But in either event, the end result was the same -- a full- grown, full-lived hook-jaw of many summers, still fat from the sea, not yet wasted in the season's contest that would have been his last, given to a winter-worn cub too weak to forage and too honorable to _take_ what was within his grasp. 

**Beren** : 

So . . . are you saying that _was_ chance, or it wasn't? 

[simultaneously as she starts to nod:] 

You're gonna say "yes" again, aren't you. 

**Yavanna** : [biting]

I still can't believe you continued to _agonize_ over it for the rest of the thunderstorm before deciding it wouldn't be immoral for you to eat it. That's taking it to extremes, isn't it? After all, if _I_ can't grant an exemption to a vow made to me, who can? Ignoring both the river trying to tell you not to waste the gift and your own common sense -- believe me, if I'd _been_ there I would have fetched you one across the ear for being more stubborn than granite! 

**Beren** : [deadpan]

It was the random lightning strike happening to hit an already-dead tree rotting on the ground six yards away that made it awful hard to keep arguing. 

**Yavanna** : [snorting]

Honestly -- did you expect me to come and _cook_ it for you, too? 

[they look at each other -- and start laughing] 

You know I'm not a very domestic goddess. Breaking the things I've made and burning them has never appealed to me in the least, even if Aule can come up with the most delightfully savory results, it's like all those devices he thinks of to make cleaning things easier -- frankly, I'd rather just move and build a new house, or take the roof off and let the rain wash away all the dust, but the look on his face whenever I suggest it--! 

[she struggles virtuously against a mischief-filled grin] 

Though I _do_ enjoy baking -- it's the same as the eating of grain, with some improvements, grinding it up and heating it, and it's rather fascinating how burning something _partly_ can make it last longer -- but I draw the line at anything else. I've got more important things to do. There's so much more interesting work that can be done with plants and animals than worrying about how to cook them. 

[sighing] 

It's hard when you have so much in common with someone, and yet so much _not_. Eventually . . . you have to accept that someone can only change so far without ceasing to be themselves -- and that's true of _both_ of you. I'm never going to care about rocks or metal except as something to feed and shelter my creatures -- though I do find them pretty with the vines growing down them or coloring the soil's hues against contrasting leaves -- but I'm never going to see them the way Aule does. And he's never going to look at my artwork without thinking that it ought to be improved -- and not the way _I_ mean it -- by making it more tidy and efficient. 

[shaking her head] 

And he's not the only one who forgets that I'm the Lady of the Wild Things as well, and yes, you _can_ make some plants grow better by clearing away the ones that compete with them, but the "weeds" are lovely even if the Children can't eat them, and the wildflowers aren't any less beautiful than the tame ones, even if they're subtler. And not everything has to be _useful_ in some quantifiable way -- I get rather insulted when people look at some bit of countryside and only see it as "potential" -- potential to be _something else_ that _they've_ made out of it! A flat space of ground isn't just there to be dug up and ploughed into straight lines! 

[she tosses her head indignantly] 

**Beren** : [a touch of nervousness]

 _I've_ always liked the wilderness just fine. 

**Yavanna** : 

Oh, I'm not talking about you personally at all. Not even your race, even if you all do tend to act like young beavers, felling trees and not making any use of them -- though you did learn good manners from the King's grandson, and your situation puts practical concerns above aesthetic ones for the sake of survival. But I was complaining about _my_ People. Some of them, at least. 

[he looks confused, as she rants on] 

The Noldor are just as bad, not happy with anything unless they've changed it. Why is it so hard for some people to simply _be_ , to be quiet for a moment, or longer, and look at what is around them, and _listen_ , without going a little crazy inside and having to distract themselves? Though my husband can, but only for the things _he_ thinks are important. He tries to be polite when I talk, but it's clear his mind is a thousand miles below, and when I try to get him to come for walks with me it's always, "Just a little bit longer while I fix up this or that," and then it's _months_ later and everything is all different outside. 

[smiling sadly] 

I used to sulk, and wait inside with _such patience_! 

[rolling her eyes] 

\--to make him feel guilty, after we settled here, and things calmed down, and he started spending more and more time in his workshops, but Varda pointed out that all that was accomplishing was making us both miserable, and did I really want to waste Time by not doing what _I_ wanted, so that I could make him not do what he wanted either? Just because he's my spouse, and we're both Elementals of Earth, doesn't mean that we're identical -- or ought to be. After all, I wouldn't like it very much either if _he_ sulked and complained because I have no interest in his little gadgets or in metallurgy. So now I go for walks when I want, by myself, or with friends who enjoy the woods as well, and sometimes Aule comes, and mostly he doesn't, but we don't fight about that any more. 

[looking at Beren, a bit hesitantly] 

Of course, most of _our_ arguments haven't been over anything as serious as yours, not for Ages now. I can see that the immediate dangers of your situation would add a level of urgency -- and insolubility -- to the problems. But you _did_ make them worse, you know. 

**Beren** : [indignant]

Me? _I_ wasn't the one being unreasonable! 

**Yavanna** : 

No? 

**Beren** : 

Like you just said, _dangers_. I was right. I knew what I was talking about, and she didn't. 

**Yavanna** : 

You really think that? 

**Beren** : 

Well, _yeah_ \-- I was the one who'd lived through an invasion, not her, and I'd actually dealt with Morgoth's people, not her, and she just didn't understand what she was getting into. 

**Yavanna** : 

Even after she pulled you out of your grave? 

[very dry] 

How _stupid_ do you think she is, now? 

[he starts to say something, then stops] 

When someone's risked life and limb and endured hardship, captivity, and no end of unpleasantness, including immediate danger of death, and _still_ won't be dissuaded from the chosen course -- one might call such an individual any number of things, but _ignorant of the risks_ doesn't seem like one of them, does it? 

[Beren wraps his arms around his knees, curled up in a defensive tight knot, staring out at the distant Pass and the City below it.] 

**Beren** : 

So was I supposed to be happy about the idea of her getting killed or caught? 

**Yavanna** : 

Those weren't your only alternatives, though. 

[he ducks his head] 

**Beren** : [gruff]

That wasn't all of it. 

**Yavanna** : 

No. That wasn't the real problem. 

[pause] 

Do you understand what was, now? 

**Beren** : [dryly sarcastic]

The fact that I gave my word to King Thingol? 

**Yavanna** : 

You're using one problem to hide from the other. _Still_. 

**Beren** : [suspiciously]

What do you mean? 

**Yavanna** : 

Why you couldn't even let yourself consider the suggestion that you two could find a place distant enough and make a life together on your own terms? It's true, there were a lot of strong words uttered about the Silmarils, not yours alone, all of which were echoing in the world and having their effect -- but Doom alone doesn't explain what it was that caused you to resist that temptation so ferociously. 

[he snorts] 

**Beren** : 

It wouldn't have been right. I didn't have anything to offer her. A landless vagabond? What kind of a life would that have been for her-- 

**Yavanna** : [cutting him off]

\-- _You_ lived quite happily in the woods, without any roof or walls, without a fixed home or material possessions, beyond what gear you carried, and never missed any of that. So why not again? 

**Beren** : 

Me, yeah -- but not for Tinuviel. 

**Yavanna** : 

Why not? 

**Beren** : [disbelieving]

Why not? Why not?! Because -- because it wouldn't have been _right_. I keep saying this, like I told her, it isn't right for her to be living like a homeless refugee out in the middle of _nowhere_ , in rags, no shoes, no jewelry, nothing for comfort or convenience about her, not when she's a princess, not with no hope of ever going back to civilization, and all because of me. 

**Yavanna** : 

Dear one, she's an _Elf_. 

**Beren** : 

And? 

**Yavanna** : [patient, but a little frustrated too]

Luthien Tinuviel was conceived and born beneath the Stars when the world was still young, the child of bold wanderers and a wandering people. It's hardly been any time at all, comparatively speaking, that the Eldar of Middle-earth have settled down -- in so far as they have. Building permanent structures and staying in them year round is really a very foreign idea -- as  you ought to have recognized on oyour own. 

**Beren** : 

Not for us. It's -- not the same. A Man can't just live like a nomad with no home, no job, no kin and no land and take on the responsibility of a family, not and have any respect for himself. It isn't _proper_. 

**Yavanna** : 

You left the world of mortal Men behind long ago. Even before you left your mountains, you guarded your folk not as a prince among people but as a hound against wolves, apart from them, no longer joined to them in speech or dwelling. And then you entered _her_ realm -- the only one of your kind to do so -- and lived there according to the laws of that land -- the ways of the wood, not the customs of your people. Don't you think it's a little late to be insisting on human traditions now? 

[he glowers at the horizon] 

**Beren** : 

I can't help the way I was raised. 

**Yavanna** : 

Place her, then, in the picture in your mind, that happy human ending you resisted, too -- the square-built hall in the midst of ploughed fields, the fenced pastures, the flat road cut in the hill, the dooryard with its gate, the water tidily kept to well and trough, the day with its tasks for every hour, for every thing its proper place. And now here is Melian's daughter, amidst all those ordered lines, and the set times in their seasons. Where are there tall trees for her to climb and sing to, in that tilled mortal vale with its orchards? Is it customary for the lord's wife to dance alone at midnight under the moon, among Men? Or not? She whom you named "Nightingale" -- you'd have _properly_ held in a wooden cage? 

[he winces, closing his eyes] 

**Beren** : [tight]

I don't want her to suffer because of me. 

**Yavanna** : 

Too late for that. 

[very gently] 

It always was. Just as there was no way that you could not have suffered for your friend's war. The choices that led to the one, as to that other, were made long before, and by others than yourself. And you cannot change who loves you. 

[still serious] 

But you're free, now, for ill, _and_ good, of all that came before. You might want to think about that, and what follows from it. 

[pause] 

**Beren** : 

Yeah, but I'm dead, too. 

**Yavanna** : 

There is that. 

[another hawk circles into view, and stoops, much closer, to one of the vole- like animals in the grass on the hill -- but misses as the rodent dives successfully into a hole, and has to brake hard and stroke harder to avoid colliding with the ground and regain scanning height] 

**Beren** : [jolted out of his dark mood]

Did you _see_ that? How his wings twisted all the way around so that he was actually flying _backwards_ for a second there while his momentum was still carrying him forward like an arrow? Swans do that too when they're landing, they stand up like that and keep on skidding forward only it's through the water-- 

[he makes a sharp cutting motion with his hand] 

And did you hear the _sound_ they made? Just like a sword blade going through the air. There was this one nesting pair I used to watch on the cliffs back home, and they did the wildest thing -- they were the big dark ones without bands, you know that kind -- when one of them was bringing prey back to the ledge, the other one would take off, and come flying out, and turn upside down and the first one would drop the meat and the other one would catch it in mid-air -- upside-down! -- and take it to the fledglings so its mate could go out and hunt some more, it was the craziest thing you ever saw, I don't know why they did it-- 

[checking] 

\--unless it was just for fun, the way we throw things for no real reason instead of carrying them over to each other, 'cause it isn't really easier, but -- and they make this funny call when they're talking to each other up close, not a scream, but kind of like a magpie almost, sort of barking: 

chak-chak-- 

[as the camera pulls back he is still gesturing animatedly in augmentation of his description of raptors. . .] 


	140. Act 4: SCENE V.xxix

[the Hall. Aredhel has gone back to playing "catch" with her dagger though it's a toss-up which looks more dangerous, the blade or her expression, as she affects to ignore the rest of the group. Eol gives her worried glances from time to time. Nerdanel has regained her composure, though still showing emotional strain; but the former Lord Warden to her sons is staring gloomily off into the dimness with the same abstracted, no-avenue-of-escape expression that the Steward is wearing. Everyone else is attending without any demurral] 

**Captain** : [too incensed for formality]

So you flattened the Lord of Wolves as if he were no more than an angry goose, ripped open a stone fortress that took decades to build as if it were a pinewood box, brought Barahirion back from a penetrating chest injury that would either have killed him or laid him out for weeks at best -- and he's _still_ telling you to go home because it's too dangerous for you? 

**Luthien** : 

Er . . . yes? 

**Captain** : [closing his eyes]

Oh, Beren, _Beren_ \--! 

[he shakes his head helplessly] 

**Luthien** : 

Well, he never actually saw any of that, he just knew it had happened, and that doesn't seem to be the same thing at all for humans. 

**Finrod** : 

That's very true. 

**Luthien** : 

But I simply refused to go home. I think perhaps he thought if we were close, I'd -- oh, give up, or perhaps get so homesick that my resolve would weaken, but I just kept telling him that I wasn't leaving him, and then we'd fight over it some more. And then change the subject and ignore the problem for another day. So he waited until I finally fell asleep and sneaked off. --I hadn't thought that he would have been able to keep such a thing from me, that he could plan that and me not to have any notion what he was thinking until it was too late. 

**Finrod** : 

That _is_ how he survived the invasion and occupation of Dorthonion, though. 

**Luthien** : 

I know. And it is just like him, to try to rook out by himself and do things all on his own, rather than drag me into danger. It's just that he ought to have realized by this point in time that it wasn't going to work. 

[exasperated] 

I had to spend hours convincing Huan to take me after them, because the idiot had told him to _look after me_ , as if I were a child, and since he'd taken Horse it would have been useless for me to try to catch him again before it was too late, with or without Huan blocking me. It was only after I'd pointed out that if he didn't help me _now_ , then he might not as well have helped me the first time, because it would all have been for nothing, he should have just laid low in Nargothrond since he was going to let Beren die now, and _your_ sacrifice be wasted, and then he wouldn't have had to agonize over his duty or have Celegorm angry at him-- 

[Huan starts making distressed-dog noises, increasingly loudly, with troubled eyebrows] 

\--and everything would be fine as far as he was concerned, just like everyone in the City, or at home, feeling comfortable and justified in not doing anything-- 

[the Ambassador closes his eyes] 

\--and I was crying, and _he_ was crying, -- just like _that_ \-- trying to get me to stop talking about what would happen to Beren, once he was caught, and licking my feet, and finally I said that if he didn't take me to find him, he _wouldn't_ be keeping me safe at all, because I would get there eventually, just the same as before, alone if I must, and save him or die with him -- or after him. And then he lay down and let me climb on his back, and then we made up the distance of those hours, believe me! 

[patting the Hound hard on the shoulder] 

This time it was so much lighter that I had much more of a sense of how fast we were going -- and I'd already crossed the terrain, too -- and a forest fire couldn't have gone any quicker than we. But he still had a long lead on us, and Horse wasn't a pony, unfortunately. At first my hopes got up, though, only to be dashed down again, because Huan turned south for a bit, when we hit the Crossings again, and we went towards the Fortress -- where it used to be. 

**Finrod** : 

Why? 

**Luthien** : 

Well, I _thought_ it was because he was tracking him, and that Beren had gone there for personal reasons, the way he used to visit Lord Barahir's cairn before he was driven out-- 

[earnestly, giving him a concerned Look] 

\--That really wasn't your fault, you know. 

[the ex-King of Nargothrond nods, still looking grim] 

He doesn't blame you at all. 

[Finrod only nods again; she sighs, faintly exasperated] 

But it turned out that Huan had some things stashed there that he'd taken in the fighting and hidden away after, Enemy Workings that he'd a premonition might be useful some day, and we used them to reduce the risk of being spotted by any spies as we passed along the Nightshade again. 

**Aredhel** : [revealing that she is paying attention after all]

Are you really suggesting that in addition to the faculty of speech, that faithless Hound also possesses the power of Foresight _and_ is a sorcerer on top of that? 

**Luthien** : 

Well, he was right, about everything he said would happen, so I rather think he _does_ have the Sight. And he didn't _make_ the enchantment, it was just warfain spoils that we used to disguise ourselves. 

[the Noldor princess rolls her eyes in exaggerated tolerant disbelief; Huan sneezes suspiciously] 

**Finrod** : 

Then what happened? 

**Luthien** : 

We didn't run into any trouble this time, either, the area still seemed to be deserted -- for which I was extremely grateful -- on the dash upriver to the edge of the Battle Plain. We had a nice clear sky and a very bright moon, too, no haze at all with the frost that night, so I was able to see Beren long before he saw us, which was a _great_ relief to my mind -- and hear him too. He was making his death-song, in defiance of the Dark and in praise of Being, in the event of him not getting the chance to do so after, and naming me as the pinnacle of creation whose existence alone j ustified the Song. 

[with an uneven smile] 

It was very touching. And more than a little embarrassing. 

**Finrod** : [darkly]

It was also very _stupid_. Speaking of _you_ , out loud, in Enemy territory! 

**Luthien** : 

I know. I told him that, although I'm not sure if it sunk in, what with the shock of seeing us there at all. It was a few moments before he started believing the evidence of his own eyes, that it really was Huan and myself there, and not a hallucination or phantasm or just plain wishful thinking. 

**Finrod** : 

How did he take it? 

**Nerdanel** : [looking at him with a raised eyebrow]

Thou, that hath of Men the most long acquaintance, and might not foreguess? 

**Luthien** : 

He was pretty upset with us both. There were . . . _words_. On both sides. 

**Nerdanel** : [ironic]

Nay, surely belike not 

**Finrod** : 

_What_ words? 

[Luthien shrugs uncomfortably] 

Fair is fair. 

**Luthien** : [starting out diffidently, but increasingly heated]

Words like " _irresponsible_." --And " _fool_." And " _What the hell do you_ _think you're doing_?" and " _dereliction of duty"_ and "Do you honestly think _you're_ the only one who gets to risk your life for someone else and isn't it a bit _insulting_ to imply that I'm not capable of the same level of loyalty, and would you take me more seriously if _I'd_ sworn some kind of an oath and-- 

**Huan** : 

[sharp bark] 

**Luthien** : 

Oh, all right, I'll stop. --Then Huan stepped in and _made_ him see reason. 

**Steward** : 

We _had_ heard something of the kind, indeed, -- but one does concede curiosity as to how he managed it. 

**Luthien** : [tossing her head]

Apparently hearing it from someone other than _me_ was enough to make it clear that "Luthien goes home and lives there contentedly for the rest of the world while Beren gets himself killed or captured on a solo mission to Angband" was _not_ one of the possible ends to our song -- though "Beren gets us both killed acting like an idiot" was a _distinct_ possibility, while "We both manage to retrieve a Silmaril and fulfill Dad's stupid condition" was a remote one, and it was up to him to pick which one of those it was going to be -- _if_ he wasn't going to reconcile his conscience to the obvious solution and treat my father's demand with all the respect it deserved-- 

[snorting] 

But _nooo_ , he couldn't do _that_ , so here we are. I mean, there we were. Trying to figure out how to break into the least-vulnerable, most heavily-guarded stronghold ever devised. 

**Youngest Ranger** : [gloomy aside]

\-- _Swarn_. 

**Luthien** : [sighing]

Yes, he is _that_. 

**Apprentice** : 

What does that mean? 

**Youngest Ranger** : 

Insanely stubborn. 

**Apprentice** : [dawning enlightenment]

Oh -- like _her_. 

[Finrod snorts and turns away hastily] 

**Luthien** : [indignant]

 _I'm_ not swarn! 

[deafening silence] 

I'm not unreasonable. 

**Finrod** : 

It  doesn't actually mean _irrational_ \-- even if they often go together. In itself, the root _squarno_ only means immovable, intransigent, -- stubborn. 

**Luthien** : 

But -- he wasn't talking about me-- 

[uncertain, to the Sindarin warrior] 

\-- _were_ you? 

[he nods apologetically] 

Oh. 

**Youngest Ranger** : [quickly]

 _And_ Beren. And the Hound. 

[she still looks hurt, though Huan only grins; earnestly:] 

Everyone says _we're_   swarn too, my Lady. 

[checking] 

Or they would, if they knew the word. 

**Finrod** : 

Luthien, if there's anybody in our family who _isn't_ swarn -- I've yet to meet them. 

[Eol nudges his wife with a sly grin] 

**Aredhel** : 

Oh, you're just as much included -- he's talking about _your_ connections, if you hadn't noticed. She's related to us through Elwe, remember? 

**Eol** : 

Shut up. 

**Aredhel** : 

You started it, you shut up. 

**Apprentice** : [nodding towards them, wickedly]

\--Swarn? 

**Youngest Ranger** : [solemn]

Aye, for sure, no questions there. 

[this undoes Luthien's mood, and she giggles; her elder cousin, not willing to try conclusions with her again, directs his lethal stare at his younger compatriot, who gazes back at him unfazed] 

You're not so fell as hell-fire, my lord Smith. --Nor so daunting as Dark gods. 

**Eol** : 

Noldor _lackey_. 

[the Youngest Ranger ignores him, but the Sea-Elf glares and frowns in concentration] 

**Ambassador** : [to no one in particular]

 _Some_ persons think far more highly of themselves than any circumstances would seem to justify. 

**Aredhel** : 

Oh, be quiet -- you're _nobody_ here. Not that you ever _were_ , Thirdling. 

[the Teler Maid, almost managing to look nonchalant, tosses something rounded but not quite spherical over her shoulder quickly, folding her hands again as it bounces into the contentious couple of ghosts] 

Where would a chestnut gall come from? --Which one of your loons is shying conkers about now, Ingold? --Or was it you? 

**Eol** : 

No, it's a snail-shell. Ah! 

[he exclaims sharply in dismay and drops it] 

Rather, I should say, one of those monstrous byproducts of Melian's meddling -- a demon-spiderling disguised as such. --The infernal creature _bit_ me. 

[its devisor smirks behind her braids] 

**Aredhel** : 

Don't be stupid -- it's only an ordinary hermit crab. 

[she picks the semblance of an arthropod up and flings it longhand into the waterfall while her husband's icy glare defies anyone to be amused] 

\-- _Who_ did that? 

[her eyes narrow at the Elf-maid and she snaps at Finarfin] 

Uncle, tell that brat to behave! 

**Finarfin** : [mild]

My jurisdiction extendeth not so far-- 

[aside] 

\--and most glad I am of't! -- 

[to Aredhel] 

\--beneath the fields and roads of Valinor, my kingship hath no sway, no more than in the upper airs. Moreover, my lady's servant oweth no obeisance to a Noldor lord, when she dwelleth not under's roof. Thou hadst more fitly made complaint unto thine aunt Earwen -- saving that thine and thy friends' your deeds of blood hath set such hap beyond thy reach. 

[eyes flashing, she turns angrily to his eldest son for recourse instead] 

**Aredhel** : 

Cousin, you _told_ her she had to behave -- so, are you going to ignore her rudeness when it suits you? 

**Finrod** : [sighing tolerantly]

Oh, well -- _very_ well. 

[he puts on a severe expression, and says sternly] 

\--That was _not_ a very grown-up thing to be doing, Maiwe. 

**Teler Maid** : [reasonable]

But I am not a _very_ grown-up Elf, Lord Ingold. 

[as he loses the battle to keep a straight face -- blandly] 

But still, 'tis less so, to do as those two have done, is that not so? 

**Aredhel** : 

Don't you mock me or mine, you imp, I'm the High King's daughter and you're-- 

**Elenwe** : [cutting her off]

Nay, thou art _unhoused_ , here, even the same as we -- though something more _fey_ , I deem, than many another present. 

**Aredhel** : [not missing a beat]

I don't know why my brother chose someone as _utterly useless_ as you. It's a good thing you died before we reached the other side -- you'd never have managed in the Old Country without someone to look after you. 

**Fingolfin** : 

'Feiniel! 

**Nerdanel** : [tightly]

'Tis well thou art immaterial spirit, girl, else I had rattled thy teeth well for so heartless a word! 

**Amarie** : 

Nay, wherefore surprise, that Kinslayer should speak even so coldly of kindred death? --No less than fate should bear her Doom upon consort's hands -- twain better matched were not, I think, e'er found beneath the stars! 

[as the White Lady and the Dark Elf get ready to argue (this time on the same side) Luthien interrupts] 

**Luthien** : 

Can you please not do this? I'm not Mom and I haven't her patience or talent for peaceweaving 

[although she doesn't raise her voice, the reminder is enough to quell disturbance for the moment] 

**Finrod** : [humorous aside]

No, but your own talent seems to work well enough. 

[looking around, daring anyone to challenge him] 

Please do go on -- if no one has any objections? No? No one? What a pity -- I was looking forward to seeing how you go about evicting someone again. 

[Luthien gives him a quelling Look] 

**Luthien** : 

I'm not doing it for your amusement or edification. 

**Finrod** : 

No? 

**Luthien** : 

No. 

**Finrod** : 

Oh, well. 

**Luthien** : [with another Look]

You're doing it again. 

**Finrod** : 

Oh, I'm so sorry -- I keep forgetting somehow. 

**Luthien** : 

Well, _stop_. 

**Finrod** : [reasonable]

But if I'm only succeeding in _annoying_ you, then it doesn't count. 

[she gives him what Beren has described, speaking of her father, as "the evil eyebrow"] 

**Luthien** : 

Don't forget I can See your intentions pretty clearly, little cousin. 

[their dry banter leaves most of their near relations (living or ghostly) rather disquieted, though not all] 

**Teler Maid** : [amazed aside]

They are even sillier than I! 

**Finarfin** : 

In truth, an one had undertake any thing, 'twere better still to do it full well. No less, then, in jesting, nay? 

[she smirks again at his gentle teasing, then freezes, remembering to look to the Steward, and his opinion -- but as before he is distracted and oblivious, leaving her frowning uncertainly, as she leans against Elenwe's shoulder for a little mothering -- then, equally suddenly, she looks over to where the Ex-Thrall is still trying to be as invisible as possible and still present. Her expression goes serious, but in a much more certain and thoughtful way . . .] 

**Finrod** : 

Well? 

**Luthien** : 

Well, Huan explained his plan to Beren, after laying out the alternatives, and then he scowled for a bit until I pointed out that it wasn't getting any safer the longer we stood there, and he agreed to go along with it. Not that he really had any alternative, except trying to hike across the Anfauglith without any disguises or defenses, and that was only acceptable so long as it was him doing it, not me. 

**Finrod** : 

\--Dare one ask what the revised plan for ah, _getting_ the Silmaril finally was? 

[aside] 

Probably one _ought_ not, given the way this has been going! 

**Luthien** : 

There wasn't anything very complicated about it. It was pretty simple, really, the way we planned it. 

**Finrod** : 

The way grabbing the enemy and beating him up was "simple"? 

**Luthien** : 

Well, that one actually went the way it was supposed to, pretty much. This one . . . did for a while. 

**Finrod** : 

So what was it? 

**Luthien** : 

You'll call me crazy again. 

**Finrod** : 

I pledge you I'll not. 

**Apprentice** : [bemused]

Why? It was. 

[at the resulting askance Looks, defensive] 

\--Well, it _was_. 

**Luthien** : 

No, no, the _crazy_ plan -- using the second word _very_ loosely -- was Beren's thinking he could make it across the desert on foot, with just a sword and a knife to defend himself with, and then get into the mountain without any disguises or anything. That isn't only my opinion, that was Huan's considered judgment as well. 

**Huan** : 

[forlorn whine] 

**Luthien** : 

_Huan's_ plan -- which really did work quite well, in spite of all the unforeseen circumstances -- was for us to pretend to be Enemy minions again, to slip past the defenses unawares-- 

[to Finrod] 

\--just like you, only more thoroughly disguised because it wasn't any of it illusion. Only he didn't have another wolfskin for himself, and it would have been _highly_ suspicious for him to have been there with us-- 

[snorting] 

\--it isn't as if we could have pretended we were arresting him, because there's no way he would have let himself be captured and herded in like an ox, especially by just Draugluin and me-- 

[there is a sudden exchange of shocked Looks among the Ten and their leader as comprehension sets in, hard; Finrod starts to speak, but doesn't get the chance] 

**Captain** : 

\--Wait. Wait, wait, _wait_ \-- you were _Wargs_?! 

**Luthien** : 

I wasn't. 

**Finrod** : 

But -- Beren _was_? 

**Luthien** : [shrugging]

Of course. How else could we have sneaked in past the guards? 

**Finrod** : 

But . . . 

[he breaks off, shaking his head] 

**Captain** : 

That explains some things that I was wondering about, actually. 

**Steward** : [meaningfully]

It does, doesn't it? 

**Warrior** : 

The whole business of hiding under Morgoth's chair -- and wanting to go for his ankle -- makes a lot more sense now. 

[nods all around] 

**Captain** : [wry]

I guess we didn't need to worry about teaching him about mental reservation after all. 

**Angrod** : [frowning]

Why would he have left that out? 

[his eldest brother only turns and gives him a level Look until he gets it and hides his face in mortification] 

\--Right. Forget that I asked that. 

**Finrod** : [to Luthien, in amazement]

How did he go through that and manage to stay sane? 

[Luthien stares at him] 

**Luthien** : 

You think Beren's sane? 

[long pause; even the Lord Warden pulls himself out of his gloom to stare at her with the rest] 

**Finrod** : [carefully, slowly]

You _don't_ think he is? 

**Luthien** : 

I love Beren more than life itself, but I would never, _ever_ call anyone who thinks "I have to go to Angband and get killed because otherwise your father will never approve of me" is a reasonable argument, _sane_. 

**Amarie** : [exclaiming involuntarily]

Yet thou didst join thy life with him the same? 

**Luthien** : 

Of course I married him. He's still Beren. 

[silence] 

**Steward** : 

Forgive my impertinence, my Lady, but -- are you sure you're not somewhat oversimplifying the argument? Surely it was not _quite_ so illogical. 

**Luthien** : [shaking her head]

No, I'm just leaving out about an hour or two's worth of getting from the first premise to the second. Believe me, you wouldn't want me to go through it all. 

[snorting] 

_I_ didn't want to, the first twenty-four times myself. Star and Water! the things he said. I -- oh! 

[getting more and more exasperated at the recollection] 

It got to the point where I just had to stop arguing with him, because to do so was to begin to admit that there was enough sense in the things he was saying to warrant a response. 

[Nerdanel nods in unconscious assent] 

I was getting pulled _right_ into the insanity of it with him, by trying to refute them. The stuff he came up with--! 

**Captain** : [rueful]

\--Like how he should have been killed and buried with his family? 

**Luthien** : 

Oh, you heard that one? _That_ actually made more sense than some of the others -- I mean, apart from how he could have made his own grave, but at least the point was that we'd never have met, but what about him telling me that it would have been _better for me_ if my father had had him killed right then and there in Menegroth when he first saw him? As if that wouldn't have traumatized me for all time! What do you _say_ to something like that? 

[angry sigh] 

So. Anyhow, we start out through the desert, and at first it isn't too bad, and it doesn't look so far, really, and we're thinking, "This is going to be workable" -- at least I was. I was imagining something along the lines of there being such a crowd there that we'd be able to blend in and not be noticed this time. 

[silence -- mistaking the cause] 

Look, I _know_ it was silly. I know that calling it a _plan_ is an exaggeration, and that if I'd had any real idea of Angband beyond trying to put together the things people had told me, I wouldn't have been able to even try to pull it off. And then where would we be? Dead a lot sooner, I guess. 

[shaking her head] 

_Beren's_ thoughts, I learned when we got there, were all along the lines of, "We're doomed, this is hopeless, we're both going to die," and variants thereof. I had my own problems though, which ended up taking his mind off the generalized anxieties and back to worrying about the specifics. When the sun came up, I couldn't fly any more. I tried. I thought -- silly me -- that I'd be immune to her power because I wasn't _really_ a vampire, and my real self could see and walk in daylight, so I'd surely be able to manage all right. Guess what -- it doesn't work that way. You take on the strengths of a bat-demon, you take on her weaknesses, too. I might have been able to keep flying by sheer willpower, for a little while, but I had no sense of direction and the pain in my eyes was much worse than just blindness. I had to come down, and I didn't dare change back -- it had taken so long to manage it the first time, I had no idea if I could control it out there, after all that, a second time. So he carried me. 

[rueful] 

I wasn't exactly walking straight, in all that baking sunlight, either. Or _crawling_ , rather. 

**Amarie** : 

Hold, pray -- thou didst _in truth_ fly upon the airs and winds? 

[from the expressions of most of those present, she is only giving voice to what they are all thinking] 

**Luthien** : 

Of course. There wouldn't have been much point in changing into a vampire otherwise. 

**Finrod** : 

_Flying_. 

**Luthien** : [bemused]

Beren really didn't tell you _any_ of this? 

**Finrod** : 

_I've_ been going hither and yon, annoying sundry gods-and-relations, and I've only caught bits and pieces, not in order, up to now. 

[he glances around inquiringly at his command] 

**Captain** : [raising his hands]

I suppose it was there in his story by implication -- _if_ you already knew it was there. 

**Nerdanel** : 

This tale groweth ever stranger in the telling! 

**Ambassador** : 

And ever more horrific. 

**Fingolfin** : 

Yet for that, the more _admirable_. 

[he alone is listening with the detatched appreciation of a connoisseur, someone who is not personally emotionally involved in the events of the narrative -- or, perhaps, the attentive critique of someone who has attempted the same adventure . . .] 

**Finrod** : [bemused]

So let me get this quite clear -- you disguised yourself as minions of the Dark Lord by actually _becoming_ minions of the Dark Lord, using werehides, so the illusion couldn't be pierced because there _wasn't_ any illusion involved, at all. And Beren was Draugluin's fetch, and you were one of the winged Messengers'. 

[nodding, Luthien makes a face of amused revulsion at the recollection] 

**Luthien** : [disgusted]

She had _ticks_ \--! 

[pause] 

I know that seems like a silly thing to care about, but-- 

**Finrod** : 

Heh. That's really quite brilliant. 

[Huan grins, panting, and wallops several people with his tail before recollecting himself] 

I don't think anyone else has ever done that before. 

[simultaneous]

 **Aegnor** : 

\--or lived to _tell_ about it, at least! **Angrod** : 

Who would _want_ to? 

[it's hard to tell if the Princes are more disgusted or appalled by the danger of it] 

**Aegnor** : 

_You dressed up in the skins of dead demons_ \--!? 

[Luthien nods] 

Cousin, that's _disgusting_! 

[clearly he isn't the only one to share such sentiments] 

**Luthien** : [sniffing haughtily]

You sound like my parents. That's what _they_ were thinking. 

**Angrod** : [trying not to offend worse]

You must admit, it is . . . a bit . . . 

**Aegnor** : [not caring]

\-- _Much_ more than a bit. 

**Finrod** : 

It's little different from what _I_ did to disguise us, after all. 

[both of his siblings give him the same askance Look] 

**Aegnor** : 

We're not thrilled about _that_ , either. 

**Angrod** : 

We try not to think about it, actually. 

[Finrod sighs] 

**Finrod** : [mock chagrin, to Luthien]

\--Stars, all those yeni and I _still_ can't get it right. Do you think I'll ever figure out how to behave like proper royalty and not disgrace my relatives? 

[the relatives in question look away in exasperated disgust] 

**Luthien** : [dry]

Not hanging around _me_ , you won't. Us. -- _Huan's_ the bad example, in this. 

**Finrod** : 

I'll bet _there's_ an excuse no one's tried on Lord Namo before -- blaming it on the _dog_ instead of my uncle. 

[he scratches the ears of said dog enthusiastically] 

**Apprentice** : 

Hm . . . I'll have to check, but I don't _think_ so. 

[entirely failing to repress a mischievous grin] 

I'd like to be there for that, when it happens . . . ! 

[the Captain gives him a sidelong glance] 

**Captain** : 

Better you than me. 

**Apprentice** : 

Oh, come on -- where's your sense of adventure? 

**Captain** : 

I may be crazy, but I'm not insane. --Or vice versa, if you'd rather. 

**Luthien** : 

Huan hasn't encouraged anyone to do anything _wrong_ , though-- 

**Aegnor** : [snorting]

Just _dumb_. 

[the Hound gives him a reproachful Look] 

**Huan** : 

[sharp scolding bark] 

[coming to some personal decision, the Sea-elf stops looking across at where the former Healer is lurking and leaving Elenwe's side, edges quietly over the dais to crouch beside the Ex-Thrall instead; after only a momentary hesitation she reaches out and pushes back the concealing hood, looking soberly at the other Elf's face as the latter flinches, recoiling from being seen, and grabbing too late at the slipping material.] 

**Ex-Thrall** : [through clenched teeth]

What do you want of me -- else? I have no more to give. 

**Teler Maid** : [reasonable]

Your King did mind me that, what one would do, do _well_ , even in making merry-- 

**Ex-Thrall** : [cutting her off]

 _My_ King is -- _not here_. 

**Teler Maid** : 

Hush! I have been kind to you but by _half_ -measures, and I mean to make amends. 

[she takes a small ornamental comb from her sashes and starts to untangle the Noldor lady's matted hair. The other woman pulls the lent cloak even tighter around her, bending her head so that her face is hidden against her knees, but does not resist nor vanish. Her shoulders begin to shake, though if she is crying it is too quiet to be heard. The Teler Maid does not either notice, or look for, the approving expressions directed her way by those who notice her action.] 

**Nerdanel** : [quietly]

Methinks the airs of this chill hall are grown something less in coldness. 

**Luthien** : [taking her literally]

Really? I can't tell. It doesn't bother me. --Which wasn't the case on that trek. Morgoth's creatures are hardy, but still -- bats aren't meant to be alone when they sleep, not even giant blood-drinking monster bats. Nor stuck on the ground. I was freezing, and terrified, and I think I  might be a little bit agoraphobic, anyway -- it felt so wrong, with so  much _open_ around me, and no trees, no shade nor rocks nor even dells of any significance to make the land more homely. It felt like I was being _watched_ all the time. 

**Finrod** : 

Well, that's reasonable -- Thangorodrim looming over the horizon and all. You probably _were_. 

**Luthien** : 

Yes, but I don't like being in the middle of flat empty spaces, with no cover, I've decided. Some of that might have been the bat, though. 

**Finrod** : 

Cover . . . can be deceptive. 

[the Steward makes a short sound of amusement, showing that he is paying some attention despite his distracted air] 

But that's an entirely normal feeling in the middle of a war zone. And you probably are somewhat of an agoraphobe, given that you've spent in the wooded hills of Beleriand longer than I've been alive. -- _Was_ alive. --Sorry, Father. I'm not trying to make anyone presently-incarnate uncomfortable. 

**Finarfin** : 

Even thus I ken: thou hadst been far more skillful to it, were't so. 

[they share a swift, intimate smile, like a secret joke between them; the Princes' expression is both jealous and yearning, and tinged with resigned comprehension, as they watch the interplay between father and eldest son] 

**Elenwe** : [trying to gently steer the discussion back on topic]

Thou didst 'gin to speak of thy sojourn upon the cold and welcomeless desert, Nightingale--? 

[she shivers unconsciously as she says the word "cold" and her lightweight dress is replaced again by the heavy furs of the Helcaraxe] 

**Youngest Ranger** : [puzzled aside]

Isn't it rude for her to use Beren's name for the Princess without asking permission? 

**Warrior** : 

No, it's all right -- she's Vanyar. 

**Youngest Ranger** : 

I don't follow. 

**Aredhel** : 

Don't you know, little Avar? The _Deep-elves_ can do no wrong. 

**Youngest Ranger** : [ignoring her]

Or is that something else done different here, is all? 

**Luthien** : [quickly]

No, it's all right,  I don't mind -- I _wanted_ people to recognize that we were for real, while we were alive. 

**Warrior** : 

See? 

[the Youngest Ranger thinks about it for a second -- then shakes his head] 

**Elenwe** : [simply]

For my folk, a certain gift of _perceiving_ , rather than of devising, is most commonly held, and in such wise I did discern her will, and wish, and 'tis less light a matter here to conceal aught one kenneth, that in the world Without might elsewise secret rest in mind -- e'en thou hast belike remarked ere now. 

[thoughtfully] 

\--Else haply _not_ , for thine unshadowed purity, nor soughtest yet thine own self's thought for to belie. 

[this polite explanation, being direct address, leaves its recipient speechless, and mortified at the attention he has drawn on himself] 

Alas, I fear I shall have robbed thee of thy words. 

**Second Guard** : 

Not your fault, milady -- Valinoreans daunt him. 

[casting a wry sympathetic glance at his friend] 

\--Excessively. 

**Elenwe** : [frowning, bemused]

Even unto myself? 

**Warrior** : [shoving him gently on the shoulder]

\--At least he hasn't vanished yet of pure mortification. 

[the Sindarin youth hunkers down, glowering at his comrades with that degree of exasperation reserved expressly for teasing-by-nearest-and-dearest, -- and then gives up, and gives Turgon's consort a dazzling smile, laughing at himself the while:] 

**Youngest Ranger** : 

Aye, lady most deep-minded -- for what could I say that hasn't been said before? I see now that mine elders' word was but a Foretelling, that's now shown forth in this our time, all of the beauty that _you_ so well-named do master-- 

[he bows his head to her] 

\-- _Ele_ nwe-- 

[putting the emphasis on the first two syllables. There is a murmur of impressed approval from his companions, and the Vanyar shade puts her fingers against her lips, blinking:] 

**Elenwe** So much as I had whelmed thee, thou hast doubly 'turned upon myself! 

[holding out her empty hand, then closing it as if over a jewel] 

Thy benison I'll treasure, gentle heart, in memory for aye. 

**Steward** : 

Truly, 'tis most worthy of it; I could have crafted no fairer of a compliment, upon such notice. 

[though still a little embarrassed, the Youngest Ranger reconciles himself to being occasionally of interest to other persons, without his prior crippling self-consciousness] 

**Elenwe** : 

We spake of winter -- but lo, 'tis fair summer now!-- 

[as she speaks, still smiling in a somewhat flustered way, her arctic furs shift back to the filmy Valinorean styles] 

\--and how _didst_ thou endure thine own hardship, or needst but to _endure_ , or madst recourse upon thy greater powers? 

**Luthien** : 

No, I wasn't sure how, and I didn't really dare try, not in the middle of Morgoth's dancing-lawn, so to speak. 

[smiling wistfully] 

Beren was so sweet, curling up around me to keep me warm whenever we rested and letting me ride on his back when it was still too bright out for me to move on my own. 

[grimacing] 

\--Which can't have been very comfortable for him, with those wretched iron wing-claws. 

**Aegnor** : [taut]

If he'd really cared about you, he wouldn't have proceeded onward at all. 

**Luthien** : [ignoring his comment]

It just-- 

[the living High King interrupts, too intrigued by something she just said to be formal about it] 

**Finarfin** : 

_Iron_ claws, thou didst say -- else iron-hard, surely? 

**Luthien** : 

Nope, definitely metal. 

[crooking her fingers in a reminiscent gesture] 

**Finarfin** : 

Yet how might such a being fashion arms nor armour unto itself? Or were they but given by the Dark Lord, so to be taken by good Huan in his turn withal? 

**Luthien** N--no, just -- _claws_. Grown claws. 

[Finarfin still looks dubious] 

**Nerdanel** : 

I confess no more might I comprehend the how of it. 

**Luthien** : 

. . . 

**Finrod** : [lecturing]

The winged messengers of the Enemy aren't just scaled-up bat bodies infused with rogue Ainur, any more than his Wolves are just wolves. They've all been considerably enhanced in terms of intelligence, sensory perception, endurance and defenses. 

[the Elves of Aman look doubtful, not quite disbelieving, but scientific credibility definitely strained, while those of Beleriand look a bit taken aback at having to think about something so long taken for granted] 

**Angrod** They're not something you want to tangle with on a midnight patrol, nor encounter if you're a lone sentry, that's certain. 

**Finrod** : 

Though it might be partly explainable, without shedding any light on the actual process, by the fact that he's made them haemophagic. The concentration of iron might be necessary to support whatever system it is that rebuilds the chitin-equivalent and what better way to supply it? Most efficient, at least. 

[curious aside] 

\--I wonder if they could eat red clay, in a pinch . . . 

[pause] 

**Aredhel** : 

Ingold, that's really disgusting. Even for you. 

**Finrod** : 

What? I didn't _invent_ them. It only makes sense that-- 

[the Ex-Thrall rouses from her unmoving submission to the Sea-elf's ministrations enough to clamp her hands over her ears] 

**Aredhel** : 

Yes, but most people don't talk about such monstrosities in public. 

**Aegnor** : 

Like your ideas about his other minions--! 

**Finrod** : 

What? I only said-- 

**Aredhel** : [sniffing]

Someone civilized _wouldn't_. 

**Teler Maid** : [loudly and impatiently saying what his living relatives are wondering]

 _What_ is disgusting? What do you speak of amongst yourselves? 

**Finrod** : 

Bloodthirsty cannibalistic mutants of various sorts. 

**Teler Maid** : [bemused and impatient]

But of course they are. 

[shaking her head] 

And _who_ is making interruption in the story-telling now, I do wonder? 

[she goes back to braiding the other woman's hair, her expression smug, while her friends and acquaintances react to her set-down, variously amused or annoyed. Finrod bows a little to Luthien, gesturing for her to resume] 

**Luthien** : 

Anyway, it went on and on -- it seemed so much farther than it really was, as if we were trying to get through the Enemy's version of Mom's labyrinth, and the peaks never getting any closer. At least when it was dark I could circle overhead and look for the best routes and watch for any dangers . . . though everything was so quiet it seemed unnatural at the time -- less natural, though it made sense later -- at least until we hit the road-- 

[this last word creates almost as much surprise among the royal veterans of the Leaguer as all previous -- Finrod interrupts with a puzzled looks] 

**Finrod** : 

_What_ road? 

**Luthien** : [equally confused]

The road going into Angband? 

[clearly this isn't clarifying anything] 

The raised path sort-of-a-thing that goes over the rough bits leading up to the gates of the Hells of Iron? 

[looking around at them for reassurance] 

All piled-up blocks of black rock and rubble scraped together and packed down for leagues out into the desert? 

**Finrod** : 

That wasn't there before, I assure you. 

**Fourth Guard** : [quiet aside]

Beren mentioned it in passing, Sir, while you were elsewhere. 

**Fingolfin** : [snorting]

He's been a busy god of late. 

**Eol** : 

Ten years is _plenty_ of time to build a causeway. 

**Finrod** : 

Oh no, surely not. 

[ticking off on his fingers] 

There's the surveying, the digging-out and levelling, the rough cutting and transport of the blocks, the crushing and tamping of fill, the calculation of camber on-site after settling and the fine-cutting-- 

**Fingolfin** : 

Moreover, you must reckon in at least half the year as unsuitable time for the work, between the winter, the spring sowing, and the fall reaping. 

**Soldier** : [humorous aside]

Don't forget the spring mud. 

**Fourth Guard** : 

And the autumn mud, too. 

**Finrod** : 

And the consequent need to engineer diversionary drainage on a temporary basis. 

[to Eol] 

You see, there's this little problem called "weather" that one has to deal with aboveground. All that's going to add up,-- 

**Aredhel** : [interrupting, officious]

What my brother did in Gondolin was-- 

**Finrod** : 

  --no matter how efficiently one organizes the processes into overlapping tiers-- 

[as they are all talking at once] 

**Luthien** : 

It wasn't a very _good_ road, though, not in my admittedly-uninformed judgment. --They're not listening to me. 

**Angrod** : 

Well, depending on whether it's basalt or tufa, volcanic rock . . . 

[Finrod's living relatives and those of the Ten not involved in the building discussion share sympathetic, but knowing, Looks with Luthien. The Teler Maid only rolls her eyes.] 

**Captain** : 

It's the Mad Architects Counsel -- and convened here they needn't even break for meals. They _might_ recess next Great Year, unless you cut them short, Highness. 

[Luthien sighs, smiling] 

**Eol** : 

You wouldn't waste so much time if you'd do all the cutting in one stage, at the quarry, instead of breaking it into two operations. 

[Fingolfin gives him a cold look, but does not deign to speak to his uxoricidal son-in-law] 

**Finrod** : 

That doesn't work, the way it does in Belegost, because of the uncontrolled freeze-thaw conditions and saturation levels aboveground. If you try to calculate expansion joints and levels exactly before you bring the stone to the site, you're going to end up doing an awful lot of work over again. 

**Eol** : [snide]

I _suspect_ it's a matter of not calculating carefully enough. 

**Angrod** : 

So tell me -- kinsman -- how do _you_ calculate chaos to the precise degree? 

**Finrod** : 

Of course, you're all forgetting the most important factor -- how _long_ is this road to be? 

**Fingolfin** : [bland]

Nay, and I thought that was what we were speaking of. 

**Aglon** : [loudly]

No -- the point you're _forgetting_ is that the Lord of Fetters doesn't need to worry about his workers having to get back to their own lives seasonally. 

[long silence] 

**Luthien** : 

\--As I was saying, it was mostly a built-up path going through the rougher terrain the closer you get to Thangorodrim. It wasn't like the roads you've described back home in Tirion at all. Beren found us a nice hole in amongst the foundations where we could den, and we tried to think about other things, which you wouldn't have thought possible, out in that wasteland, but somehow it was easy to think about Neldoreth and the moonlight on the leaves there and how perfect everything was . . . 

[sighing] 

Even if perhaps it wasn't really as quite as perfect as we remembered it, because nothing could be _that_ perfect. And it turned out to be lucky for us that we had given in and taken a break from traveling, even if Beren didn't really want to, because we were woken up by what we thought was an earthquake, only it didn't feel right, and it didn't stop. The vibrations got louder and louder, and then we realized that it was coming closer, instead, and we had to just lurk there, absolutely terrified, while what turned out to be a small army marched past just above us, really, and we had to wait there in the clouds of dust they raised, not moving while the ground shook and little rocks rolled down and fiery whips cracked not a bowshot from us, praying that no one would notice us and trying not to move, or even sneeze, lest some enemy hear it. And then eventually it all rolled away like a thunderstorm, only more nerve-wracking of course, and we finally got up the courage to crawl out and go the opposite way from the way they were going. 

**Fingolfin** : [somber]

To make havoc for my eldest, undoubtedly. 

[trying to cheer himself up] 

Still, we built our defenses to withstand any horde of rabble, and Fingon surely has the skill and power alike to handle whatever casts our foe should toss at him. 

**Luthien** : [being tactful]

Well, he has managed to do quite well so far, we hear. 

**Second Guard** : [bleak aside]

It isn't just a matter of _walls_. 

**Luthien** : 

It was already starting to get late -- not dark, but dark enough for me to fly, and we made pretty good time along that nice flat pathway, but the last bit, when it really was Thangorodrim, right there, looming over us like a stand of trees, was harder to cross than all the rest of it together. Walking up to the gateway, through that fore-court area, with the cliffs leaning in on either side and vultures looking down on us from the peaks-- 

[she shivers] 

And then there were all these _holes_ sort of randomly all over the ground -- they didn't look deep enough or -- purposeful enough, really -- to be any sort of a mine, I thought, but I'm not sure what they did look like. I can't think of anything to compare them to, and . . . 

[doubtfully, looking at Fingolfin] 

Beren said, after it was all over -- well not completely after, because we were still alive then -- that they were left over from your battle with Morgoth, Sire -- but I didn't see how that could be, because of the size of them -- 

[not really hopeful] 

He wasn't just -- guessing, was he? 

[the late High King shakes his head. His brother looks at him worriedly, but Finwe's second son does not seem particularly troubled by the reminder of his duel. Luthien sighs.] 

I was afraid he wasn't. --We never saw Grond, in our visit. 

**Fingolfin** : 

Be grateful for that, Highness. 

**Luthien** : 

Oh, I _am_. What we did see was bad enough. We were _expecting_ to see guards at the exit, maybe changing guard, maybe moving prisoners, so that we could slip in in all that busyness -- but there were no Orcs there at all. There was just a big shadow in the middle of all the shadows. It looked like someone just shoveled up a hill of gray ash into the middle of the gate, like that story of Beren's about the family in one village that kept dumping their barn shovelings out into the common paths, less for laziness than sheer orneryness, but I could sense _mind_ in it all, though that didn't seem possible -- and then it _moved_ , and stretched and looked at us and we saw these eyes glowing like coals in the shadows of the arch, and we could tell it was a Warg of some sort, lying there with its head down before. 

[Huan snarls] 

And Beren says, "What the hell's _that_?! We're doomed--" And then he gives himself a little shake and says, in this weird almost-cheerful way, "But, hey, -- we knew _that_ already." So we go on up, figuring we'll try to brazen it through the way we planned when we figured it would just be Orcs on guard, and they wouldn't dare to interfere with an Elite commander or a special courier . . . though Beren _did_ point out helpfully that that hadn't gone very well last time, either. 

**Fourth Guard** : [shaking his head]

Now we have to think about this part all over again -- none of it was the way we envisioned it at all. 

**Luthien** : [ruefully]

It wasn't how _we'd_ envisioned it, either. The closer we got, the more frightened I got -- he was so . . . so . . . 

[she shakes her head, at a loss for words] 

**Huan** : 

[prolonged growls] 

**Ranger** : 

_That_ part Beren managed to convey pretty vividly. He called the beast Carcharoth. 

**Luthien** : 

That's the abridged translation of his name from Old High Demonic -- what he thought of himself as. The whole of it would go something like "I Of The Blood-Stained Jaws, Whose Teeth Are As Knives, Eater of Elves And Men, Terror Of Orcs, Biter Of Balrogs, Who Fears Not The Sun, Who Guards The Great King's Gate By Day And By Night"-- 

**Finrod** : [snorting]

Humble fellow. 

**Luthien** : [teasingly]

So says the "Fair-Haired Hero." 

**Finrod** : [dignified]

That wasn't my fault. 

[Luthien tugs on one of his braids, smiling. His Western relatives give him curious Looks, and he sighs] 

That's how they heard my name Overseas. 

**Aredhel** : 

You didn't try very hard to very hard to correct _that_ mistake. 

[the Princes give their cousin a chill Look, but choose the better part of valor for the present] 

**Finrod** : [not upset]

It . . . wasn't really possible. 

[with a wry look at his elders] 

We didn't at first realize the difference of ideas went further than mere pronunciation. And then -- it was -- difficult, or rather impossible, for most people to hear my name -- or say, Fingon's name, and-- 

[gesturing frustratedly] 

It ended up going in circles, trying to explain that I heard my name as "he of Finwe's heirs who strives to excel" when on the other side of the tangle,  there were those who had gleaned some of our language and assumed it meant "artisan in metals" and instead I tell them that our fathers had named us in honour of qualities we had, or they hoped we'd have, and everyone says, "Well, yes, of course" -- 

[with a quirk of a smile] 

I couldn't very well _deny_ that I was a decent smith, nor that it was something highly valued among my people, and then . . . there's this little problem that "arato" and "arod" are two of those words that haven't diverged much since the Departure, and well, when I tried to correct them on the other part people just asked me if my grandfather hadn't had beautiful hair himself. Or Fingon trying to sort people out on what the difference is between "leader" and "that chap shouting orders" -- it gets very abstruse very quickly, and at the end one is even less sure that the equation is _wrong_ , exactly. --It's like one of those woven designs that turns out to be all one line, or where it's two isn't where you expect it to be broken. 

[shrugging] 

As long as the people trying to get my attention know which one of us they're looking for, and I know whose attention they're trying to get by it, the construction they and I place, or which of several possible connotations might be intended, doesn't seem to make much of a difference in practical terms. Though "Hey you!" works pretty well in the short term -- far better in some situations than "Your Majesty," I've got to say. 

[he and his father share another quick grin, while Amarie deliberately closes her eyes and turns her face away from their camaraderie.] 

**Nerdanel** : [primly]

It seemeth a most _slovenly_ heedlessness ye have fallen upon, concerning so great a matter as _names_. 

**Fingolfin** : [genial]

\--"Bunch of slackers, that's us." 

[to Finrod] 

I never did understand that jest of my own Men, as it seemed so -- _unmeaning_ , -- but it does make sense, in a very contextual way, as I now perceive. 

**Elenwe** : [bemused]

Perchance to _thee_ , sir. 

**Luthien** : [to Finrod]

People just called you names wherever you went, anyhow. --That didn't sound right. 

**Captain** : 

Hanging around Barahirion too long does that, I'm afraid, my Lady. Eventually, no one will understand a word you say, and they'll be offended by them all. 

**Luthien** : 

\--That does sound rather like Dad and Beren, come to think of it. 

[shaking her head resignedly] 

So. I was terrified, and it wasn't just _me_ , it was the fiend I'd been -- 

[checks] 

\--no, that isn't right -- 

[shrugging] 

\--close enough, I guess -- _she_ didn't like this at all, even though Thuringwethil didn't have any memories of this particular Warg, it was more a general thing, that they were all hulking oafs who despised vampires as sneaking cowards -- never _mind_ how we could win an open fight with our claws on our wings and not able to move quickly once out of the air -- and went out of their way to crowd us and tear our membranes, or even kill us if they were bad-humoured enough -- even if they did get in trouble for wasting a body and the cost of replacing it was usually taken out of their hide. But this one was clearly too big to care much about being punished, and as for bad-temper--! 

[she shudders, her expression both of remembered fear and resentment] 

For Beren, however, there _was_ recognition, because Draugluin had known all the packs and their litters and which were promising and which should be killed as runts, in the old days. --Of a sort. This individual was just a _little_ bit larger than last time the Wolf-Commander had seen him. But he just kept on plowing straight through, even though _I_ was only going on because he was, and if I hadn't I'd have been left out in the open, with this ears-back attitude of being tired and frustrated and angry with everything and not something any sane being would want to mess around with, -- which wasn't an act at all, and trots straight on up as though he expected it to be open for him and any idiots to get out of his way, quickly. And when Carcharoth doesn't move, Beren stops, and gives him this Look-- 

[leaning forward in an ominous pose, jaw squared, her expression steely and contemptuous in recollection] 

\--and he's a most unhappy wolf, is our boy Carcharoth, he's not at all pleased at the thought of being Second now, you could just see it all in his hackles and his ears, and he snarls, "Well, Granddad, you're looking pretty _mangy_ these days. But I guess that's not so bad -- considering you're supposed to be _dead!_ Didn't the Hound tear your throat out? Or did you turn tail and run and let everyone think you'd met a true warrior's fate -- just like your boss ran for it, so we heard. What's the _real_ story, old wolf?" 

And Beren just shows him a fang or two and snarls, "You stupid overfed puppy! What are they _doing_ , putting a wet-eared cub like you on duty? I've got fresh news from the Terrible and _you're_ going to keep _me_ here 'till it rots, are you? _Right_. --You get out of my way _now_ and let me deliver it, or else get your tail downslope and do it instead, _whelp_." 

And they just _stand_ there, fur all on end, glaring at each other with teeth just barely open, and Carcharoth's trying to make himself look bigger by leaning over -- not that he needed to! and Beren keeps looking at him as if he's the most pathetic excuse for a Werewolf he's ever seen, and _really_ now! not moving a muscle, not saying anything, just _waiting_ \-- and then Carcharoth looks away. 

**Ambassador** : [aside, shaking his head]

No, I cannot believe this. _Nothing_ could have been able to intimidate that beast, certainly not a-- 

[catches himself guiltily] 

\--single individual. 

[his Princess gives him a chilly Look -- she isn't fooled by his save] 

**Luthien** : 

Beren was very intimidating right then. I _fully_ understood the stories about the search parties sent out to arrest him going the other way rather than risk finding him. 

**Captain** : [cautiously]

So . . . it wasn't all the Wolf getting in Beren's face and terrorizing him while he cast about for an escape? 

**Luthien** : 

Oh no. He was _magnificent_ , playing the part of the senior Werewolf officer to the hilt, all stillness and menace like a sheathed sword, as though he didn't need to brag about his strength, he _knew_ he was the best, in spite of the dust on his coat and the tiredness showing in his tail -- as if he regularly ripped out idiots' throats and chewed up half-grown cubs for breakfast, all the time. 

[checks] 

Which might not have been acting, completely, either, I guess. Since that is what he did, in his own way, fighting the Wolflord's squadrons. 

[the Ten share knowing glances and nods] 

Why? Did he make it sound as though he was just sort, oh, of happening by? 

[she gives an exasperated smile] 

I shouldn't be surprised, the way he was so effacing about his victories in Dorthonion. No, he was wonderful. I was so scared I couldn't even click. 

[this gets some bemused glances] 

\--That's how bats express hostility. It sounds a bit like hissing, only different. I was just trying to be as unobtrusive as possible, and blend into the shadows, while Beren did all the talking. Unfortunately it didn't work, because when he backed down from confronting Beren he needed some way of feeling like he was still a big, tough Werewolf, not a jumped-up little punk who hadn't earned his scars -- so he started in on me instead. 

"Oh, what's that, scuttling by your paw -- a bug? No, it's a flying rat!" Then he circles closer, panting at me, "I hate you nasty little creepers! What are you doing here, spy? Give me your report, and maybe I'll just break your back instead of breaking your wings and let you crawl--" 

[she pokes Huan to make him stop growling] 

By that point I was scooting all the way under to Beren's other side, trying to keep his foreleg between us, trying to not start screaming like a fool at the Dark aura of this stupid, stupid, _stupid_ bully, who didn't know or care what I was, just ready to kill me because I was _there_ , and he was irritated, and I was weak -- wondering what I could possibly do to escape if he did attack me, with these silly little pins that wouldn't even have scratched him more than a gadfly's bite-- 

[shrinking back in a dramatic reenactment] 

\--and then he stops and tilts his head, and starts _sniffing_ , and growling, and his hackles went up again and I knew that somehow, even though it shouldn't have been possible, he'd recognized me. Or at least recognized something not-vampire. He looks at me, and then at Beren, wrinkling up his forehead, and he snarls, "Who _are_ you people? Something's not right!" and he tries to sidestep Beren and get at me again. 

[with a defensive motion of her arm] 

And Beren pushes his way forward, blocking Carcharoth with his shoulders, his ears laid all the way back, all his teeth showing, and his eyes blazing like green torches -- no half-serious shoving for precedence going on now, they're getting ready to _fight_ , and the only reason he hasn't charged the brute is that he knows he's only going to get one chance, and the only reason Carcharoth hasn't attacked is that he's worried enough to think that he might be wrong, and also that not-Draugluin might have a chance, even if it seems absurd, because he's acting so confident. 

[wide-eyed, 

So there's Beren, like a silver blade leveled at the throat of this mountain of a Wolf, and all the _Bat_ could think was -- he's going to get killed, and then it'll be my turn, and death! --death! --cold! --death! in this mindless frenzy, while the two of them are nose to nose circling around like wrestlers waiting for the other to feint or slip before rushing in. And some part of -- me -- was saying it's all my fault, and I deserved to die here, and there never was any hope and if I'd only been sensible and accepted that from the beginning, none of this would have happened, if I'd never been stupid enough to think that I could escape, if I hadn't looked down from my window and seen the trunk of Hirilorn shining like a straight, open road to freedom in the moonlight-- 

[pause] 

And then out of nowhere it came to me -- You're _not_ Thuringwethil. You're _you_ \-- and without even stopping to worry about it I threw off _her_ and then I could See properly again. 

[shaking her head sadly] 

He was so miserable. There was absolutely _nothing_ about his life that wasn't horrible, and nothing he could control, except by hurting someone else. And he didn't understand what had been done to him enough that he could break free of it -- he was _proud_ of having been Chosen to be this monster, he'd been told that it was a great honor and how much better it made him than all his pack-members, and he had no way of knowing that he'd been fed lies, too, lies that twisted him up as much as the sorcery Morgoth fed him. There was just one little place in his soul that wasn't all pain and confusion and hate, the memory of running, being _free_ , after a fashion, just being a normal animal coursing through the forests after deer when he was half-grown. So I sent him there. 

**Finrod** : 

And you weren't terrified? 

**Luthien** : 

It was all over so fast I didn't have time -- and there wasn't really room for being afraid with the horror of that misery in front of me. It was just so sad-- 

**Apprentice** : [slowly]

You feel sorry for a _demon_? 

**Luthien** : 

I couldn't help it. I -- 

[bemused] 

I still do, a little, in spite of -- of everything. It's faded because he killed us three-- 

[she bows her head over Huan's, stroking the Hound's neck] 

\--but he really couldn't help being what he was, he didn't _know_ what it was he was choosing, when he chose to follow Morgoth, and mostly he was guilty of stupidity, more than wickedness. He really wanted to be a wild creature enjoying a body of flesh, more than he wanted to be a warrior bullying others. That's how he was caught. So he _had_ to be a warrior, but he hated it, and he hated hating it, and it made him crazy. 

[sighing] 

So I set him free, for a little while. 

[in the following pause, Finrod takes her hand and looks at her in awe] 

**Finrod** : 

Had we all a sliver of your courage -- who knows what might be accomplished? To look upon the maw of hell, and feel not fear nor horror nor hate -- but only pity--?! 

**Luthien** : [simply]

It was my Power. I gave him dreams of the peace he wanted so desperately. It wasn't very hard. Then we went on inside. 

**Fingolfin** : 

Openly? or yet disguised, your Highness? 

**Luthien** : 

Oh, yes. It was easy this time. There wasn't anything confusing about which was the Bat and which was me after that. We sneaked around through the tunnels for a while, listening to the -- _gossip_ , though it was pretty gruesome to be called something so innocent -- of the guards. 

[with a sidelong look at Finrod] 

It turns out that the reason neither of us had ever heard of a giant Wolf greater than Draugluin was because there wasn't one, up until a few weeks previously. It _seems_ that rumour had recently come to the Lord of Fetters of an Elvish plot to strike back directly, instead of this containment- resistance business, with targeted commando raids coming unsuspected right where he and his officers thought themselves most secure. Everyone was a little vague on the details, because there weren't many witnesses forthcoming, but it was very _definite_ that the Hound of Valinor was a major part of the effort, almost a secret weapon, and between his having made mincemeat of the Lord of Wolves and his elite guard, and the prophecy, Bauglir cooked up this idea of making a superwolf that would would so far outdo all the others that there wouldn't be any question this was the one to destroy Huan. 

**Finrod** : 

Where do _you_ fit into this story? 

**Luthien** : 

I don't. 

**Finrod** : 

Not at _all_? None of the escaping minions reported your presence at the Fortress? 

**Luthien** : 

No. Either they didn't know what was really going on that night, or they didn't want to say-- 

**Finrod** : 

Very probably both. That is, likely they weren't sure, and were afraid to speculate because of the improbability. 

**Steward** : 

I should hazard, my lord, that even such speculation as doubtless winged wide upon the Tower's fall, should have flown far from the mark: for who would ever have connected the lovely Princess of the Hidden Kingdom with -- I conjecture here -- the mysterious Western warrior -- fully twelve foot tall, and commanding the very lightnings, if not wielding a blazing sword to boot -- who ensorcelled the most powerful hench-demons of Sauron's company and laid their master and his stronghold low with a word before vanishing, having scorned even to kill a vanquished foe? 

**Luthien** : [blinking]

That isn't _me_. 

**Finrod** : 

I'll wager it's the Elf in the story, though. There's a warrior-Luthien, too, of the Noldor, or used to be, in Middle-earth -- 

[to Fingolfin] 

\--he's not presented himself, has he? I thought not, probably still alive -- one of my uncle's staff officers, so if your _name_ did somehow get picked up in all the reverberations, they'd naturally associate with the other one first. 

**Luthien** : 

Possibly. Though I'd suspect they thought I was _you_ , before anyone else. Or maybe Galadriel. Or maybe even Beren. 

**Finrod** : 

I heard what you just said, but I'm afraid I'm not making any sense of it. 

**Luthien** : 

Well, what ultimately petrified Bauglir was the fact that he now couldn't trust any of his Orc-guards to be who -- or _what_ \-- he thought they were. You see, news had come through in some confused manner to the effect that Tol-in-Gaurhoth had been infiltrated and destroyed from within by a suicide squad of Noldor champions who had managed to so totally subvert the defenses as to gain access to Sauron's inmost chambers in an assassination ploy -- sort of a reverse of his own favorite strategy, pretending to be a friend or ally and then betraying his victims. 

[pause] 

**Finrod** : 

That isn't _us_ , either. 

**Luthien** : [raising an eyebrow]

Well, that's how the _story_ goes, at least in Angband. Apparently, the Terrible hasn't dared to show his face there since -- at least he hadn't then, and I doubt he'd want to after if he's gotten wind of what's happened since. All he did was send reports to Morgoth from a safe distance while he stayed holed up in the heart of the Nightshade and tried to recoup some of his powers. Apparently . . . there was some, er, _creative reworking_ of his source materials, is how I think you'd put it, and certain details suppressed as well. So there was an awful lot of terror and uncertainty beneath Thangorodrim, centering on _you_ , and everyone there was jumpy as field mice, waiting for something to happen next. --Which was usually a more-than-normally-paranoid Dark Lord grabbing and soul-scouring one or more of his own minions just to be sure that everyone was really who they were supposed to be. That was another good thing -- from _his_ point of view -- about Carcharoth: _he_ couldn't possibly be an Elf-lord in disguise, you see. 

**Finrod** : 

But we were dead. 

**Luthien** : 

So rumor had it. _Some_ rumors. Definitely _you_ were involved somehow, since it was your fortress and your cousin's Hound. Beyond that -- and the fact that whatever _happened_ , didn't take any prisoners or leave much left to look at, and wasn't something that any sane minion wanted to mess around with -- was anybody's guess. Guess _es_. Because Sauron didn't want to talk about it from within striking distance. So that was the plan's first snag: 

a giant insane wolf-demon filling up the main doorway. 

**Finrod** : [blankly]

I . . . see. What -- what a _muddle_. 

[as he is contemplating this with an abstracted frown, someone else is having a very different reaction.] 

**Apprentice** : [urgent]

Shh! 

[the Captain shakes his head: he is laughing silently, but that only with great effort, so hard that he is nearly crying, and it is only getting worse. If he were not already sitting on the steps he would have had to. Nienna's student's efforts to hush him have predictably the effect of attracting more attention rather than forestalling it, as he hisses:] 

\-- _Stop_ it! 

[this is clearly one of those episodes where trying to do so, like certain hiccoughs, only makes it worse] 

**Aredhel** : [peevish]

Now why doesn't he get in trouble for doing exactly what he's so violently set against anyone else doing? 

**Finrod** : [mild]

I don't _think_ it's directed at me particularly. 

[the Captain shakes his head without looking up or trying to explain himself (which would be futile at the moment)] 

**Fingolfin** : [curious frown]

What are you laughing at, sir? 

[this only gets another headshake, and more snickers] 

**Angrod** : [pained]

There is nothing, _nothing_ at all that's an occasion of levity in this wretchedness! 

**Apprentice** : 

See? I told you. It's not funny. 

[the offending Elf raises his head] 

**Captain** : [managing to speak finally]

Yes it is. 

[lifting one hand] 

So it didn't work and we all died horribly. --Isn't it still funny that _we_ managed to give _Morgoth Bauglir_ nightmares by it? 

[as all of the assembled company look at him, some dubiously, others with the accepting confidence of friendship, he gestures emphatically] 

_Think_ of it, all that frenzy and dread, the walls, the wards, the terrible warlords with their blazing whips, the Worm himself too, all helpless to keep off old Fetters' terror, the throngs of battle-hardened minions given constant conniptions lest one of them be one of us, or just be suspected of it -- all the running about and spies spying on spies, the flurry of activity and effort to circumvent any possible repeat of the Gaurhoth, and all of it after _we're_ dead, with us knowing nothing of it -- and all of it as wrong as can be, because of _one missing bit of information_. The jaws of the Iron Hell caught us, chewed us up -- and choked. 

[pause] 

It's a _glorious_ muddle. 

[as this new perspective is (by some reluctantly) considered in the following silence, another person reacts with a short, but genuine, chuckle and an almost disbelieving smile] 

**Ex-Thrall** : 

\-- _Yes_. 


	141. Act 4: SCENE V.xxx

[Elsewhere: the Corollaire. The Earth-queen is (still) listening attentively to Beren as he declaims:] 

**Beren** : 

. . . and this other time, I saw the female come back and the tiercel wouldn't get off the nest, I guess he wasn't that hungry yet, and he just liked being the da so much, like my cousin with holding his baby, and being so proud of how good he was at it, and the mother hawk finally had to chase him off the eggs to make him go hunt, hissing at him and bating and all ruffled up like a wet cat when she started brooding. --You know, the babies didn't look _anything_ like hawks -- they look like some sort of deformed chicken covered in lambswool, they don't even look like something that's _gonna be_ a bird of prey some day, either. 

[pause -- he looks at her with his head on one side, ruefully] 

I don't need to tell _you_ all this. 

**Yavanna** : [shrugging]

No. But it's so _nice_ to hear one's Work praised by someone who appreciates it properly. 

[he gives her a thoughtful glance] 

**Beren** : 

Y'know . . . _Tulkas_ said something about helping us . . . Do you know if it's true? 

**Yavanna** : [frowning]

I've never known him to dissemble about _anything_ \-- he's rather painfully open about his likes and dislikes, in fact. 

[curiously] 

Why? Did you have any reason to think he was lying? 

**Beren** : 

No, I -- didn't mean it that way . . . I meant more like _could_ it . . .? 

**Yavanna** : [mock-solemn]

Hm. Well. My brother-in-love _is_ very partial to true friends, faithful lovers, and those who fight wholeheartedly for Good -- in other words, you're _exactly_ his sort of people. If he could, I'm certain he'd have done his best to lend you assistance. 

**Beren** : 

I guess I meant -- I just find it a little hard to believe that you -- each of you -- all of you -- don't know everything, not even about each other. And I know what you said, but still . . . it's hard to think of you . . . as just people like us, too, only _not_. --That didn't sound right. You know what I mean. 

[he grins, not embarrassed any more] 

**Yavanna** : 

Yes. 

[pause] 

**Beren** : 

I guess we could have done worse -- a _lot_ worse. 

[a little hesitantly] 

\-- _All_ of us. 

[she nods, smiling in a pained way, but his attention is caught momentarily by something skimming over the grass:] 

Hey, dragonfly! --It's a good thing it _doesn't_ \-- the real one. Or that these guys don't spit fire. 

[looking back to her, with a touch of uncertainty again] 

I know this is going to sound strange, after what all I just said, but -- it doesn't seem _right_ that I got so much help. 

**Yavanna** : [bland]

Not only stubborn, but contrary, too. 

**Beren** : [indignant]

I'm not contrary-- 

[realizing, he can't help grinning at himself] 

Just ornery. 

**Yavanna** : 

You've got that right. 

**Beren** : 

But it _doesn't_ seem fair. Why did you choose _me_ , and not someone else? Why did you give me the gifts that let me survive, and not _everyone_? I know it seems like I'm being contrary, first complaining that you didn't do enough for me, and now that you did too much -- but it bothers me. Why should I get helped and saved, and not other people? 

[quiet] 

\--Why couldn't you have chosen Da instead? 

[silence] 

**Yavanna** : 

Well, it isn't as if your life has been nothing but soft earth and warm rain and sunny days, now, has it, my Champion? As you yourself said only now, your life wasn't always made any easier, only _possible_ \-- and death would have been much less trouble. But . . . 

[lifting her hand in appeal] 

Do you think that _you_ are the only one I've given my gifts to? Really? 

[pause] 

Do you think, too, that every Man _wants_ them? 

[as he looks at her questioningly] 

Are not the woods free to all good walkers? and are not the green days of leafshine bright for all that have eyes to see? Tell me, do all your kind reach out to the unfurling buds, before they have words to name them, and see the curl of beech-bark and bole as fairer-than-silver? Moss is everywhere, oldest of my makings, sheened and soft -- but who other than you would spend so long upon it, seeing how each least strand was like the whole with its own branchings, or how from above the radiate stems look like stars? _You_ called to me, as surely as ever I called you. 

[lifting her hands] 

\--Do you recall how your playfellows jested with you, when you were so young that you did not know what a joke was, and pretended that a trickle of pine-sap was spilt honey, to trick you -- and were disappointed, because you didn't gag or spit it out, but seriously told them only No, it was not, for this was _strong_ , not sweet . . .? Such a willingness -- such _welcome_ \-- was ever yours, for all the gifts of my making, from the first moment you drank in air and tasted earth and wood in the dust of that breath, the first moment your father's hounds were introduced to you and you reached out to that furred warmth, the first time you were silent under the Moon, your tears ended by wonder, before you ever had words to name what gave you joy? 

[she reaches up and strokes his face] 

I did not compel you to see the world through my eyes: you seized triumphantly upon whatever I offered up for all, and demanded ever more -- and with such an attentive hearer, how could I refuse? And each note was for you a key to yet another aspect of my realm, where fearless you wandered, claiming it all for your own, my hunter, who took pheasant in flight as deft and clean as any falcon, and spread its fallen wings gladly to see the green fire shimmering there, and mourned the stilling of that small song even as you gave your prey with such pride to your mother, and never upon your comings and goings trod down deliberately even so much as a puffball with your heel, "--because it was there," -- as others did. --What else could I do, save lavish my gifts upon you? 

[shaking her head] 

How could I _not_ choose you? 

[silence] 

**Beren** : 

But why _me_? 

[troubled] 

Why was I born to be the one who could get safely through the Ered Gorgoroth and into Doriath, and to meet Tinuviel, and Huan to follow, and everything that made it possible for me to get to the Iron Crown? Why was that my destiny? 

**Yavanna** : [offhand]

So . . . you think that _we_ arranged things so that war broke out and destroyed so many of the Children, of both your peoples, just at the right time to sever you from your kin, and coordinated your actions so that Melian's family would be traumatized and your friends' lives ruined and your enemies led into temptation and you yourself dragged through seven kinds of hell, for the express purpose of getting you inside Angband with that knife of yours? 

[grimly] 

If that were the case, then you'd be right to hate us, not thank us -- but-- 

[giving him a questioning Look] 

Do you _really_ think that all of Arda centers on you? That _all_ of it, from your people's wanderings to the Firstborns' insults to the plots and outrages of Melkor and his partner in crime, came about solely for the purpose of causing you to be born in the right place and the right time -- that we had our Trees killed and Feanor's gems stolen for the express purpose of having _you_ get one away from Melkor? 

**Beren** : 

That isn't what I -- 

[checks] 

I guess that is, if you follow it out. 

[his expression closes down, discontent, still baffled, because the answers aren't what he expected] 

**Yavanna** : 

We would have to be utterly insane, to compose it that way. But . . . 

[looking up innocently at the sky] 

\--if you really _want_ Everything in the world to be your personal fault, you're certainly free to think so. There was _no_ other purpose, no reason for the Song -- and thus no reason for _our_ existence either -- than the creation of one human male named Beren who's talking to me right now. All the rest -- this Ea business, the throngs of spirits inside its circles and out, the tens of thousands of square leagues of living earth and air and ocean -- all just byproducts of that project. Melkor himself was obliged to rebel, just so that there would be an occasion for the Third Theme. It's all because of you -- the Singing, the Marring, the whole space-time-life business. 

[straightfaced] 

I'm glad _I_ don't have your responsibilities. 

[this is too much -- he starts snickering and shakes his head] 

**Beren** : [dry]

Okay, okay, there's more going on than just the universe being out to get one Beren Barahirion. --But what else would you need me as your Champion for, if it wasn't to get the Silmarils? I'm just a Man. 

[gloomily] 

And I'm sure someone else could've done a better job. 

**Yavanna** : 

Could? Perhaps. But no one else _did_. You're looking at it all backwards, and from an extremely limited perspective. 

[brushing his cheek with her fingers again] 

Ask yourself instead, what _else_ your life might have been, had Morgoth not burned your world instead -- and what help you could have given me, on any of those paths. You were no simple woodsman, serving your folk without consideration of loftier matters, nor withholding your judgment, despite your youth. What about the time when your skills were sought after, to save a settlement from--" 

[snorting] 

"--a dreadful plague of foxes," taking all their chickens, that they could not seem to drive off or kill off -- and you refused, after you'd spent a fortnight watching in the woods thereabouts, and told them that the problem was of their own beginning, and sloth, and greed, and must be of their own ending too: that they must cease from wasting so much of each bird, and not leave their carrion lazily at the edge of their fields rather than have the trouble of burying it, and clear more land around those fields than they could plough and reap, for all that did was invite the mice and hare and quail -- and their red hunters -- to a banquet, and being foxes, they could not know that _this_ fowl was different from _that_ , when all smelled the same, that those were Men's, not _mine_ \-- nor was it fair to punish them for mistaking quail for hen. And didn't your uncle uphold your judgment, when complaint was made against your youthful folly? 

[he nods, soberly] 

Do you really think you couldn't have served me well as a leader's nephew, holding no small authority among his people, holding both the needs of the wild and the needs of the tame in his heart, and weighing the rights of each before acting, rather than letting partiality for his own kind rule his every choice? 

**Beren** : [wistful]

Is that what would have happened, if it wasn't for the Sudden Flame? 

**Yavanna** : 

Possibly. Or -- you might have gone with your kinsmen to the battle, and done great deeds there, with your greater understanding of my realm, against our Enemy. You'd have met your Firstborn viceroys, and perhaps stayed among their people as so many others of your House have done, and gone in time to your King's service, and learned there all the lore of the world and our Arts that they and he could teach you, and and returned perhaps in time your turn to teach other sons and daughters of your people all that wisdom and knowledge, and the echoes of our Song made a little stronger in the world. 

[Beren looks at the mountains, troubled again] 

**Beren** : [softly]

But I still wouldn't ever have met _her_. 

**Yavanna** : 

No. Most likely not. 

[silence] 

**Beren** : 

Did . . . Did _you_ have anything to do with me drawing the lot that sent me out on the mission the day that Sauron's strike team hit our base? Because I know that probably almost certainly my friends are right, and that I'd just have been killed if I'd been there instead of someone else, but I'm still not completely sure that would have been a bad thing, and I still wonder if it was just coincidence that I got it, or . . . 

[pause] 

**Yavanna** : [sadly]

If I say _yes_ , you will be angry with me -- even if you don't admit it, even to yourself. But if I say _no_ , will you believe me, or will you still doubt and and resent me for it? And if you do believe me, are you sure that you might not also be angered by that, contrariwise? 

[he just looks at her gravely, waiting for her answer, and she sighs.] 

Many things are within my power -- and many more things are not. Those which are the affairs of Men only are _beyond_ my ability to control, directly or indirectly: if any force _did_ sway that choosing, it was not mine. 

[she leans closer, very serious] 

But if I _had_ been able to exert any of my might to save your life, I would have. Good enough? 

[pause] 

**Beren** : 

Yeah. But a little scary . . . I'm not sure I want to follow that through to the end of what you _didn't_ say, which was that there could have been _some_ kind of influence at work that day. 

**Yavanna** : 

Surely you don't think _Melkor_ would have spent his Power to try to save you from his own Servant's efforts to destroy you? 

**Beren** : 

Well, if he could see the future then yeah, I bet he might've, because maybe he would think that killing -- killing Finrod and breaking into Menegroth and maybe capturing their Princess was worth the risk of maybe losing one Silmaril. 

**Yavanna** : [shaking her head]

No one sees the future _that_ clearly. Not even Manwe and Varda. Nor even Namo. 

**Beren** : 

I didn't really think that, by the way. But I -- it sounds like you're saying -- I'm not even sure I can say this -- because if it wasn't you, then -- but -- I don't want to even think about it, because of what it means or might mean and why _me_ , for pity's sake, there's lots more people who deserved it more than me and why would the universe care about me--? 

[after this torrent of words he looks away, abashed, but she touches his cheek and turns his face towards her again, smiling with a wry expression] 

**Yavanna** : [sympathetically]

That a great many people, some your birth-kin, most not, some whom you've never met and likely never will, have wished you well and tried to keep you alive in spite of yourself over the years, because they believe in what you stand for, or are grateful for what you've done, or love you, or _all_ of those things -- you'd rather not think about _that_? 

**Beren** : 

Well, when you put it that way-- 

[he smiles crookedly back at her] 

I guess it's not _so_ bad. 


	142. Act 4: SCENE V.xxx

    [the Hall -- the Ten are mostly being (suspiciously) solemn -- except when they can't manage to avoid catching one another's glance and start snickering again. (Even the Steward cannot prevent an austere smile.) The ghostly descendants of Finwe are mostly looking disapproving, though the living Valinorean ones are regarding this regrettably-unseemly display with doubtful alarm, as when dealing with amiable lunatics...] 

**First Guard** : [earnestly explaining]

It's funny the way that it would be if you were killed in battle but then your opponent tripped over you and stabbed himself by accident with his own sword. 

[longish pause] 

**Finarfin** : 

And _that_ \-- thou deemst _diversion_? 

[Nerdanel doesn't comment, but looks rather nauseated] 

**First Guard** : 

Er . . . well, it wouldn't make up for being sent here, but -- it would be sort of ironic justice, Sir. 

[another long pause] 

**Finrod** : 

One more thing to make a mental note of, Edrahil -- battlefield humour doesn't go over well at all, at home. 

[his friend shakes his head in grave agreement] 

**Teler Maid** : [thoughtful frown]

It _would_ be amusing, if only no one died. 

[she has finished braiding the Ex-Thrall's hair into a style very similar to her own, and is now sitting next to her with a somewhat proprietary air, as if the latter were an adopted stray dog; while the older Elf still remains with bowed head and withdrawn posture -- but not quite so tense and obviously wild-eyed now] 

**Ambassador** : 

Our own Captains, that are no rash youths, nor indifferent to danger, nonetheless find that _risk_ does not take away all levity in their defensive calling. 

**Luthien** : [rueful]

I don't think that people in Aman would very much appreciate Mablung and Beleg comparing kills or the number of times they've saved each other's lives. Not the way we do, at least. 

[aside] 

\--But then, we're gods-forsaking barbarians, so what do you expect? 

[Finrod elbows her gently] 

\--Sorry. 

**Apprentice** : [aside]

Sounds like Measse and Alatar swapping stories of The Old Times -- " _I_ disintegrated more rebel partisans than _you_ did--" 

**Captain** : [snorting]

"--Hah, that's only because they were too _scared_ to come near _me_ " -- Those two still get into drinking contests that end up as arm-wrestling matches? 

**Apprentice** : 

\--Discord, _yes_. You'd think he'd learn not to challenge Tulkas' own cupbearer, but no. -- Tavros threw _him_ out along with her the last time they smashed up the hall, even though Vana was cheering them both on, so it hardly seemed fair . . . 

[he trails off as he realizes that their anecdote-swapping is now the focus of attention] 

Sorry -- do go on, please. 

**Finrod** : 

You know, _I_ got in trouble not long ago for having gossiped about the affairs of deities when all I'd been doing was clarifying some key points of history. 

[wickedly bland] 

I suppose it's different if you're Vanyar. 

**Amarie** : [icy tolerance]

Such a cross-grained wretch, that doth yet wonder at my temper's fraying. 

**Finrod** : 

Cross-grained? _I'm_ "cross-grained" --? 

**Hu** an: 

[deep rumbling "hruf!"] 

[pause] 

**Finrod** : 

Er -- you don't happen to know what he just said, Luthien? 

**Luthien** : [dry]

No, but I'm sure that your guess is _quite_ as good as mine. 

**Finrod** : [to the Hound]

I promise I'll be civil from hereon out. 

[he cannot help putting emphasis on "I'll" though] 

**Amarie** : [to Elenwe]

And art fallen so far, my cousin, that thou findest such bloody jests a jesting matter, then? 

**Elenwe** : 

Nay, but I do find the wide world a stranger place by far than e'er we dreamt in golden Valmar -- for I have heard tell of one that even did beg his friend to slay him, for mercy's sake, and fellowship-- 

[she glances at her father-in-law, who nods somberly; Amarie does not say anything further just then] 

**Fingolfin** : 

There is, I must yet declare, one reason for tempering of mirth: for this ignorant cunning of Bauglir's device did have the unfortunate consequence of said Wolf, whose presence I gather from her Highness' words and dark hints -- and logical inference -- caused more trouble for their beleaguered efforts than otherwise would have befallen. 

[Luthien shakes her head quickly] 

**Luthien** : 

No I'm not sure that made any difference -- for the worse-- really. Because it became pretty clear pretty quickly that trying to bluff our way around Angband wasn't going to work -- right there at the Gates, as it happened -- and it doesn't seem likely that we could have fooled the regular guards even as long as we fooled the inexperienced one, and I don't know that I could have dealt with many troops all at once, still less with _Orcs_. 

[shuddering] 

We might have been taken prisoners right then and there, and Beren might have been killed even, and even if he wasn't, still none of it going according to our will at all, but Morgoth calling _all_ the tune. And maybe I could have still managed to do what I did, but I don't know. It might have gone much worse, hard as that is to conceive. 

[scratching the Hound's ears] 

Huan had some sort of premonition about Carcharoth and didn't say anything specific at the time, but he knew _something_ and still told us it was possible, so that makes it seem likely as well. If it were going to make any difference for the worst, you would have said something, wouldn't you, boy? 

[the Hound only answers by a canine display of affection, whuffling in her ear] 

**Finrod** : [bland]

It sounds like you got rather better at taking decisive action under pressure, I must say. 

[she shrugs, a little embarrassed] 

**Luthien** : 

I had to. 

[a more or less discreet conversation is going on meanwhile among the ranks] 

**Warrior** : [curious aside]

You don't really think Lady Elenwe is the most beautiful woman in Aman, do you? 

**Youngest Ranger** : [shrugging]

That I've seen. 

**Fingolfin** : 

So you have beheld the inside of the Enemy stronghold, Highness, and ventured it freely, and with your consort alone have returned to speak of it with unturned mind. --What lies beyond those gates, that I twice essayed but never passed? 

**Luthien** : 

Unturned? _Mind_ , perhaps -- but definitely not stomach. It's very strange, nothing like Menegroth or Nargothrond, none of the architecture seems designed with _people_ in mind at all. Except backwards, to _not_ seem homely. 

**Fingolfin** : 

What of its arrangements, its ordering of defenses and the fashion of its corridors? 

**Luthien** : 

Deep. And -- _angled_. 

[as this gets her stares] 

And rough. _Very_ rough, with some flat bits. 

[this isn't helping, clearly] 

I'm sorry. I -- was a Bat. It doesn't look the same way at all. Everything's about clearances and perches and directions aren't the same, either. 

[she raises her hand in a gesture evocative of an arched roof sweeping close overhead] 

It's very odd, not thinking of all directions as equal, but "down" as very definitely dangerous and unwelcoming, and "up" being the only safe place to be. 

[the Warrior, still unsatisfied, nudges his companion again] 

**Warrior** : [aside]

Why? 

**Youngest Ranger** : 

She's bright but clear, like water -- it doesn't _burn_ to look at her, not like-- 

[he glances at Aredhel, grimacing] 

**Finrod** : 

Uncle, you _know_ I'm right about this -- that the best method is to combine all the reports and descriptions and look for discrepancies-- 

**Fingolfin** : [shaking his head]

\--Unreliable. Completely. 

[the Ex-Thrall makes a sudden abrupt movement, and the Sea-Elf gives her a concerned glance] 

**Luthien** : 

What are you talking about? What is "this"? 

**Finrod** : [flatly]

More of what our Eastern cousin there would call a pointless waste of time: 

the continuation of intelligence efforts -- and an insoluble intelligence problem -- with regards to Angband. We've only the vaguest descriptions of it to go on, from the time of the Enemy's capture and imprisonment, and we know he's changed it significantly since then. The problem is that the only people who have been inside so far have been . . . gravely affected, and the likelihood of memories being altered is very great. So the basing of any plans on such reports is extremely fraught-- 

[figuring it out, the Teler Maid puts her arm protectively around the other woman's shoulders in a consoling gesture] 

**Luthien** : 

Plans for what? 

**Finrod** : 

A hypothetical continuation of a previous simulated assault on Morgoth. 

**Angrod** : [dry]

What would happen if we actually managed to get an army inside. We speculate about this from time to time. 

**Luthien** : 

But-- 

**Finrod** : 

Yes, I know: we're dead and it isn't going to happen, hence the aforementioned pointless waste of time. 

**Aredhel** : [sighing]

At least when they're arguing about imaginary maps of Thangorodrim, nobody's being forced to play _chess_. 

**Warrior** : [aside]

Lady Amarie's Vanyar, too. 

**Youngest Ranger** : 

Yes, but the King's lady is broken inside and the edges are scraping together and making her dangerous. 

[there is a brief moment of general embarrassment as those around try to pretend they didn't notice this, and not look at Amarie. The Sindarin warrior's hearers are puzzling this over, and don't notice the Captain's attempt at cutting them off with a discreet warning in the hand-signal code] 

**Finarfin** : [covering]

What is this game the which ye hold such in such regard, this "chess" that holdeth ye in such rapt enthrallment? 

[he winces at the bad word choice, catching himself too late, but goes on in resolute diplomacy:] 

\--Or be it some new devising of ye yourselves, or be it some far-off rarity that hath accompanied this second Return? Wouldst care to make plain the matter to me, good my brother? 

[before Fingolfin can answer - simultaneous, voicing the sentiment of all the residents of the Halls present]

**Finrod** :

**Angrod** :

**Aegnor** :

**Aredhel** : 

_No_!!! 

[embarrassed silence -- overlapping] 

**Angrod** : 

Only if-- 

**Aredhel** : 

_If_ you don't mind-- 

**Aegnor** :: 

\--Doing anything else _ever_. 

**Finrod** : [to the late High King]

Sorry, Sire. 

**Finarfin** : [also to Fingolfin]

And thou hadst charge of all these our young, in the Lands Beyond? I commend thy fortitude, all these many days. 

**Fingolfin** : 

Nominally, at least. --When it inconvenienced them little. 

[Luthien hides her laughter behind her hands] 

**Warrior** : [confused]

_People_ don't have fault lines. 

**Youngest Ranger** : 

Yes, we do, you just can't see them so well. 

**Second Guard** : 

No, that's stone. 

**Youngest Ranger** : 

\--That too. Now shhh! I'm trying to hear what's different in the story. 

**Luthien** : [being wicked]

I don't mind waiting a little while, if my cousins and their liege and kinsman want to explain how the board is set and played. --I enjoy the game myself. 

**Finrod** : [giving her a Look now in turn]

Yes, but it wouldn't be a _little_ while. 

[Fingolfin is taking all the teasing with a very good grace] 

Only now I seem to remember you complaining about being interrupted . . . ? 

**Luthien** : 

Oh, all right. I sneaked in and found a nook on a pier in the vaulting, where nobody else was perching, and tried to blend into the stonework so I could spy out the environs and just get an idea of how things worked there. 

[thoughtfully] 

It was good I was a demon then, because otherwise I might not have been able to cope. It's one thing to know that the Enemy engages in abominable recreations, and quite another thing to see them putting back buckets of blood as if it was wine, and eating _people_ , and using furniture made out of bones. 

[glancing at Aredhel and Eol] 

I thought I was just being weak about it, not being a warrior, but-- 

**Captain** : 

My Lady, Beren said it gave _him_ nightmares as well, which argues against it, I'd say. 

**Luthien** : 

Yes. There was nothing there that wasn't horrible, even worse than in   Carcharoth's soul. And they weren't even happy doing it. I always thought that -- that -- well, that the Enemy minions _enjoyed_ themselves, and _that_ was the worst thing about them, but-- 

[frowning] 

They don't. Not really. They _have_ to shout and laugh and roar so loudly because they daren't listen to the silence. They can't stand to be themselves, and so they have to distract themselves from the pain by hurting others, and themselves. In other ways. I never -- I never thought I could pity _Orcs_ , but-- 

[quietly] 

Even the Balrogs are hurting inside. 

**Nerdanel** : 

Thou meanst those fallen spirits of the fiery element that did by report there slay mine own lord, I mistake thee not? 

[Luthien nods; the Apprentice shifts uncomfortably, looking troubled -- noticing, the Captain glances over at the flames still decorating the fountain, briefly draws his restored bootknife and frowns thoughtfully at the disguised Maia -- but says nothing.] 

**Luthien** : 

Yes . . . his cohort of the most powerful of the whole crew, the elite of the elite. 

[with a quick glance of acknowledgment at the Youngest Ranger] 

_Their_ fault lines are the worst of all because they know what they're missing the way the younger incarnates don't. If I hadn't been detached from _myself_ , not Eldar then, I think I would have been too personally afraid, and too personally _outraged_ , to feel sorry for anything that was eating tortured prisoners. 

**Ambassador** : [aside]

And yet you have not pity to spare for Elu, nor the Lady Melian. 

**Luthien** : [as if apropos of nothing]

I thought it very ironic that I was there _on purpose_ , considering that Morgoth and his people had been trying to _catch_ me and bring me there as a hostage all along. --Beren too, of course. But it _is_ rather funny when you think of how many people have tried to keep me locked up like some bit of _treasure_ that they can't bear to share even the sight of with anyone else. 

[touché] 

Dad, Mom, Curufin, Celegorm, Sauron, sundry Orc-chieftans at Bauglir's behest-- 

[aside] 

\--and I'm getting the definite feeling of the same sort of  thing here. A familiar sensation, as it were. 

**Ambassador** : 

Your parents only restrained you because they cared for you-- 

**Luthien** : [interrupting]

So did Celegorm, in his own way. 

**Ambassador** : 

My lady, you _said_ no less did Beren strive to keep you safe against your will-- 

**Luthien** : 

He _stopped_. And he was trying to make me _give him up_ \-- _not_ keep me for himself alone. -- _Slight_ difference, what? 

**Nerdanel** : 

Still, some variance there may haply be, betwixt love's confining and aught that's born but of _use_ only. 

**Luthien** : 

It doesn't _feel_ any different to the ones locked up. 

**Nerdanel** : [sighing]

Nay, and at end they oft do come to one and same. 

**Teler Maid** : 

But what did happen _next_? 

[primly, as people look at her:] 

Someone must say so, and it had as well to be me again. 

**Luthien** : 

What happened _next_ was I managed to scare all the assembled hordes there, just by my presence. 

[pause] 

**Fingolfin** : 

Forgive me, Princess Luthien, but I _thought_ you said . . . you frightened the Fiend's champions . . .? 

**Captain** : [broad grin]

Oh it gets even better, Sire-- 

**Apprentice** : 

Shh! 

**Captain** : 

Well, it does. 

**Apprentice** : 

Yes, but don't go spoiling it for them. 

**Fingolfin** Might one inquire as to _how_? 

**Luthien** : [shrugging]

Apparently they could sense my aura just the way we can sense theirs, and it gave them the creeps. First one, and then another would shiver and go quiet, or suddenly _jump_ and clutch at a knife-hilt, and then claw his benchmate for laughing at him -- but then another one would do it, and the Balrogs were looking around swinging their horns like aurochs when they hear a wolf-howl, and the Wargs kept lifting up their heads and sniffing like hounds, and then growling. I thought it couldn't be me, where I was, I was terrified that they'd scented Beren somehow, but little by little every creature there fell silent and either looked up at the arches or kept its head down resolutely pretending there was nothing to be afraid of. 

[shushing Huan again] 

\--And then Morgoth pulled himself out of the distracted, I'm-really-too- grand-for-all-this air he was affecting as he sat there watching the chaos with this cynical smile, and looks up _straight_ at where I'm hanging on to the vaults, and shouts at me to come down, not even _think_ of trying to hide or dodge out of sight, and to do it fast before he got angry and blasted my wings off. 

**Finrod** : [glances around at the Captain]

I want to know where you came up with that usage of "better." It's a new one to me. 

**Luthien** : [straight-faced]

Probably from Beren. Like when he says, "Oh, _this_ is good," or "Well, that's just _grand_ ," meaning exactly the opposite. --That used to confuse me a bit. 

**Finrod** : [dry]

Or else "better you than me" -- which, though I hate to admit it, is true in every sense that I could conceivably mean it. What did you do then? 

**Luthien** : 

The best bat imitation I could, disturbed-bat-flutters-around-squeaking, making distressed noises and circling overhead the way I'd seen the others doing at the Tower and the way _real_ ones do in the unused caverns back home. But I had to come down, before he got too impatient, and there I was crouching on the floor, while minions gathered in around me to cut off any dashes for the exit. 

[rueful] 

It doesn't get much worse than _that_ , in terms of being scared out of one's wits, watching what was left of the plan wither up and blow away like so many dead leaves. The one thing that didn't occur to me at the moment was that Morgoth had to be feeling the same way, right then. He had no idea who or what I was, after all. 

**Finrod** : [grim]

So he knew you weren't what you were pretending to be, right from the start. 

**Luthien** : 

So it seemed. 

[she hunches forward, her posture evoking a cringing minion trying to grovel plausibly] 

I said I was there on a legitimate mission, and that I had come straight from the Nightshade with a special message just for him from the Terrible One. 

**Finrod** : 

He didn't buy it, I gather. 

**Luthien** : [resentfully amused]

He called me a "screeching loser" and said that the courier had just been and gone, with news from Sauron. 

**Finrod** : [grimacing]

Whoops. 

**Luthien** : 

Yes. You're not the only one to miscall the situation of Enemy affairs, don't worry. --He got rather sarcastic. 

"What does he want now, and why would he send _you_? What's your _name_?" 

I tried to keep bluffing -- I told him I was Thuringwethil, the Shadow Of The Moonlit Sky. 

"No, you're not, you can't fool me," he retorted. "Now get out of that disguise and give yourself up, _now_." 

So I pulled off the skin again, as slowly as I could manage -- or dared! -- trying to think of what I could do to bluff next, and my mind was a complete blank -- and then I was _myself_ again, and that was all I was, and -- it was very strange: I felt as though I were galloping in the chase, riding headlong over the game trails, flying over fallen logs and streamlets -- and at the same time as though I were the Sickle's hilt, and everything else was turning around me in the heavens, and I remaining perfectly still. --Is _that_ what it's like when you're in battle, and everything seems to slow down -- is that what people are talking about? 

**Finrod** : 

Either that, or very, _very_ drunk. 

**Luthien** : [same wry humour]

Well, it wasn't that. --There was a moment where Morgoth just _stared_ at me, quite taken aback, obviously not expecting to see an unarmed woman standing there. The Werewolves were edging in closer, snuffling and drooling all around me -- so were the soldiers, as it happened -- the way you sometimes see spiders crawling towards a lantern outside-- 

[the mention of spiders gets an involuntary reaction of disgust from all her audience, alive or not] 

\--and so long as all that attention was on _me_ , no one was going to notice Beren slinking under cover of the throne at all. 

**Ambassador** : [incredulous]

In all that, _still_ you took thought for _him_ , thought of concern? 

**Luthien** : [slightly bewildered]

Of course. That's why I was there. The Lord of Fetters was frowning down at me from his high seat, as if this were a chess match and I'd just taken his queen unexpectedly. 

"Who _are_ you?" he says. "Nobody comes in here that I didn't send for," and then he chuckled, and added, "and nobody gets _out_ that I don't send out, either." 

[the Sea-elf pats her shuddering companion on the head, like a child sitting next to a large, sad dog] 

"But you _did_ send for me," I said, "I'm Luthien of Doriath." And then I tried to weave a binding over the hall, and it was starting to work, -- but then he laughed at me, very cold and without any humour at all, and I lost the train of my song then. 

[Finrod winces sympathetically, then looks at her in astonishment] 

**Finrod** : 

You _told him_ who you were? 

**Luthien** : 

How could I hope to deceive the First Deceiver? He'd know if I was lying -- at least, it certainly _seemed_ like he did. 

**Finrod** : 

But -- you gave him your _name_ \-- 

**Luthien** : 

There couldn't be any false pretenses in this battle. If I'd been trying to keep up one layer of deception and then another and then another -- I'd have gotten tangled in them myself. He was too strong for that. It would have been like trying to fight him hand-to-hand-- 

[checks, looking at Fingolfin] 

Sorry. For _me_ , at least. 

**Fingolfin** : [rueful]

For myself, too, gentle lady, as it proved. 

**Teler Maid** : [completely unself-conscious]

Were you not terrified? _I_ should have been. 

**Angrod** : [caustic aside]

You, -- and every other _sane_ person in Arda. 

**Luthien** : 

No. And yes. And _no_. I just -- _was_. As if that was where I was supposed to be, and what I was meant to be doing, and always had been, just us, myself and Melkor, from the beginning of Ea, facing each other, and none of his minions mattering at all -- only it wasn't just me, because I wasn't alone either, I had help-- 

**Eol** : [disbelieving]

The mortal? 

**Luthien** : 

_Beren_. Yes. He was _there_ , invisible in _my_ shadows, the darkness that I'd made out of our Enemy's, _and_ mine -- believing in me, trusting me enough to let me fight my own battle, because he _loved_ me. And the Enemy couldn't even imagine that, couldn't break that bond of strength, because he couldn't conceive that so much love existed, that anyone could dare to assault him not for revenge nor greed for his power, but only for another. 

**Fingolfin** : [sardonic smile]

What's he like, these days? We didn't talk much, I fear, at our last encounter, beyond a few social formalities. 

[his nephews snort appreciatively] 

**Finarfin** : [aside to his brother]

\-- _Formalities_? 

**Fingolfin** : 

"Come forth, you cowardly wretch and fight me if you dare, you king of slaves and shadows" -- that sort of thing. 

**Finarfin** : 

Ah. 

**Luthien** : 

Angry at the universe in general and my father in specific. He thinks your rivalries are just funny. 

[thoughtful] 

You know,  I wonder if he pursued Mom, too, way back when. That might explain some of his behaviour and the things he said. And his obsession with Doriath. It might not _just_ be political. 

**Elenwe** : 

'Tis a matter most commonly averred, that the Dark Foe hath ever feared e'en so he be drawn to puissant women and preeminent of his race. 

**Luthien** : 

Oh, it's obvious he's got _lots_ of issues. In his mind he's the victim of, on the one hand, jealousy and constant plots against him by _everybody_ , and on the other hand of the fact that _nobody_ cares enough about him to pay attention to him, and just goes off and does their own thing in Valinor and forgets about him. How _both_ of those can be true, and why one wouldn't rule out the other, never seems to cross his mind when he's ranting. He doesn't seem to remember either that he started all his own problems along with everybody else's, by trying to grab everything and shut everyone else up -- and out -- of the Song. It was really gruesome, him still wanting me to feel sorry for him and take his side, even while he was threatening me, because "nobody likes him." 

**Finrod** : 

Did it work? 

**Luthien** : 

Yes. But not the way he intended. It's sad that he's wasted all his talents and powers -- and chances, by being so aggressive and controlling, and even sadder that he refuses to even admit to himself what he's doing and what's wrong with it -- how he twists up everything so that no matter what he does, no matter who he does it to, it's still _justified_ in his mind, because he's the only person in the World who matters. 

**Nerdanel** : 

Alas -- too familiar by far that terrain! 

**Aglon** : [passionate again]

No. You _cannot_ compare Lord Feanor to the Lord of Fetters -- they are light and dark opposéd, there is nothing in common between them, and only a fool would say otherwise! 

[Feanor's consort only Looks at him, and he falters. In a smaller voice:] 

\--Milady. I -- I do understand your grievances, and I can . . . feel some pity, for your resentment, that I am sure _seems_ justified, but -- you do not _know_ Morgoth as we do, that have fought him and seen the bloody ravages of his reign in the North all these Great Years. If you did, you _could_ not compare him to our noble leader -- that you once did love. 

**Nerdanel** : 

Nay, but him that we now name not I had some acquaintance with, for aye longsome whiles ere ever thou wert begotten, youngling. I remember well how all manner of thing seemed reasonable and fair, the whiles he did utter it, that in cold considering and apart from's presence, did clot to ash upon the wit, and leave but foul taste behind. --For some of us, at the least. 

**Aglon** : 

We are not -- we were not -- not _misled_ , not-- 

[shaking his head violently] 

_We_ are not like Balrogs, like _Wargs_ , as you imply! 

[Luthien turns her head and looks at him, silently, with a distant, considering expression, and he recoils a little. Raising a hand in defensive gesture, helplessly:] 

Don't -- _don't_ tell me what you See-- 

[urgent] 

\--please-- 

**Luthien** : [sadly]

All right. 

[going on] 

The fires had all gone out as I'd intended, and the quiet that I was trying to lay down was mostly in effect, so I wasn't having to contend with _lots_ of distractions, but even though every thing there was somewhat subdued, they were all awake, and it was all rolling right off Morgoth himself. The only light left was from the glow of _eyes_ , and from the Silmarils themselves. 

[a ripple goes through her listeners at the mention of the jewels] 

When he stopped laughing, he asked me what crazy plan my father was up to, using me as a spy -- actually, he said something like, "Has that lurking rodent Thingol finally slipped his last cog?" which I assumed meant lost his wits, and really that's hardly fair for the most paranoid ruler in the World to say about anyone else-- 

[tossing her head] 

\--and he called me "a liar, just like all the Children" -- hypocrite! -- and he said I was welcome nonetheless, because he could always find a use for a new slave. 

[the Ranger leans forward and starts to say something to his younger superior, then changes his mind and signs a message instead. The Sindarin Ranger shakes his head, fighting to keep a straight face.] 

**Eol** : 

Well, you did tell him you were someone else. If you're going to be picky about such things, then you've got to be consistent, girl. 

**Captain** : 

Oh, come on! 

**Fingolfin** : [judicious]

Certain deceptions are not merely permissible, but even required, when the ill of neglecting them outweighs the ill of falsehood, and the asker has no right to the information sought for. It is not as though it were the case -- to make a hypothetical example -- that her Highness had lied to those who came to her in good faith, seeking her aid as kinsmen, from whom she had no justifiable fears that would indicate silence or dissembling. 

[the parent and friends of Curufin and Celegorm wince a little at his example] 

**Finarfin** : 

I deem not Lord Namo's own self would e'er condemn such dissembling in such cause and wise. 

**Luthien** : 

I didn't feel guilty about it at all, any more than I would have tricking Sauron -- it just wasn't _working_ , was all. I stuck with the absolute truth from then on, because I felt that he would know if I was misleading him, the way Mom does-- 

[she gives Eol a Look] 

\--but if I didn't give him any opening, I didn't think he could take anything I didn't reveal. 

[in re-enactment Luthien clasps her hands together and looks up from under her bangs with a combination of lash-fluttering timidity and breathless juvenile self-assurance, exactly fitting the image of an innocent (read ignorant) spoilt princess on the loose for the first time (& managing to look disturbingly like a big-eyed waif painted on black velvet while she's at it)] 

I told him my father had no idea where his rebellious daughter was or what I was up to -- I wanted to keep his mind off _home_ and the idea of _dealing_ with my parents for me -- and that it had been a long, crazy journey -- in case he'd learned anything about Nargothrond, which given that the Terrible had heard of Celegorm's takeover it seemed not impossible -- but that I'd finally realized that there was no place else for me to go -- which was true, _given_ certain prior factors which I neglected to mention -- and that his domain was the ultimate power in Middle-earth -- which is unfortunately also true as far as I can tell-- 

[the Feanorian lord regains some of his slipping certainties to frown at this pessimism] 

**Aglon** : 

Defeats are only setbacks: we're not losing the War. We _can't_. 

**Warrior** : [blunt]

Yes. We are. 

**Fingolfin** : [grim]

And most certainly _can_ , regardless. 

**Luthien** : 

\--and so I'd decided that I needed to be _here_ \-- Angband, I mean, of course. And that I had lots of talents and experience entertaining kings and other royalty, with my music and dance, so he would want to keep me around his court as a minstrel, the way all other rulers did. 

[snapping right out of the big-eyed-and-helpless-mode] 

\--A little bit of flattery and suggestion there-- 

**Eol** : [dry]

Not to mention _arrogance_. 

**Luthien** : [simply]

I'm good at what I do with the abilities I was given. I've learned everything Mom could teach us, plus I've figured out things and invented things that no one else has ever thought of. That isn't being arrogant, that's just being realistic. 

**Aredhel** : 

You're still _boasting_ about it. 

**Luthien** : [raising an eyebrow at her hostile cousins]

And you're _not_ , when you point out your superior skills with metal and machines? I'd think boasting depends on the intent as much as the words, myself. 

[resuming] 

So I told him all that, and he got very sarcastic then, telling me that I was going to have to stay there whether I liked it or not -- probably _not_. He said that _suffering_ was the universal lot, and why should I think that I should be spared just because I was small and pretty and weak? Since he and his followers were miserable and Exiled from Valinor, and obliged to work hard all the time because of their fate, then shouldn't _I_ be tortured too? He got almost cheerful then, trying to scare me. 

[giving the Hound's collar a shake] 

\--Huan, be quiet. No one can hear when you do that. 

**Finrod** : 

But -- that makes no sense at all. He's appealing to _justice_ as grounds for inflicting pain on innocent people? Not even revenge on someone else, like Elu or Melian, nor practicality, as per extorting obedience or information, but in balance for his own sufferings? --Is he _serious_? 

**Luthien** : [shrugging]

His logic is -- insane. It makes sense to _him_ , and to his lieges, but it's like a tangle of threads that don't connect when you try to spread it all out. But he says things as if they follow and lead to each other, and his thanes nod and growl in chorus and bang on things as if he'd made some stunning revelation. Like when he started ranting about how people like me were simply used by the gods for their own pleasure and then tossed aside without heed, all the time, as though we were flowers to pluck and enjoy the scent of and then forget about. 

[pause] 

**Finrod** : 

Who could he possibly be talking about? 

[he and the others from Aman, living and dead, share looks of utter confusion] 

**Luthien** : [shrugging]

I don't know. --Mom didn't, either, when I asked her afterwards. 

**Finarfin** : 

Nor I, likewise, to guess. 

**Luthien** : 

He did believe it, though, it wasn't just a story he was making up on the moment for me. He was very upset about it, even though he named no names -- and was using it as the excuse for his own self-indulgence. 

**Apprentice** : [frowning]

I can't think of _anybody_ who fits that description. There are some people who thought about pairing up, and then decided they weren't meant for each other and elected not to, mutually, but I can't name a single being here who's just gone about breaking hearts and trampling on others' emotions without so much as a twinge of remorse. 

**Aegnor** : [grimly]

He's got to be _projecting_ , is what it is. What _he'd_ do, if he only could. 

[he scowls, clenching his fists as he stares out into the shadows] 

**Aredhel** : [matter-of-fact]

Who cares what Morgoth thinks? He's just _evil_ , and that's all there is to it. 

**Elenwe** : 

And _there's_ pattern for battle endless, and warfare withouten cease. 

**Aredhel** : 

Better than nonstop _talk_. 

[her sister in law shakes her head pityingly] 

**Luthien** : 

It sounds like he's just being resentful over the fact that other individuals are capable of forming lasting relationships, and he can't even keep _friends_ \-- the only people who want to be around him are the ones he's bribed or intimidated or who hope to profit from the partnership. 

**Apprentice** : [struck by a sudden thought]

Or -- perhaps it's all that, _and_ his own victim-hero-complex: perhaps he's thinking of Arien. 

**Amarie** : [incredulous]

The bright Avenger never did encourage him i'the least! No more than did she the Archer -- save but by _being_. 

**Luthien** : [ironic]

In  Bauglir's mind that's _more_ than enough. Don't want him declaring himself your King? You're a traitor! Don't want to give him what you made? You're a thief! Defend yourself -- and you're a rebel, too. 

[she laughs abruptly] 

Sorry -- I was just thinking of him describing _himself_ as a poor blossom crushed underfoot by selfish fellow-deities trifling with his affections. It's just barely -- bizarrely -- possible. 

[Fingolfin breaks into an edged smile] 

He was telling me that in spite of it being some kind of cosmic duty on him to inflict pain on me, he'd give me an hour or so to show off my artistic abilities, and _then_ we'd talk about the payment and what that privilege would cost me. 

**Angrod** : [sighing]

Oh, Luthien . . . 

**Ambassador** : [miserable aside]

Our poor little princess -- to hear this account is more horrible to me than to think upon my own death at the fangs of the red-jawed monster-- 

**Nerdanel** : [coolly analytical]

Still doth he prefer the subtle entwining, than to merely smite at once -- and withouten pretense that his fast-set will to work but strife might but be softened, by the anneal of reason. 

**Finrod** : [dark humour]

Ah yes, where would the _fun_ be without the games? It isn't anywhere near so interesting without the element of anticipation and hopes played along like an angler's dream of a fine trout on a spring morning. It's _boring_ if you end the game of cat-and-mouse too soon. --How did you answer him? 

**Luthien** : 

I played dumb. --I played the helpless, naive ninny that Curufin always took me for, completely trusting in everyone's good will and my own goodness to make everything all right. He too saw only what he expected to see. 

[with another dry laugh] 

I suppose in a way it was good -- in an _extremely_ limited way, that is -- that so many unpleasant things had happened to me already that I wasn't able to be surprised any more by them. At least I wasn't scared speechless at being threatened with violence after what I'd been through before, or paralyzed with dread when he began getting bored of teasing me and thought about starting on the _breaking_ he'd been talking about, right then and there. I skittered right out of the way as he made a grab for me -- I told him -- "No, no-- 

[shaking her finger scoldingly] 

\--that isn't how kings are supposed to treat petitioners -- everybody's supposed to get a turn to speak for themselves, and _then_ you decide to grant their request or not," and while he was laughing at me in the dark I put on my wings again and took off. 

**Teler Maid** : 

Why? 

[her braids are all twisted up in her hands again from the suspense] 

**Finarfin** : 

Most assuredly -- to lure them away and afterwhiles return when they were all astray and singly dispersed amidst the keep. 

**Luthien** : [shaking her head]

No, to finish my binding. 

**Angrod** : 

He _let_ you? 

**Luthien** : [shrugging]

He never recognized my cloak for the weapon it was. 

**Finrod** : [technical fascination]

But how did you manage to work a Song of Change as a Bat? --Or did you figure out how to wield your power in spite of being a demon? 

**Luthien** : 

Um -- I wasn't, exactly. 

**Finrod** : 

But . . . you _were_ flying, you said--? 

[he misses Amarie's sudden flash of keen attention] 

**Luthien** : 

I was only using the wings. I wasn't hiding inside Thuringwethil's identity any more -- it was more-or-less the other way round. 

**Finrod** : 

You were, or you weren't, transformed then? 

**Luthien** : 

Yes. 

[at his Look] 

Sorry. It was more-or-less. I'm not sure how else to call it. 

**Eol** : [incredulous]

You -- _partly_ \-- became a Vampire? 

[she nods] 

That's impossible. 

[Luthien shrugs] 

**Luthien** : 

It wasn't easy. 

**Eol** : [exasperated]

No, no, no, that's _impossible_. 

**Finrod** : [looking at the ceiling]

I don't say that very often any more. 

**Eol** : [lecturing]

Not that I expect you to know very much about this sort of thing -- Elu never cared a damn for anything but _appearances_ , and all your _mother_ cares about is control -- but the most basic exercise of logic would reveal that such a partial transition from one state of being to another -- just as with any substances or essences, material or not -- is inherently unstable and cannot be sustained but only on the contrary, continually _maintained_ , or regenerated, rather. 

**Luthien** : 

Well, I-- 

**Eol** : 

You must have been hallucinating. 

[Luthien sighs] 

**Ambassador** : [very serious and drawn]

Highness, I too must object -- for all that mine own emotions have overwhelmed my reason in hearing your story, a little recollection cannot help but give one pause. --The employment of such unclean enchantments -- even in the service of Good -- _must_ be considered highly suspect. This is in a _far_ different class than the enhancement or focussing of your own natural abilities, Princess. Your lady mother-- 

**Luthien** : 

\--said it shouldn't have been possible, either, but then again, Ungoliant shouldn't have been able to drink Light and invert it into concentrated Shadow, either. All kinds of things _seem_ impossible until somebody actually goes and does them. 

**Apprentice** : [bemused aside]

Like making a universe. 

**Ambassador** : [earnest]

My objection -- unlike your late unlamented kinsman -- was not as to the _possibility_ , Highness, but the _advisability_. What corrupting effect should such an action have, upon your own unstained purity of heart? 

[Amarie nods in agreement, though her expression is wryly bitter] 

**Luthien** : [straight-faced]

Well, I kept having these urges to catch and eat small children and good- looking-but-clueless youths, afterwards . . . but without fangs it was _much_ too difficult and messy. 

[there is a suppressed outburst of surprised laughter among her friends] 

That was a judgment call I had to make. Yes, it was disgusting and highly dangerous, but it wasn't -- I don't _think_ \-- wrong _in itself_. Not the way-- 

[with a meaningful Look at Finrod and the Ten] 

\--cursing the World and all that is in it, and the Light, would have been. I'm not sure that one could _do_ that, and not be Changed by it, even if one didn't mean the words, any more than by participating in torture for a good cause-- 

[she turns to look at the Ex-Thrall, seriously -- the Noldor shade doesn't break the contact, though tears begin to spill down her face] 

I don't know what I could have done in either circumstance. Or any number of scenarios just as bad. 

[seriously] 

So I didn't let myself end up in that corner. This time I didn't just depend on my voice, I made a three-dimensional weaving that allowed me to use my cape fully, binding the hordes of minions into a state where they were lost in pleasant dreams. --Well, pleasant for _them_ , by their lights, at least. 

[she grimaces in disgust] 

**Fingolfin** : [shaking his head]

For my part, I don't dare say _which_ is more impressive, the subduing of a multitude of foes -- or of a handful of Balrogs. 

**Luthien** : 

Oh, the Balrogs weren't the problem. The diffi-- 

**Captain** : [to Fingolfin]

How often are you going to hear that, now, Sire? Told you. 

[the High King raises an eyebrow in solemn amusement] 

**Luthien** : [embarrassed]

\--The difficult part was trying to break through the layers of self-involved certainty to get Morgoth to actually _listen_. And then to hold his attention to my song, to keep him from going right back into his patterns of anger and vindictiveness. There's so little interaction with the real world going on, everything turned inward and _tightening_ so that nothing can grow or change, like ground baked so hard by drought that rain just bounces off it and can't soak in. But I kept my promise to him: I gave him comfort and ease, and rest, just as I said I would. 

**Finrod** : 

How could you do that? 

**Luthien** : [raising her hands]

There was no way I could take on his strengths -- if none of _you_ could match him in combat, how on earth could I? One thing Beren used to say about his War was always to match your strengths to the adversary's weaknesses -- not the other way 'round. Stick with what you _know_ , don't let the enemy draw you into his plan, by _his_ rules, keep the fight where the terrain is favorable to _you_ , not him. That's how he managed for so long, in spite of being outnumbered. 

**Fingolfin** : [curious frown]

And what, in the Lord of Beor's experienced opinion, does one do, when one _cannot_ avoid being compelled to follow the Enemy's lead? 

**Luthien** : 

Cheat like crazy. --It's hard to do, though. You have to figure out where your opponent is going to push hardest, and then _not_ be there, so he entangles himself and has to recover. You could call it "the art of the unexpected," I supposed. 

**Finrod** : [solemnly]

\--Which, in operation, is difficult to distinguish from the actions of the insane. 

**Captain** : 

Particularly if it doesn't work. 

**Steward** : [obliquely commenting]

I believe you mean _when_ : it is eventual, _not_ conditional, that outcome. 

**Aegnor** : [aside]

Is anyone going to notice that I was polite and restrained and said _nothing_ to any of that? --Of course not. 

**Apprentice** : [lecturing]

Don't tell me that your only reason for acting or refraining from action is the laudatory comments of your relatives, now -- really, do _you_ think that that's a worthy motivation? 

**Aegnor** : 

Aren't you off-duty? 

**Apprentice** : 

. . . 

[he glances guiltily around at the currently darkened palantir] 

Not really. --It's something of a free-form assignment right now. More -- challenging, that way. 

**Aredhel** : 

You just made that up this instant. 

**Apprentice** : [correcting]

A translation. --Free. 

**Finrod** : [curious]

Of what? 

**Apprentice** : 

"Try to stay out of trouble for a little bit, would you?" 

**Aegnor** : 

How does haranguing _me_ about the state of my soul fall under that mandate? It seems like a certain path _to_ trouble, not away from it. 

**Finrod** : 

I'd have to agree, regretfully. 

[his brother glares at him] 

**Huan** : [to Aegnor]

[short noisy conversational-dog-complaining barks] 

[much general wincing; Nerdanel rolls her eyes] 

**Finarfin** : 

_Children_. 

[the younger Eldar (and apparent Eldar) and Hound stop at once] 

**Luthien** : 

Anyway -- at least according to Beren _and_ Dad's own captains, both, knowing all about your adversary is crucial to being able to carry out any kind of successful actions. Next to not losing your wits, good intelligence is the most important thing of all. 

**Eol** : [pleasantly]

\--And in _notable_ short supply. 

[at her annoyed Look -- all innocence:] 

\--I'm only saying what you yourself thought earlier, my cousin most noble and divine. 

**Luthien** : 

In terms of troop movements and the like -- yes. But in terms of _knowing_ _the Enemy_ \-- I was in a better position than anyone else. 

**Aredhel** : 

Hah. You hadn't even _met_ him -- we on the other hand, all knew him here, very well. 

[various looks are exchanged among the Valinoreans and some of the Exiles, fairly sardonic ones at that] 

**Luthien** : 

But I'd heard-- 

[shaking her head impatiently] 

\--I knew him, from Mom's perspective, _not_ as someone more ancient than anything, than Time itself, and too powerful to begin to comprehend, but as an only slightly older and more talented peer, someone -- _accessible_ , and that basis -- those stories I'd heard all my life, were more _real_ for me, stronger, because older -- than the fear of him _now_ , his terrible actions of this Age, which is all that most of us born in Middle-earth have to work with, thinking of him-- 

[exchanging quick glances of mutual comprehension with the Ambassador and the Youngest Ranger] 

\--and none of the _personal_ hurt and confusion of those who knew him back in Aman as a friend, teacher, benefactor-- 

[exchanging another glance with the dead High King of the Noldor in Beleriand] 

\--to trip me up. He didn't have any leverage against me -- except sheer power. 

**Finrod** : [incredulous laugh]

Except--! 

[biting his lip, he looks at his uncle, who also looks bemused] 

**Steward** : 

But _leverage_ is of all actions a most critical part, for without it all strength is worthless, expended without effect, or (if ill-placed) then yielding only _self_ -destruction. 

**Aredhel** : [snappish]

Oh, stop trying to be _profound_ , Enedrion. 

[cruelly] 

You know, we used to laugh at you, hanging about my cousins as if _talent_ was something that might catch in you like so much light -- never realizing you were only a _mirror_ to him and to Maglor, not a crystal. 

[Finrod puts a defensive hand on his friend's shoulder, giving his cousin a warning Look;  the Princes to their credit appear embarrassed, and guilty -- the White Lady's malicious shot does not, however, seem to have much impact on its intended target] 

\--Cel used to say that even a puppy had more dignity than _you_ , begging for scraps of praise at House Finwe's tables. 

[Huan gives an indignant huff and stretches his neck over to give the Steward a friendly ear-snuffle] 

And after all that effort to make yourself into someone too _refined_ for the coarser pursuits of "mere material engineering" or "outdoor hurly-burly" you ended up running logistics for Ingold's mad dashes through the wilderness. 

[it is somewhat unsatisfying that his only reaction to her words is amusement] 

**Teler Maid** : [discontented]

Why does he bear such insult from _her_? 

**Captain** : [sadly knowing]

You don't think _you're_ the only one his sarcasm ever scorched, do you, Rail? 

**Aredhel** : [smiling beatifically]

I think it's _priceless_. 

[before any of the Steward's friends can retort in his behalf] 

**Elenwe** : [sniffing]

Aye, that thou wouldst, none shall deny. 

**Aredhel** : [aggressive]

And what do you mean by _that_? 

**Elenwe** : 

Hath so much of change wrought upon our speech in passing Age, that thou comprehendest naught, when I do apprehend thee well enow? I did mean but the veriest particulars. 

**Eol** : 

_Gentle_ lady, your wit is no more suitable for irony than gold for the forging of a knife, which simply will not hold an edge. 

**Aredhel** : [abruptly changing attack vectors]

I don't need you to fight my battles for me, Eol! Especially not against _her_. 

**Luthien** : [smiling through her teeth]

You know, I'm starting to wonder why the gods didn't _throw_ you out long before you made such a scene about leaving, for general unmannerliness. --Or perhaps they _did_ , ask you to leave, that is, and we only got _another_ censored version of your Exile that put a more favorable light on it. 

[several people, including the Ambassador, but not excluding all the Noldor present, are hard put not to laugh out loud at this] 

**Aredhel** : [indignantly emphatic]

_Nobody_ threw us out, --Princess of _Shadows_. 

**Luthien** : [brightly]

Well, that's about to change. -- _Again_. 

[long pause] 

**Finrod** : [wryly self-conscious]

Er -- as it happens, Luthien, when I said "how" -- that was all I meant. 

[pause] 

**Luthien** : 

You meant "how could you do it" as in how I _did_ it. The technical aspects. 

[he nods] 

Oh. Well. --That figures. 

[ruefully] 

Let me see if there's any way I can explain it . . . 


	143. Act 4: SCENE V.xxxii

[Elsewhere -- the Corollaire] 

[more clouds are blowing across the blue, creating patches of shadow and sunlight with no visible Sun, all moving very quickly over the fields below, in that disturbing atmospheric effect typical of summer]

 

 **Beren** : [polite, but very determined]

I still don't really understand why you all can't just make people be good to start with. Wouldn't that be easier than dealing with them _after_ they become demons and destroy things? 

**Yavanna** : [bland]

And how do you go about making people be good? 

[his expression becomes a little wary, knowing he's being led] 

**Beren** : 

You tell them what not to do. 

**Yavanna** : 

Assume they know better and do it anyway. Then what? 

**Beren** : 

Well . . . you _make_ them. 

**Yavanna** : 

_How_? 

**Beren** : 

By punishing them. Kick them out if they won't stop. That's a chief's job. 

**Yavanna** : 

And if they don't care? 

**Beren** : 

You fight them. Kill them, if they're killing other people. 

**Yavanna** : [serious]

And _that_ makes them be good? --Let alone whether it _is_ good of itself. 

**Beren** : 

. . . 

**Yavanna** : 

You can _tell_ them what's right and wrong, and you can punish them if they wrong others, but you can't _make_ people _choose_ to be good. 

[sighing] 

Besides, we tried all that. We did throw Melkor and his crew of vandals out. They came back. We fought them some more. The result -- I can't begin to describe what it was like, there aren't any words in any language for the mess it caused, because _all_ the words are so inadequate for the catastrophes that our War caused. I've tried to tell you, but-- 

[tilting her head on one side to look at him, wry] 

The whole of the island where you were tortured was a pebble, a small stone kicked back by Nahar's hooves in trying to get over the ridge flung up by our Enemy to trip him, understand -- and _that_ is stretching matters _very_ far in both directions to make truth and words meet. Just _saying_ it is misleading, because it makes you think that what _I'm_ thinking of is what you're thinking of, but there isn't any better way to describe it. 

[gesturing down herself] 

We weren't using these forms, but our bodies do express something of what we _are_ , so to call the leverage-contact points of the being whom you and the Eldar both call Nahar, "hooves," is a not- _entirely_ inadequate comparison. Just the same as calling the way in which that one and his friend and leader cooperated to form one battle-unit "riding" is closer than any other state of being within your comprehension and recollection. 

[she grins ironically] 

_But_ if you're thinking that their duels with He Who Arose In Might resembled the weavings and drawings and so on that the Elves have done of it, with a big white horse trotting in the air over a mountain, while Tav' -- usually looking a lot more like Ingwe than himself in them -- calmly sits on his back blowing a gold bugle with lots of pretty spirals on it . . . you'd be a little bit right. A _very_ little. For one thing, they're all too _static_ , -- 

[she traces three vertical lines, two curved, one straight between them, in the air  (|)  leaving a bright green-gold sigil there for a few moments] 

\--as far as _this_ is from "leaf" --and for another, we hadn't _made_ horses yet, only Dreamed them, so Nahar was working from sketches, so to speak, and besides there wasn't anything alive then with _eyes_ to see as the Children see, and -- well, the Valaroma isn't _like_ that. 

**Beren** : [a bit stricken]

You mean it _isn't_ a horn? 

**Yavanna** : 

That weapon of the Hunter's is . . . hm . . . the _essence_ of The Horn, perhaps? Pure sound, pulled into one smooth, solid arc of channeled power, cutting through all Melkor's stupid racket and subduing his blatting under its weight. --You understand that -- you've wielded it yourself, in fragments -- no, in _echoes_ , rather, when your own bugle-call rang out over the vales and sent a fear far greater than one note, one Man, ought to have called down upon so many. It _looks_ like a horn, in this Circle and manifestation, to most people at least. 

[pause] 

**Beren** : 

My head hurts. Wait -- all you're saying means that when the Myths say things like "and then they rose and went from the Timeless Halls" -- it's not _anything_ like halls, like -- _halls_ , which I knew, but also not like getting up from sitting down like _us_ now, or -- except for it _is_. Sort of. 

[he grimaces, running his hand through his hair] 

**Yavanna** : 

If you could _really_ imagine it -- you'd be _remembering_. 

[with a shooing gesture] 

Not important. What I'm _trying_ to say is, your ideas aren't _bad_ \-- but they didn't work. And nobody can _kill_ Melkor -- at least, _we_ can't. There's no way to stop one of us from re-embodying, so long as we have the will for it, and the strength, and our strength comes from the World. You see the problem? 

**Beren** : 

Yeah, but . . . 

[he shakes his hand in a listen-up gesture] 

Couldn't you have Seen that he'd go bad again and not let him out? 

**Yavanna** : 

Foresight doesn't work that way, dear one -- you know that. Not that there's _one_ way of it, of course, any more than there's one model for physical vision. 

**Beren** : 

? ? ? 

**Yavanna** : 

Sorry, I'm getting distracted by details. Occupational hazard of Immortality, I'm afraid. Anyway, there are many different ways of "seeing" the future. Sometimes it's as clear as in a mirror, which is to say, a glimpse of something in the distance, otherwise out of sight, crisp but not really in context. Sometimes it's more like seeing something through mist -- a wider panorama, but a lot blurrier. And then there's the perfectly natural foresight which results when you know lots of things -- was there anything supernatural, for instance, when you watched your enemies and _knew_ what they were going to do, and made your traps and then they fell into them? 

[he shakes his head] 

\--But sometimes wisdom fails, and things happen that you don't expect. It wasn't that Melkor "turned bad _again_ " -- it was that he'd _been bad_ all along, and only tricked us into thinking that he'd reformed. We forgave him thinking that he'd finally grown up, not because we thought he was going to do it again. 

**Beren** : 

But people don't turn good. They _pretend_ to, sometimes, but -- look at those two b-- look at the sons of Feanor. _They_ didn't _change_. 

[she smiles sadly] 

**Yavanna** : 

Do you know about Osse, Beren? 

**Beren** : [thrown]

Um . . . wait a second, he's not one of the Powers we used to call on, but I think I remember, hold on -- he's one of the gods of the Sea, right? Or did I mix him up with Eonwe again? 

**Yavanna** : 

No, you're right. He's one of Ulmo's thanes. He's also married to a friend of ours. --He's _also_ a lout and a loud-mouthed idiot, in my opinion, but then-- 

[sighing] 

\--it takes all sorts to make a World. --Uinen Sees something in him that I can't, so it must be there. But long ago, before Time as you know it began, he was seduced to the Dark by Melkor, who promised him unlimited authority over the Seas, in return for betraying his Lord. And Osse did it. 

**Beren** : 

But if he was _dumb_ \-- I can't believe I just said that -- like you said, then . . .  maybe he didn't realize that was what he was doing? 

**Yavanna** : 

Oh no, he knew better. He has some significant weaknesses, and those were what Melkor appealed to -- he didn't resist at all. He _likes_ smashing things, though to be fair it's more that he likes noise and activity, he just has far too much energy and far too little intelligence to figure out what to do with it. And sometimes you _need_ things smashed, to stir up the proper elements or to move things out of the way, so things don't stagnate, and he's good at it. But he doesn't know when to stop, and he doesn't like to hear it from anyone else, either. So he and Ulmo used to lock horns an awful lot, and Melkor offered him the chance to be his own boss, -- with the very-quietly-not-emphasized-at-all disclaimer that of course, he'd be working for _him_ instead. And . . . he ran amok. Our Enemy used him to strike at both Ulmo _and_ my husband, both of whom give him terrible inferiority complexes -- Melkor, I mean, Osse doesn't care at all about Aule's Work -- and at me, too. 

[disgusted] 

He ruined some superb headlands we'd just finished, and a lovely submarine plateau that Ulmo was particularly happy with, and the fissures he started caused a chain of eruptions that took us Ages to get under control again. It looked like it was beat-him-up-and-throw-him-out time, and nobody was feeling much in the way of regrets for it -- but Uinen came to us in tears and _pleaded_ with us just to _trust_ her, that she could talk him down and convince him to turn himself in, that he didn't _really_ understand that he'd been used, and couldn't we _please_ just give him one more chance? And Aule did: he went and talked to Ulmo for her, and because _he'd_ been so badly hurt by Osse, too, Ulmo was willing to listen, and not to dismiss the idea as well-meant but misguided affection, and to put aside his own hurt feelings at Osse's betrayal, to let him have that chance. And that's what happened. And he did see that he'd been wrong, and he did apologize to us, and he's been good since. --Good for _him_ , that is, at least. 

[she picks up a pebble from the ground by her feet and flings it downhill] 

_I_ still think he's a _loser_ , but as long as Uinen keeps him out of my gardens, I'll put up with him for her sake. --Have I lost you in all the details? 

**Beren** : 

No. You're saying people _can_ change, sometimes, because it's happened before. The thing is, this is _Morgoth_ we're talking about, not some poor pawn getting roped into the affairs of kings -- you _had_ to know that he wasn't likely to have any regrets, right? 

**Yavanna** : 

Melkor . . . was _far_ more plausible in his repentance than Osse. Osse just came across at his trial as -- completely _lame_. He was rude to Manwe, sullen to Ulmo, indignant to Aule, and acted as though _he_ was more the victim than anyone else. If I hadn't known his wife since the earliest chords, if we hadn't been best friends and colleagues since the Beginning, I would have thought she was just blinded by love, too. And you know, that might have been the case -- but as it happened it wasn't. 

[sighing] 

We _all_ know someone who's been hurt in this mess, who's had friends or family go over to the Enemy, as well as lost irreplaceable Work in it. It isn't as simple as "us" and "them" the way it is for you, being new to the conflict. We're all one people, we Ainur, and Kinstrife is a terrible, terrible thing. And you _want_ to think well of your family, and your friends, -- and _their_ friends. It's so much easier to believe that they didn't really mean it, and they're sorry, than that they're using you and playing you for a fool. 

[shakes her head] 

I _did_ tell Uinen, though, that if he hurt her like that again, _I_ would find some way to trap him, in mud or maybe sargasso, and make him spend the rest of Arda giving rides to coots and ducklings, or migratory arthropods. --I was a little tipsy then, though; we girls had been celebrating his pardon with her _and_ the end of that offensive, depending on one's perspective, and we were all a bit out of control. We were going to help her redecorate, but it went . . . odd, and there were some strange results. 

**Beren** : [disbelieving smile]

You all got drunk and started making things? 

**Yavanna** : 

So to speak. 

[she keeps trying not to grin; he's not quite sure if she's teasing] 

**Beren** : 

How? 

**Yavanna** : 

There was a lot of free atmospheric energy still left over from the action. 

**Beren** : 

That didn't make any sense. 

[she only shrugs, with a rueful smile] 

What _kind_ of things? 

**Yavanna** : [virtuously prim]

\--Things. 

**Beren** : 

When I was in Nargothrond, I saw some carvings of things called "squid." Are those for real, or was that just a joke? 

**Yavanna** : 

That . . . was pretty early in the evening. --Or would have been, if there had been evenings then. 

**Beren** : 

You mean there's weirder stuff than _that_ in the great ocean? More weird than things with their eyes next to their feet and all those stringy legs? 

**Yavanna** : [shrugging]

We're still not sure who's responsible for jellyfish. Or pearl-oysters. Or those fish that turn into hedgehogs, though I'm _pretty_ sure that was Vana. Melian came up with flying fish and croakers, and I remember thinking for some reason that barnacles were just _hilarious_ , and then it was too late to do anything about it, the Ideas were already forming in the World . . . 


	144. Act 4: SCENE V.xxxiii

[the Hall -- there is a general air of bewilderment among Luthien's audience, not unlike that sometimes to be seen in college lecture halls, usually accompanied by a blackboard completely covered in chalk equations and a professor who has quite forgotten that there are students present]

 **Finrod** : [rueful]

You were right -- I think I'd have to _be_ _you_ to understand what it was you were doing. -- Or perhaps Nessa. You're working completely outside any paradigm I know.

 **Luthien** : [apologetic]

Sorry, I tried.

 **Finrod** : 

It was when you started talking about _realigning_ _potentialities_ as if they were axes of crystallization that you lost me.

 **Luthien** : [lecturing again]

Well, music already does operate in the planes of space and time, invisibly, so really I'm only adding a visible four-dimensional element to the Work --

 **Finrod** : [laughing helplessly]

I understand the _general_ theory --  _very_ generally. It's the _application_ of it that leaves me baffled. Somehow you're dragging the Circles along with you, when you do what ever it is you were doing, instead of simply moving _in_ them -- with or against their motion -- the way ordinary people do. I can See what you're doing while you're describing it, but I can't hold onto it.

 **Captain** :

Now you know how the rest of us feel most of the time, Sire, when you get theoretical.

 **Finrod** :

Oh, I'm not _that_ bad, am I?

[deafening silence]

Very funny.

 **Steward** :

 _Sometimes_ I understand you, my lord. And -- I _believe_  -- your sister does as well, usually.

 **Ambassador** : [smugly]

I see that your Working, my Princess, has much in common with the girdling Labyrinth of our own defenses that your mother made, with its narrowness of range and duration increasing its intensity correspondingly.

[frank aside]

\-- Of course, I know nothing of how _she_ made her Great Work, either.

 **Finrod** : [struck with a sudden distracting idea]

You know, what I'd _like_ to do, Luthien, is take a look at the astrographic projections of that time sequence and see if there were any confluences among the Constellations that might have worked in your favour as well --

 **Aredhel** :

Yes, well, that's not going to happen any more than my father's lunatic element are going to get themselves a working chronometer synchronized to Outside, I'm afraid. I _don't_ get the impression that the Weaver is so happy with you right now that she'd fetch you some star charts if you only asked nicely.

 **Finrod** : [deadpan]

I thought I'd just have some smuggled in. I figure I can suborn the help into bringing them, in exchange for new riddles from Overseas that no one's heard here yet.

[he manages to keep up the innocent look for a moment longer while his Lawful relatives just stare at him, and Luthien puts her head down on her knees to hide her laughter]

Sorry, Father, Aunt 'Danel, 

I just couldn't resist. The look on your faces --

[wiping his eyes]

\-- almost worth the look _she's_ giving me now.

[Amarie's expression would go very well with Huan's earlier growling]

 **Angrod** : [dubious]

Could you even _use_ an astrographic projector? That's a bit different from blasting holes in the floor, isn't it?

[his oldest brother shrugs]

 **Finrod** : [mischievous]

It would be an interesting challenge, in all respects. -- Sorry.

 **Elenwe** : [trying not to smile too obviously]

Nay, is't so, Ingold? I do misdoubt thee somewise.

 **Luthien** :

I've got my doubts too.

 **Nerdanel** : [to Finarfin, blandly]

Am I much mistook, brother? for I had thought me sure in recollection, that _this_ thine eldest, even as most wise, of thine offspring present was.

[Finarfin struggles to keep a solemn countenance -- but loses out when one of the Ten whispers loudly from the ranks:]

 **Fourth Guard** :

\--  _It's_ _all_ _Beren's_ _fault_.

[none of this diverts Amarie at all]

 **Finrod** : [sighing]

Ah well -- time for my lady to scold me for impiety.

[he assumes a solemn expression which only gets a more steely-eyed glare as its reward]

 **Amarie** :

Naught have I to say unto thee, my lord, presently; for ne'er have I held skill at the making of japeries, no more will I contend thee thy mastery thereto.

[to Luthien]

. 

But I do wonder that thou hadst such opportune moment and golden within thy grasp and didst not strive for it thine own self.

 **Luthien** :

I beg your pardon?

 **Amarie** :

Wherefore, thou alone might wield such power, even as thou alone might enter there, -- and yet --

[very serious]

\-- thou madest no use of place nor power to amend the ruin of fell Morgoth's spirit, that thou hast most piercingly and thoroughgoing e'en now described.

 **Luthien** : [blinking]

Did anything I said give _any_ indication that Morgoth _wants_ to be healed? Healing isn't just a matter of power, any more than the extent of injuries -- particularly when they're self-inflicted, let alone continually. It's like trying to stop someone from fading -- I could _barely_ get him to accept an hour's respite from his pain.

 **Aredhel** :

Why didn't you at least _kill_ him?

[Luthien is not the only one who finds this suggestion a bit incredible]

 **Luthien** :

Um. Because we're not Tulkas and Tavros?

[raising her hands in frustration]

If your father couldn't do it, do you really think _we_ could've managed to defeat him, even if he was -- temporarily -- asleep? Besides, even if we had damaged his house beyond repair, what would have happened then? I've no idea. But I'm fairly sure we wouldn't have gotten out alive, because there'd still be an army alive there -- which was the whole point of the endeavor.

 **Warden of Aglon** : [half to himself, taut]

But you didn't even free a single slave.

[Luthien gives him a sad, understanding glance, and does not argue with him]

 **Ex-Thrall** : [calmly -- too calmly]

You don't know what you're talking about.

[after one glare, he deliberately ignores her -- but she doesn't ignore his comment. Addressing the company at large:]

There's no realistic way that any one individual -- or two -- or twenty -- might find their way through the warrens of Angband to its mines and smithies, unguided, and there where all are sleeping as well as guarded, waken only those guarded -- and not their guards! -- unchain them -- still without waking those guards, and lead them out, without again, arousing their guards -- thralls who would barely be possessed of enough wits to comprehend were they full awake, and whose fear should make them unwilling to believe enough to aid themselves, rather than raise the alarm themselves for mere confusion --

 **Warden of Aglon** : [hoarse]

Be quiet!

 **Ex-Thrall** : [still disregarding him]

\-- and who have enough reason to think it but another game of the King's devising, or his Commander's, to taunt them with _phantom_ rescuers?

[blunt]

\-- It could not be done. Better give them an hour's true dreaming, than a half-hour's false hopes with more punishment at the end.

[the Warden of Aglon has risen and now strides across the dais to stand over her, burning with rage]

 **Warden of Aglon** :

Silence, _you_  --

 **Ex-Thrall** : [flinging out her hands]

Say it, _all_ of it -- I welcome it, all of it, as no more than truth --

 **Warden of Aglon** :

Fiend!

[she nods, grinning madly]

 _Monster_  --

 **Ex-Thrall** :

\-- True, true --

 **Huan** :

[pained yelping whines]

[he continues making unhappy noises through the following fight]

 **Angrod** : [embarrassed as much as distressed]

Oh, for Pity's sake!

 **Aredhel** : [looking around exaggeratedly]

I don't see _her_ about, do you?

 **Warden of Aglon** :

Death is _far_ too kind a fate for you!

[the Ex-Thrall grovels before him, half laughing, half crying, at his insults]

 **Nerdanel** : [pained]

Ingold --

 **Finarfin** :

Aye, my son, canst thou do naught to cease this spectacle of misery?

 **Finrod** : [flatly]

I could probably break it up -- for the moment. _She_ doesn't wish me to, though, _he_ doesn't answer to me at all, and it won't _resolve_ a thing, any more than exiling Feanor did.

 **Eol** :

Aren't _you_ going to do something about them, O my powerful cousin?

 **Luthien** : [quietly]

When I figure out what would be best, yes.

 **Aredhel** : [bitter smile]

Well, the half-divine ancestry's not in question: all _talk_ and favoritism.

 **Warden of Aglon** :

To think I once considered _you_ a friend! You --

[savagely]

You're not _worthy_ to be named Eldar --

[the former Healer bows her head in acceptance, while her most recent companion looks for reinforcements]

You're more truly Dark than he is --

[pointing to Eol]

\--  _his_ crime was only passion, only _one_ _accidental_ _blow_ , but yours --

 **Eol** : [disgruntled]

Don't patronize me -- it wasn't an _accident_ , I knew what I was --

 **Aredhel** : [coy]

So you _were_ trying to hit _me_?

[the Teler Maid scrambles over to the Captain, tugging at his arm]

 **Teler Maid** : [urgent]

Will you not speak for her? You, her friend?

 **Captain** :

No.

[as she gives him a Look of outrage -- grimly intense:]

 _I_ _haven't_ _the_ _right_.

[she freezes at his words]

 **Warden of Aglon** :

You _spider_ , to wind your webs of deceit around those who trusted you, and _feed_ upon their lives!

 **Teler Maid** :

Do _I_?

 **Warden of Aglon** :

Demon!

 **Ex-Thrall** :

Ah, yes --

 **Captain** :

I don't know --  _do_ you?

 **Teler Maid** :

Do not be cryptic with me!

 **Captain** : [sad smile]

I'm not, Osprey.

[in the midst of her distress, something changes in the Sea-Elf's face and she stiffens]

 **Teler Maid** :

\--  _Yes_.

[she gets up and stalks back to the two Noldor ghosts, her arms akimbo]

 _Stop_ it.

[they don't notice her. Getting in between them:]

It is enough, I tell you! You hunt _her_ so you need not hear yourself, see yourself in the midst of all that baying racket. You have not the right -- you are not one of them from yon darkened Tower nor the Dark Lord's hells -- no more you are your brother, to ask for vengeance of suffering.

[the Ex-Thrall starts beating her head on the floor; the Lord Warden stares at his contradictor in amazement, and disdain]

 **Warden of Aglon** :

Hold your tongue, infant.

 **Teler Maid** :

Nor will I. Until you shall.

 **Warden of Aglon** : [passionate]

She is _evil_. She has murdered her own people, helped the Dark Lord in his tyranny, and _freely_ , for only her own cowardice and gain -- !

 **Teler Maid** : [calmly reasonable]

And so have you the same. Thus you are without right to judge her, being full well as bad.

 **Warden of Aglon** : [eyes blazing]

I am not Dark!

[he leans over her menacingly]

Take it back, Latecomer, or --

 **Teler Maid** : [not budging]

Shove me yet again, will you not?

[folding her arms and giving him the full glare]

Aye, smite me even -- how can _I_ stop you? None but you can do it. But I _will_ speak you true, even as our dear lord Olwe spoke to yours, whether you heed my words as little as yours heeded his!

[the Warden makes a sweeping gesture with his arm]

 **Warden of Aglon** : [weary and frustrated]

You have no part in this. Go, get _out_. 

**Teler Maid** :

Should law submit to fear?

 **Warden of Aglon** : [exasperated righteousness]

I won't _hurt_ you, girl.

 **Teler Maid** :

Nor will you her.

 **Ex-Thrall** :

Maiwe, leave me -- I deserve nothing better.

 **Teler Maid** :

You cannot see the North Star in your mirk and so are drifting without course or bearing. You are no fit judge of your own self. -- Or do you think _you_ are a better judge of your deeds and worth than Lord Namo, Lady Vaire, and the Lady Nia all together? Hold you now they are wrong, for _not_ saying those same terrible things to you?

[turning back to the Lord Warden]

I know _you_ would say so, just as I know you think you are ill-used -- but, well --

[she shrugs]

\--  _you_ are a fool.

[too angry for further speech, the Warden of Aglon strikes her hard across the face, knocking her backwards -- the Captain grits his teeth, but gestures his command to stay put, watching his friend for her response to guide his own. Shocked and ashamed at his own actions, the Feanorian lord stands nevertheless defiant, as the Princes move to deal with him -- but the Sea-Elf gets up first. Rubbing her cheek, blinking away tears, she still faces him down unafraid. There is in her voice the same cold tone heard before in Luthien's, when giving judgment -- and echoing that of the Star-Queen . . .]

 **Teler Maid** :

Your answer is the same as ever was, to them that refuse your tyranny -- hard word, and harder hand.

[tilting her head on one side, looking him up and down]

\-- Was that not how it befell your own King at high Formenos, my kinsman?

[the Lord Warden flinches as if struck in return, and draws back, recoiling, shaking his head in denial, but she does not retract or ameliorate her words, or her icy -- and triumphant -- Look]

 **Warden of Aglon** :

I -- I am not --

[he chokes up, unable to continue, panting and wild-eyed, clutches tearingly at his hair for a moment, and suddenly crumples to the dais in a shuddering heap before her feet, as if struck by the arrow that killed him. (Huan howls once, and tries to hide by jamming his head under Luthien's elbow.)]

 **Teler Maid** :

See? You cannot _say_ it, can you?

[she goes and sits down again, with the tired air of someone who has proven a point but wishes it hadn't been necessary, utterly blasé, to the astonishment of most of the onlookers. Glancing around at the Captain and the rest of Finrod's partisans:]

Thank you -- for _not_ rescuing me then.

[people are trying not to stare at the tormented Warden, huddled grimacing on the stones with the agonized expression of one trying heroically not to break down and cry, almost the mirror image of his victim . . .]

 **Aegnor** :

That was . . . brutal.

[it isn't clear which action he's referring to, as he looks from the Kinslayers to his mother's former assistant with a taken-aback expression. The Sea-Ef shrugs carelessly]

 **Teler Maid** : [to the Ex-Thrall]

I did mean what I said to _you_ , no less.

[continuing as the former Healer raises her head]

You would do better to wash your face than bruise it on these stones.

[she nods pointedly towards the Waterfall, but does not get up to help her -- or _make_ her -- follow the recommendation, and after a moment the other woman rises unsteadily and makes her own rather shaky way over to the pool, where she kneels down, silhouetted in the shifting lights; the Alqualonder has no words, however, for the Lord Warden]

 **Ambassador** : [troubled]

You do not care about his pain?

 **Teler Maid** : [shaking her head]

Not so much.

[she plays with her bracelets for a moment before explaining]

 _I_ had much pain when I did live, from the thoughtlessness of such as he, and when the terrible Dark descended on us by our waters, he and his lords came not to us to offer any heartening word nor consolation, but only took thought of how we might _serve_ them, and they to use us and -- I did not much care for dying.

[tossing back her braids]

His pain moves me not so great that I would suffer me to end it, when all that does concern him is to 'scape it, not to mend what makes it.

 **Angrod** [looking between his former acquaintances of House Feanor]:

You have pity to spare for _her_ , but -- none for him?

[again the Elf of Alqualonde shakes her head]

 **Teler Maid** :

 _She_ does not lie to herself any longer.

 **Aredhel** : [caustic]

Hm. So your mercy is purely conditional -- you save it for the ones who _yield_ to you, just like Manwe and the rest of them.

 **Teler Maid** : [shrugging]

It would not do him any good. He only hurts because he will not give up the Darkness that is in him, and when he is reminded of it, it pains him, but he will not bear to have it out. Once a fishhook is in you, it _must_ hurt to get it out, for either you must drive it through if it is little, or cut free the barb if it is great, but if you leave it in -- there is less pain but never shall it heal, and 'twill be far worse of injury after.

[frustrated sigh]

He _might_ be free, had he only courage for it as much as he wishes it.

[the Feanorian lord convulses, his hands clawing at the floor, but will not look up -- or vanish]

 **Ambassador** : [frowning in distress at an erstwhile enemy's suffering]

\-- Much truth, but little kindness.

 **Teler Maid** : [impatient]

Why do you look for it in me? The sea is _salt_ , not _sweet_.

 **Steward** : [softly]

 _Many_ grains . . .

 **Finrod** : [sad smile]

How wise you've grown, Maiwe -- and how much Insight you've gained.

 **Teler Maid** : [still impatient]

I have been dead longer than any else of you -- longer than one here has been alive!

[she nods towards the Youngest Ranger]

\-- and things I have learned here -- though I would not heed the lesson.

[she gives Nienna's student a Look half-sulky, half self-amused]

How might I _not_ know these things?

[forlorn]

I cannot tell myself any longer that 'twas all _others'_ doing that I was wretched in Tirion -- though no more was it _mostly_ mine the blame of it.

[scowling at the Lord Warden again]

I would like to _kick_ him -- but that would not help him any either, I think.

 **Apprentice** : [helpful]

Oh, you never know.

[defensive, at various Looks from apparent elders]

Well, it _might_  --

 **Luthien** : [very dry]

No, I _really_ don't think so.

 **Apprentice** : [pleased aside]

But it did help what it was meant to --

[glancing at the Teler Maid, who is smirking in spite of trying to look serious]

\-- it made _her_ smile again . . .

[The Ex-Thrall returns, still looking somewhat in shock and haggard, but remarkably calm and sane, if gloomy. Part of this, no doubt, is due to the fact that not only has she washed the tearstains from her face, but her collection of rags and cast-offs appropriated from deceased owners has been replaced (as we see when the cloak slips back when she sits down) by a different garb: now she is arrayed in the semblance of light & rather ornate armour with an embroidered surcoat, though without sword or bow -- the sort of thing a Noldorin Healer might wear when riding out through disputed territory . . .]

 **Luthien** :

Better?

 **Ex-Thrall** :

I . . .  _think_ so.

[she makes a vague gesture with her fingers]

But . . . hollow. And empty.

 **Teler Maid** :

So is a hull, before 'tis planked and loaded.

[the Noldor shade gives a faint half-smile]

 **Ex-Thrall** :

I . . . there is not much _left_ of me, now, having given up my shame.

 **Luthien** :

 _You_ know about that, from our vocation. It takes _time_ to restore flesh, and spirit, too.

 **Ex-Thrall** :

I know. But I do not know . . . I am _worn_ _out_ with battering against my cage, and now that the bars are gone . . .

[she shakes her head again, looking lost]

 **Youngest Ranger** : [earnest]

It's all right. You've time. -- You're not so plainly crazy now.

 **Ex-Thrall** :

No?

[he shakes his head in answer]

 **Youngest Ranger** :

No more than the rest of us.

[checks]

That might not be much of a comfort, though.

[she smiles at him, an exhausted but genuine smile]

 **Ex-Thrall** : [quietly]

I can live with that.

[she exchanges a meaningful Look with Finrod]

\-- Perhaps . . . someday. _Perhaps_.

 **Finrod** :

\-- Someday.

[his confidence makes her smile again for a moment, before turning a sympathetic eye to the one who has moved into the state she has finally vacated.]

 **Ex-Thrall** :

Oh my friend . . .

[sighing]

Too strong to seek oblivion, yet too fearful to bear justice, -- and too _proud_ to admit error. I hope you are not held in such chains for so long as I.

[slowly the Lord Warden straightens into a crouch to snarl at her, baring his teeth in fury, -- then flinches aside, squinting as if blinded by the sight of her. As he trembles there, whatever harsh response he was about to make forgotten, she holds out her hands to him]

Will you _let_ me help you? Or will you scorn the pity of one such as I?

[still flinching, lifting a hand to shield his eyes, the Warden of Aglon looks at her, and is amazed to see that she is crying for him. With a visible struggle, he reaches to her in turn, still fighting against his own inclinations]

 **Warden of Aglon** :

Please --  _help_ me, my Lady --

[the Healer's ghost crawls over the step to him, catching his arm and letting him fall against her shoulder as he breaks down at last in unresisting tears. She holds him quietly throughout as he cries, unstrung as someone pulled out of the water after a shipwreck, her eyes closed, saying nothing. The Captain looks at Aredhel.]

 **Captain** :

You're wrong, Highness. She's _here_.

[the Exiled princess shivers, and looks away with a petulant frown]

 **Apprentice** :

Who?

 **Captain** :

Our good Lady, of course.

[Nienna's Apprentice looks about, baffled]

 **Apprentice** :

No she isn't.

[frowning]

Unless you're being all weird and dead and mystical about it.

[pause]

 **Captain** : [raising an eyebrow]

 _Fire_ , eh?

 **Apprentice** : [forced lightness]

You're not making any sense -- still.

 **Captain** :

There but for Doom, you?

 **Apprentice** : [through his teeth]

You. Promised.

 **Captain** : [innocent]

What _are_ you talking about?

[his former adversary gives him an askance Look of renewed wariness, while the living Eldar struggle for self-possession following the recent events, and Luthien and the Steward together attempt to comfort the giant Hound, who is still whining and trembling like a puppy in a thunderstorm]

 **Amarie** : [shaken, but controlling it well]

Is't ever thus, such woe and even such searing of remorse its pangs, amongst the houseless held herein?

 **Elenwe** : [bright]

I fear me so. 'Tis far pleasanter in veriest truth to bide upon Taniquetil's airy foot, amid Valimar's fair harmonies, than under the mountain-roots, where lamentations do rarely stir the silence that here prevaileth.

 **Amarie** : [sharply biting off each word]

I am here, as I am bid, but for duty, nor for any _pleasure_ of mine own, thou mayest _well_ of that assure thyself.

 **Captain** : [curiously]

I always wondered that he never tried to lure in any -- Vanyar -- at all. You sure the Lord of Paranoids didn't try recruiting you?

[the Apprentice glares at him]

 **Apprentice** :

No.

[scowling admission]

\-- Not interested.

 **Finrod** :

I'm afraid all of us have gone through something of the sort -- or shall, eventually, or at least so one hopes. -- Self knowledge _hurts_.

 **Nerdanel** : [quietly]

Ingold -- be thou aught more gentle. 'Tis an ill place for we that live, thou _must_ comprehend.

 **Captain** :

What, _you_ , or him?

 **Apprentice** : [terse]

 _Him_.

[he shuts down, glowering at the floor, while the Captain watches him with a mix of concern and professional curiosity]

 **Aredhel** : [sweetly]

As long as they don't have to know about it, it won't bother them, and we wouldn't want anything troubling their precious peace-of-mind now, would we?

 **Finarfin** : [upset]

Niece, 'tis not that we would not to contemplate, but rather --

 **Aredhel** : [interrupting]

Oh yes it is, you know I'm right --

 **Aegnor** : [interrupting her interruption]

Morgoth's mercy, can't you just _shut_ _up_?

[rolling his eyes]

Hey, maybe _Turgon_ threw you out -- is that it?

 **Luthien** : [looking up]

Ahem.

 **Angrod** : [wearily]

You shut up, Aegnor, you're just making it worse.

 **Fingolfin** :

There's a certain measure of truth in what 'Feiniel says, you know.

 **Aredhel** :

Oh, thank you _so_ much, Father!

 **Eol** : [nudging her meaningfully]

I'm right about you not being able to stand your own people, aren't I?

 **Luthien** :

Huan's having a nervous breakdown and _none_ of you are helping.

 **Teler Maid** : [frowning, annoyed]

Why must they all fight like children? There's no point in _this_.

[she frowns at the low-grade snarling among the Noldor royals which continues in the background, while the rest of the Ten exchange here-we-go-again Looks . . .]

 **Apprentice** : [stifled]

He didn't even _bother_.

[in an indignant rush]

\--  _Other_ people besides Finwe's scions have glamorous older siblings besides whose accomplishments _yours_ pale into nothing too, you know.

[sighing, resigned]

I suppose it's all for the best, really.

 **Captain** : [dubious]

\-- " _Suppose_ " . . . ?

[raising his eyebrows]

I think maybe I understand why you're assigned _here_ a little bit better.

 **Apprentice** : [upset]

No, I didn't mean it that --

 **Captain** : [with a friendly shove]

I'm teasing you.

[shaking his head]

You're far too good-natured. You'd make as bad a -- minion -- as Himself did. Or me.

 **Steward** : [to his ex, quietly]

Because of fear, and witness of suffering that one is helpless to end, and all the old unrest, the unhealed injuries we gave each other before some left this shore.

[to Luthien]

He might care for being brushed, do you think, my Lady?

 **Luthien** : [doubtful]

Perhaps. I think it's more the _discord_ that's getting to him, though.

[loudly]

\-- Does anyone mind if I keep going?

[but she is only looking for one person's response. The Ex-Thrall does not look up or leave off consoling her compatriot, but nods, raising her hand to continue]

All right, then. So anyway, as I was saying -- as soon as my Working was damaged, we forgot all about everything except getting out of there before it unraveled completely and just _fled_  -- I wouldn't have thought I had the strength left for it, one moment I was wobbling like a newborn fawn, trying not to black out from overexertion -- I was shakier than I was right after Huan caught me --

[the Lord of Dogs paws at her knee plaintively]

It's okay, you know it is -- I was just using it as an example --

[scratching his ears]

\-- but when Morgoth started stirring, I was up and running as fast as anything, dragging Beren along behind me -- except when he was dragging me, careening into corners and columns and jumping over sleeping snakes as if we were doing one of those warriors' competitions, only not carrying spears -- trying not to get disoriented and go down a side hallway. It was all empty and quiet and the silence itself was just _terrifying_.

 **Finrod** : [bemused]

 _Because_ it was quiet?

 **Luthien** : [nodding]

Before there was so much _noise_  -- vibrations and thumpings and screeching like branches in a storm, and shouting; and hissing sounds like giant snakes, or when you pour water over a fire -- or quench a sword, probably that's what it was, tempering, only much, _much_ louder -- and now it was just us, the only noise was ours, and we kept panicking and grabbing each other and turning around because it sounded like we were being chased, but --

[with a self-mocking smile]

\-- it was only _us_ , each time, our echoes chasing after. And then we saw the light up at the tunnel's end, where the Gate opened, and it hurt so badly, the terror of hope, that it almost seemed we could make it, and then a darkness rises up and covers it like a thundercloud, -- only one with red glowing eyes -- and we stopped all in a tangle.

 **Huan** :

[very loud snarl]

 **Finrod** : [darkly]

Carcharoth. -- The part you told me, in very brief, earlier.

 **Luthien** : [nods]

Yes. He'd wakened, and gotten up and turned around at our approach, staring at us with this crazed,blank, expression, sniffing and growling, looking like he was completely terrified and angry and ready to fly at us for both reasons, the way dogs get sometimes around strangers. I knew we were doomed because I'd used all my strength in quelling his Master, and I didn't know how I could bind him again -- but I had to try. And then --

 **Amarie** : [interrupting]

He had naught of gratitude for thy prior mercy?

 **Luthien** :

Why should he?

 **Amarie** :

For that thou hadst released him from his pain, nor wrought harm nor sought ye thus, against him?

 **Luthien** : [flatly]

I tricked him and humiliated him and made him a slave to my power. -- That's how he saw it. No, he wasn't grateful. Why? Did you think he would have recognized me as a friend, and let us go, or even helped us, let me ride him like Huan, or fought against his pack-mates to defend us? He was a Hellhound. That was the life he knew. You didn't really think that the fact that I was able to pity him, would make him able to reciprocate, or change all that?

 **Amarie** :

 _Should_ , belike.

 **Aredhel** :

Still the same naive impractical idealist, Amarie. The world's a harsh and bloody place, I'm sorry to have to tell you.

[Amarie only looks at Luthien, ignoring the insult]

 **Luthien** :

In a perfect world, perhaps. But we haven't got one.

 **Teler Maid** : [completely wrapped up in the story -- and her hair -- again]

What did happen then?

 **Luthien** :

Well, --

[she stops again and takes a deep breath; Huan looks up at her worriedly, whining]

 **Finrod** : [concerned]

Are you going to be all right?

 **Luthien** : [sighing]

Oh yes. I can think about it if I sort of shut my mind against it, like the gates of Menegroth, and tell it without _dreaming_ it. That's how I managed to describe it to Mom and Dad and everyone.

[she braces herself and goes on:]

I was standing there, staring at him and then he pulled himself together, and sprang at us -- and as I was trying to pull together enough semblance of rationality and courage to fake my way through dealing with him again, Beren pushes me out of the way and storms past me with the jewel held up -- and you have to remember that it was getting brighter all the time, they all had been, from the moment Morgoth lost consciousness, as though they didn't dare to shine around him, or refused like songbirds in a cage.

[gesturing, holding up her right hand]

And Carcharoth halts, like an ordinary Warg confronted with a torch, but Beren doesn't -- he caught him by the scruff of his neck, as if he was just a bad dog, and Commanded him in this voice that didn't even sound like him, to _yield_ to the Light that was the Doom of all fell creatures, and brings it up towards his eyes, blazing like all the lights in the sky at once, stars and moon and sun and the aurora in one fierce point, and the Wolf cringes away for an instant, and then in reaction, flips his head back and _strikes_ like a fish taking bait, and --

[abruptly she clenches her fist]

\-- his teeth took Beren's hand off, and he bolted it all down --

[she flinches, wrapping her arms tightly around herself and rocking a little. Finarfin unconsciously reaches out towards her before recollecting himself. General reactions among those who haven't already heard the story of awe and horror]

 **Finrod** : [hollow]

It wasn't supposed to be him.

[he looks stricken and anguished]

 **Luthien** : [baffled]

What?

 **Finrod** :

It should have been _me_. There are ways to take light that's stored in crystal and use it for other things than simply more light, later on. In Healing, to remove Dark influences, or in other Arts, to cut very fine lines --

 **Luthien** : [confused/impatient]

I remember Galadriel talking about that, sometimes, showing Mom how it worked, and about getting some sort of array made in Belegost to amplify it, she said, but -- frankly I was bored by it, and I didn't see much point -- it seemed like so much extra work, but --

 **Steward** : [wry]

Aye, my Lady, but we poor Noldor, that have not the perfect and absolute pitch of your folk and blood, find such devices of easier use -- and more certain -- than the sung note, betimes.

[the Teler Maid gives him a very suspicious Look]

 **Finrod** : [abstracted]

Ideally it all works together, thought, device, and voice. But regardless --

[closing his eyes]

If _I_ had been the one there, with the Stone, I could have turned the power of it into a weapon, to blast the minion of the Dark senseless, blind him where he stood, and clear our path to safety, from safety. Beren -- had no chance. None at all.

 **Aredhel** :

Why do you think it would have answered _you_? You've no more right to it than the mortal, -- or _anyone_ _else_ except our cousins. 

**Finrod** :

Didn't you hear? It came to his hand like a tame bird -- they _wanted_ to be free. It _tried_  -- it spoke to him, but being human he had no more hope of comprehending how to wield it than of channeling its power against the Wolf. He was like a child using a longbow to strike at an attacker, with neither the full understanding nor the strength to apply such knowledge as it should be.

 **Captain** :

Sire -- I believe it has been definitely and unquestionably established that neither you nor we are guilty of anything but bad luck for having been betrayed to our deaths. And as Edrahil will point out if I don't, so I'll be quick -- with regards to fortune, _guilty_ is not the appropriate word, any more than guilt is to the situation.

 **Elenwe** : [earnest]

Heed thee thy friend, Ingold.

[sounding as if she's picking up an older argument]

'Twould help thee perventure more, an thou didst more time devote unto _quiet_ , even as contemplation, thereby to find thee rest; nor seek thee ever all things unto thy will ordaining most restive to go. 

[Luthien puts her hand on Finrod's cheek and turns his face towards hers]

 **Luthien** : [gently]

She's right, -- at least about not blaming yourself. I'm afraid I can't _imagine_ you not trying to manage everything.

[he manages a wan smile and busies himself comforting Huan with nose-scratches]

 **Teler Maid** :

And what did ye then?

 **Luthien** : [with a bitter laugh]

I fell apart. It was just -- too much, to have come so far and tried _so_ hard, and _fail_ at the last moment like this. I just screamed and collapsed on the floor and started crying. But _he_ didn't. He pushed off the wall as he fell and staggered over to fend off the Wolf from me with his left hand --

 **Eol** :

What good did that do?

 **Luthien** : [shrugging wryly]

None.

 **Angrod** : [indignant on Beren's behalf, now . . .]

It was a selfless and courageous gesture --

 **Eol** :

Ah yes, so she could watch him get eaten, but he wouldn't have to witness _her_ fate. -- Realistically, now --  

**Aredhel** : [taut -- not ironic at all now]

\-- Eol, you soulless rock -- at least _he_ got between her and harm.

[she is rubbing unconsciously at her shoulder]

 **Eol** :

Oh, come -- you _never_ wanted me to protect _you_ , as if you were some frail, sniveling child-woman. Try for a little consistency, dear, if you please --

 **Aegnor** : [aside, through clenched teeth]

\-- Finrod, _make_ _them_ _be_ _quiet_ before I kill them both.

[simultaneously Elenwe taps Fingolfin on the arm, but is only anticipating by a moment, as he is already preparing to overcome his revulsion and talk to his son-in-law]

 **Fingolfin** :

Master of Nan Elmoth. Mark my words very well. -- Show our kinswoman _and_ her story due respect, because I enjoy chopping you into pieces far too much for my own good.

[they enter into a staring war, neither one willing (or able) to back down]

 **Aredhel** : [poisonously sweet]

Darling, no one will think the worse of you for not facing the High King of the Noldor in single combat, again.

[Nerdanel shares a wry Look with her (living) brother-in-law]

 **Finarfin** : [with a very familiar rueful smile]

\-- Of certitude.

 **Eol** : [calmly, (& sounding like he probably did in Turgon's hall)]

I'm not afraid of your father. 

[she gives an exaggerated sigh]

 **Aredhel** :

 _Why_ must you insist on reinforcing everyone's impression that you're insane? I have a hard enough time as it is.

 **Eol** :

It's your curse, my love -- as you are mine.

[her father stands up, slow, deliberate, and yes, majestic]

 **Fingolfin** : [not breaking his stare with Eol]

Aegnor. Arm me, if it please you, in Fingon's place -- but I will _not_ need you to stand as second.

[his nephew gets up very quickly and enthusiastically]

 **Finarfin** :

Doth he not perceive how thy daughter hath ensnared him in yon challenge to thy wrath, Fingolfin?

[indeed, the White Lady is looking very smug]

 **Apprentice** : [happy to be of use]

It's very difficult to tell, your Majesty. He's perverse enough to not care whether or not she thinks she's manipulating him successfully, because then he can look down on her for thinking him stupid. And there's a level on which he doesn't _mind_ getting hurt because he's proud of his hardiness, and another which he doesn't like to admit, where he partly thinks he deserves it because --

 **Eol** : [interrupting loudly]

Luthien, my sweet little cousin, I _do_ apologize for troubling you with our unseemly backwoods squabbles, so far unlike the graciousness of your noble father's court, and I pray you continue with your fascinating narrative, I pledge uninterrupted henceforth, for all of me.

[Luthien closes her eyes in exasperation at his words, but nods in acceptance, and Fingolfin kneels down again in the circle of listeners; Aegnor following suit a little more reluctantly]

 **Steward** : [snorting]

What an apology!

 **Captain** : [straightfaced]

What apology?

 **Angrod** : [wide-eyed]

What? An apology? From Eol -- and I missed it?

 **Steward** : [apologetic]

I must apologize, gentles -- 'twas but a false alarm.

[the Sea-Elf (who in the latest semi-fracas has once again migrated over to Elenwe's protection) clamps her hands over her mouth to prevent an inappropriate giggle]

 **Aegnor** : [aside]

Now I'm going to kill _them_.

[Finarfin gives his younger son a baffled, disappointed Look]

 **Finrod** [aside]

No you're not, and you're going to stop joking about killing people, too -- it's upsetting Father.

 **Luthien** :

I'm afraid I've lost my place.

 **Nerdanel** :

Thou hadst e'en now told how thy wounded love did yet strive for to shield thee 'gainst thy red-jawed foe.

 **Luthien** :

Yes, thanks -- Carcharoth wasn't even trying to attack us, then, he was just standing there, with a puzzled expression in his stance, still growling with his hackles up, but not really even paying attention to us. And then he flung back his head and started howling, as if he was being beaten, yelping almost, and all the Wolves in Angband must have wakened at his cries, because the echoes just didn't stop --

[her cousin from Beleriand looks extremely disgruntled]

 **Eol** :

There's _more_?

 **Apprentice** : [correcting]

There's a _lot_ more.

 **Eol** :

? ? ?

 **Aredhel** :

And you promised you'd be quiet!

[she laughs delightedly]

 **Luthien** :

Not that much more. He started bucking like a fractious colt, or like a young deer, flinging himself about as if he were trying to shake off embers in his coat, but couldn't, and after crashing up against the walls on either side -- blindly, not looking for us, he turned and bolted out through the archway into the open, still howling as he went, leaving the path completely unguarded for us.

[Huan wags his tail]

\-- It was almost too late, other echoes were coming up from the depths, the Glamhoth's shouting and a deep bellowing like a wild bull -- and the floor started to shake, well, everything did, including the ground. Beren was in a very bad way, not much use at all --

[suddenly very fierce and daunting]

\-- and don't _anyone_ go saying anything about that being nothing new, or the like, understand?

[not even the least prudent is moved to levity]

\-- but I was able to get him up again and on his feet for a bit, and we stumbled out of there like blind little puppies creeping out of their den, making as much regress as we did progress, I'm afraid, going this way and that.

[shaking her head]

I don't know how I did it. Each time, it seemed as though I'd come to the end of my strength, as if all I could do was curl up in a corner and wait for the end, and . . . somehow, from somewhere, I found just enough more to get up and keep going for as long as it took, after I'd given up. Well, _you_ know about that from the War, I don't need to tell _you_  --

 **Finrod** :

But do _you_ need to talk about it?

[she starts to answer, then stops, temporarily unable to speak; he puts his arm around her shoulders]

I know. -- I know.

 **Luthien** : [thinly]

We went as far as we could go, and then I couldn't even carry him any longer, and it seemed like I was wearing more of his blood than could be left in him, and it was obviously _silly_ to think that we might get away, now, it didn't make any difference if we gave up here or a few paces farther, so I found some shelter and started working on his arm while everything fell apart behind us, and there was so much noise I could hardly hear myself singing, and I knew it wouldn't be long before they found a way around the landslide, but I couldn't just let him die like that, without doing anything --

[the Healer nods understandingly, from where she is holding the Lord Warden in his grieving]

 **Finrod** : [reluctant to interrupt]

\-- Landslide?

[Luthien wipes hard at her eyes]

 **Luthien** :

I'm sorry. I'm getting this all out of order again. I forgot you didn't already know all this.

 **Warrior** : [quietly]

We heard about it from Beren -- except he didn't remember most of it.

 **Luthien** : [ragged laughter]

I wish _I_ didn't. I was beside myself trying to think what to do, because on the one hand I needed to get the poison out, but he couldn't stand much more blood loss, and he was so cold already from shock that I couldn't tell if I'd put the tourniquet on tight enough, or too tight, and I could hardly find enough edges on either of our clothes that weren't already soaked to start ripping bandages from --

[shaking her head]

But I was going to tell you about the situation. Morgoth lost his temper and with it his control over Thangorodrim -- I don't mean in the sense of not being in charge of it, but of what it all was doing. He's got his power spread all through it the way mushrooms spread all through the leaf-mould in a forest, whether you can see them growing or whether they're just an invisible web throughout the soil. When he realized what had happened, he was even more furious than Carcharoth and that anger rippled out into the rock and all the formations he's made, and the front part of the peaks fell down and caved in the gate arch behind us, and fire and fumes came spilling out of the mountain, just like during the Bragollach.

 **Angrod** :

That must have been terrifying beyond belief for you!

[she shrugs]

 **Luthien** :

I hardly noticed it. I finally did when I started wondering why no Wolf-Riders were galloping up to arrest us. But I was too busy being worried for Beren, then and after. The lightning was a more immediate worry, anyway.

 **Angrod** :

Lightning?

 **Finrod** : [biting his lip]

Indeed.

 **Luthien** :

Sorry. He started trying to blast us from inside. Bolts were stabbing down all over the place, knocking down yet more rockfalls from the cliffs, and scaring all the vultures from their haunts -- it was all incredibly noisy and disorienting.

 **Fingolfin** : [dark amusement]

His mark is not that good, it seems, for all that you were at his gates, and no moving target.

 **Apprentice** : [officious]

Lightning isn't as easy to aim as people think. It isn't like an arrow, a straight path from here to there, at all -- it has to _grow_. That's why it so often looks like a tree.

 **Amarie** :

Nor doth King Manwe lightly brook such presumptuous meddling in his own consecrate element, nay, so little as Lord Ulmo amid the waters. 'Twould be a struggle counter to the very airs that bear that power, who may doubt, that his fell brother must wage to wry from them the thundery fireslash.

 **Finrod** : [to Luthien]

You don't think it was your cloak helping to protect you?

 **Luthien** : [shrugging]

It's not really a physical shield at all -- it's primarily camouflage, and a focusing device. The only thing it blocks is light, and I doubt that it would stand up to lightning, any more than I could.

 **Finrod** :

But mightn't it have been preventing him from seeing you clearly enough to aim?

 **Luthien** :

Maybe. But I think they're probably closer to the way of it. Anyway, it wasn't a -- a _meaningful_ danger, it wasn't something that I could do anything about or that we could avoid, and there was so much danger all around, with the fires belching out and hordes of minions on the way and all of it that the only danger that mattered any more, was that of Beren dying from exsanguination or shock. -- At least I knew from having treated him earlier how much more careful and thorough I had to be, and I did manage to stop most of the venom from moving up his arm and minimize the damage as well as accelerate the normal recovery processes, but other than that there wasn't much I could do except hold him.

[swallowing hard]

He -- he kept trying to smile at me, the whole time I was working on him, and after, when I made my own death-song telling him that I loved him and that I wouldn't have it any other way, if _that_ meant never knowing him, and he kept just kept whispering "I'm sorry," until he lost consciousness.

 **Ambassador** : [aside, in a tone of calm realization]

More than the curt word of revelation, in my Lady's anger, that this Man did for rash impulse or arrant pride or mad anger choose to set himself in my lord's defense -- and died for it! -- these glimpses of endless defeat upon defeat, and vain hopes dashed from triumph, and still to strive bravely without hope, but always, _always_ love -- my resentful disdain and blame have entirely shattered. Should we indeed meet again -- I must hold him no more a stranger, far less enemy! -- but as an Elf, and brother to me upon our Earth, for all that reachless gulf between us.

 **Luthien** :

I just wish -- that -- somehow -- it hadn't taken _that_ for people to finally appreciate him.

[Huan licks her face]

I know, you _always_ did. -- Good boy.

 **Finarfin** : [aside]

I would this might be apprehended in spirit of the utterance, than in seeming, but no matter --

[to Luthien]

Good my kinswoman, I do admit of curiosity, that did befall the Silmaril ye twain did seize, and was so swiftly rapt from ye in's turn, or did the Dark King recall and tear it from his servant's flesh, else hath the monster borne it afar to undiscernéd loss?

 **Luthien** : [pulling herself together]

That's right, you left before -- it comes later in the story, though, we didn't find out until quite a long whiles after. 

**Fingolfin** : [surprised]

Your misadventure came not to its ending there, Highness?

 **Captain** :

It gets worse, Sire.

 **Finrod** :

I keep hearing . . . odd rumours, about this next part.

 **Luthien** :

Well, it seemed to come out of nowhere, but afterwards it all made sense. I'd wrapped him up in my cloak to keep him warm, and thinking that it was too bad that we couldn't even see the sun through all the fumes and the heaps of slag everywhere, and the wind kept getting stronger, flinging ashes all around. Then it got even darker, and I looked up, thinking it must be Morgoth come out finally to crush us in person, only it wasn't. It was the Eagle and his thanes, coming through the smoke towards us, dodging through the spires and gorges as if they were chasing down prey, and the closer they got to us, the worse the lightning got -- but it seemed to melt away from them, or they to avoid it without effort, riding the storm as if it was nothing more than a thermal.

 **Huan** :

[happy tail-thumps]

 **Luthien** :

The Enemy must have realized this, because pretty soon they started firing arrows from the battlements, not just a few random ones, but volley after volley like hail, as if someone were finally coordinating things. But that didn't stop them, Thorondor just came right in with Landroval and Gwaihir flanking him as outriders -- well, you know what I mean -- and picked us both up as carefully as if he were in his own nest, minding his claws around his babies, and took us all that distance we had taken days to cover before in a matter of _heartbeats_ , not hours.

[with a brittle laugh]

I was crying so much anyone below must have thought we were a very quick-moving rainstorm, because I didn't think he was going to live, and even if he somehow did make it through this, I couldn't see how we would manage past it, how he could go on after a defeat like that, the worst one of them all, and all of it because of me --

[the Ten have been waiting for this -- the Ranger leans over and taps one of the Royal Guards on the arm]

 **Ranger** :

See? I told you what was going to be different: Beren did everything and it was all _her_ fault, not the other way about. -- Pay up.

[as the other Elf-warrior resignedly hands over some trinket]

 **Youngest Ranger** :

I _told_ you not to take his bet.

[Finrod closes his eyes]

 **Captain** :

Oh lads, give it a break.

 **Teler Maid** : [frowning]

So . . . the more one does _know_ , of things, or folk, the less of _chance_ there is.

[she nods to herself, looking narrowly at the Steward]

 **Luthien** :

Logically I know it wasn't, but sometimes . . .  _believing_ it is hard. Anyway they carried us, straight south to the borders of Doriath -- That's when I saw Gondolin off in the distance.

[simultaneous]

 **Finrod** :

But you didn't go there.

 **Elenwe** :

Made ye no sojourn in the halls of mine own dear ones?

 **Luthien** :

No. Huan was waiting for us, and they brought us back to him. -- They were _very_ impressed by Huan 

[she concentrates on playing with the Hound's collar and petting his ears]

\-- as they ought to have been! He'd explained to them what it was we were about, and requested them to keep an eye out for us and do whatever they could to help us. They were very sorry we hadn't managed it -- sorry the way I was sorry, not just that we hadn't got them from Morgoth -- and I'm starting to sound like Beren again, not being very clear about who or what is what or who --

[she's trying to be bright and in control and failing miserably]

Thorondor kept telling me all about it, trying to keep me distracted, on the theory I suppose that one can't very well carry on a conversation and have hysterics at the same time. Though he did seem interested in everything I could remember to tell him about our adventures inside Thangorodrim.

[sniffling, pulling herself together]

He had an awful lot of awful things to say about Morgoth -- apparently, way back in the very old days, he was busy capturing ordinary hawks and eagles and trying to figure out how their wings worked . . . by cutting them off and using them as patterns for machines.

[she shivers, her expression dismayed at the idea -- and shared by everyone else, regardless of political alignment]

They really want him punished _quite_ badly. 

**Third Guard** : [aside to the Youngest Ranger, impressed]

You were exactly right about the Eagles doing their Work on their own.

 **Youngest Ranger** : [nodding]

\-- Just like us.

 **Luthien** : [woebegone]

We ended up back where we started. Almost exactly. With Beren wounded and unconscious again, only this time we didn't have Horse, or the Angcrist, or the disguises -- though we wouldn't have been able to try again with them, I know -- or the Silmaril. He should have _listened_ to me the first time.

[softly, as Amarie closes her eyes and laughs quietly, half-crying, in turn]

\-- He _should_ have listened.


	145. Act 4: SCENE V.xxxiv

[Elsewhere -- the Corollaire.]

[A wind sweeps through the grass around them, which has risen to summer height, full of wildflowers, and rustles in a prolonged susurrus like waves on a lakeshore. Butterflies flicker over it like reflected lights from water. They and the bees also feeding there land frequently on the two companions, fearlessly.]

 **Beren** : [frowning]

So the King and Queen weren't just being . . . rhetorical? -- rhetorical, when they asked me for my opinions?

 **Yavanna** :

Why would you think they were?

 **Beren** : [ironic laugh]

Well -- I'm just a Man. Why would the Powers That Be think _I_ could help _them_? You wouldn't _expect_ that.

 **Yavanna** :

But you're part of the Answer. You're the Third Theme, you Children, and we don't understand the Answer, yet. It was more hopeful, I suspect, than actually thinking you would _have_ a solution, but since you were so adamant that you did understand the problem better than any of us, -- it was worth a try. Manwe's very open to suggestions. He's good at listening, our King.

[he frowns again, resting his chin on his arms]

 **Beren** : [grumpy]

Besides, it took so long for me to get there, it seemed like they were trying to put me off, like they didn't want to deal with me, like the Doomsman didn't want me to either.

[she gives him a Look of affectionate frustration, as a teacher dealing with a brilliant smart-alec:]

 **Yavanna** : [patient]

Where are the Halls of Mandos, Beren?

 **Beren** : [cautious]

Under the Mountains of the West.

[in a very different tone]

Is that West as in _here_ , west, or West as in _west_?

 **Yavanna** :

Yup. -- Where do Manwe and Varda dwell?

 **Beren** : [not sure where she's leading]

On top of Mount Everwhite.

 **Yavanna** :

The highest peak in all the worlds-realm, yes?

[he nods]

Can you step from the roots of the earth to the heights in one stride?

[pause]

 **Beren** :

So it was my fault that it took so long. Just like I couldn't see them properly. It was me.

 **Yavanna** : [shrugging]

Fault? Say _your_ _nature_ , rather.

 **Beren** : [ironic, but self-deprecating, not angry]

What's the difference?

 **Yavanna** : [serious]

A matter of perspective. Is it better to see everything from a distance, in relation to each other, or one thing up close, in all its glory?

 **Beren** :

I think it would be better to see _both_.

 **Yavanna** :

Yes, but we _can't_. Not at the same time. Can you?

 **Beren** :

No, but -- I'm not a god, either.

 **Yavanna** :

\--  _And_?

[pause]

 **Beren** : [aside]

They're right -- that really _is_ annoying.

[he looks at her sidelong, rubbing his chin]

Huh. -- But you can't compare me to the King -- to Finrod.

 **Yavanna** :

Why not?

 **Beren** :

It -- it just -- I'm not --

 **Yavanna** :

Have you not done all that he has done -- loved, cherished, striven against the Dark, suffered for those you love? How are you different, in that, from the Eldar?

 **Beren** : [gesturing vaguely]

Yes, but we don't make things like they do, or know things, we --

[she laughs]

 **Yavanna** :

The Noldor aren't the only people in the world who matter, dear one. They're not even the wisest, though they'll argue that. You know that the _Vanyar_ consider them flawed, for caring so much about material possessions and the making of them, rather than paying attention to the universe that is all around us, and placing such things as high in their regard or higher, than persons.

[pause]

Does that make you feel better?

 **Beren** :

No.

[pause]

 **Yavanna** :

Why not?

 **Beren** : [agitated]

Because that's really _daunting_ , if you guys are taking us seriously and thinking that we're the same as the Elves, really, only not but then _yes_ , really, in terms of what we can do, or maybe could do -- and thinking that we could maybe help Fix the universe, because that means you're thinking that on the level where it really matters, I'm not any different from Feanor. -- Or Finrod. -- Or Tinuviel. And I think about _us_ , and all the stupid stuff that goes on just trying to get through a normal day without killing yourself or somebody else let alone when it all goes to hell, and I think -- Who are they _kidding_? We're not like that, we can't _do_ that.

[shaking his head]

And then . . . and then I remember: Yeah, but you _did_. You just fetched the Powers in Beleriand a good one and walked away from it, for a while at least. Morgoth was as scared of you as he was of the High King, for a bit there. And that's just _me_. Why _shouldn't_ they take us seriously? And that --

[whistling in dismay]

I don't _want_ that kind of responsibility. This is _so_ much bigger than Dorthonion, and I never really saw that when I was alive. It's like -- if you threw a rock in a temper tantrum and found out you'd started an avalanche. That's not _right_. We shouldn't be able to change the World.

[the Earth-Queen says nothing, but pats his arm with a sympathetic smile as he goes on glumly]

Plus I was rude and insulting. I told off Manwe and Varda like it was a council.

 **Yavanna** : [dismissive]

Oh, don't worry about it --  _I_ do it all the time. As gods go, I'm positively hasty -- though not quite so impetuous as Tulkas! Manwe's used to hearing us rant, Tav' and me; they wouldn't expect anything different from _you_.

 **Beren** :

No, I wasn't just obnoxious -- I insulted --  _her_.

[chagrinned and glum]

Because I couldn't -- she isn't like --

[with an exasperated sound]

I made it sound like I thought she wasn't _beautiful_ , because I couldn't think of Morgoth thinking of her that way. But -- she was just so -- cold and _strange_ , compared to you, or even the Lady of Spring --

[Yavanna giggles, shaking her head]

 **Yavanna** :

You poor thing. Don't be embarrassed. You don't think she didn't understand? The Queen of the High Airs isn't shortsighted! You Saw the work of her hands, and loved her through it. Of course you couldn't See her directly -- she's a lot more complex and powerful than I am. It must have been very difficult for them to reveal themselves in a way that you could comprehend. Your folk don't fall in love with Stars, do you? Though of all Men I'd be least surprised at _you_.

[she winks at him]

 **Beren** :

Tinuviel isn't --

[breaks off]

Actually, if the first time I ever saw her was putting down Carcharoth, I might have just worshipped her and been too overawed to look at her.

 **Yavanna** :

And even your own people who know them best, are daunted by the Elves. For the most part.

[Beren sighs]

 **Beren** :

Yeah, aiming high seems to run in my family -- and so does missing the landing and busting a wing like a hard-luck hatchling on its first flight. What _is_ it with us?

 **Yavanna** : [dry]

Or -- what is it with _them_? You're referring to that business with the King's son and your kinswoman, I take it. It's more that the Elves aren't any better at not interfering than we are. People are interesting and fun to be around, as well as dangerous and capable of breaking your heart. We can't stay away from each other.

 **Beren** :

When you say _we_ , you mean --

 **Yavanna** : [nodding]

 _Us_.

[he sighs resignedly]

 **Beren** :

But was that _bad_ , or not?

[she shrugs]

 **Yavanna** :

It has mixed results. Would you rather they hadn't adopted your family, but left you to your own devices?

 **Beren** :

No. But . . . I'm not sure what I'm trying to say. -- It just isn't _fair_.

 **Yavanna** : [sighing]

No, people rarely get what they deserve, good or bad. Why do you think Namo's so gloomy all the time? Enforcing justice after the fact isn't very satisfying. -- Is it?

 **Beren** : [frowning]

Uh-uh. But -- that's who he _is_. He doesn't want his job any more?

 **Yavanna** :

Oh no, more that he wishes it was unnecessary, that there were no more incidents of violence and oppression for him to keep track of. But he can't give it up, any more than I can, no matter how much we lose.

[pause]

 **Beren** :

I was pretty obnoxious to him, too.

 **Yavanna** :

I'm sure he was prepared for it.

 **Beren** :

\-- Yeah. He even told me I was gonna --

[he laughs bitterly, swatting at the stalks of grass and making their tassels swing back and forth]

 **Yavanna** : [putting her hand on his head]

Trust me, you are _nowhere_ _near_ his least favorite person. You've got a _very_ long way to go before you're in Melkor's league. We might be frustrated with you, sometimes, but -- that's because you're so much like us. I'm sure you haven't really hurt anyone's feelings beyond a moment. Not like the Noldor, or that punk loser of a water-elemental --

[he smiles a little, but doesn't say anything. Concerned:]

You do believe me, don't you? You're not agonizing about it again?

[he shakes his head quickly]

 **Beren** :

I'm still a little . . . croggled . . . at the way you talk about things . . . like . . . well, making the World, or . . . calling another god a loser. -- That wasn't Morgoth, I mean.

 **Yavanna** : [shrugging]

Oh, we . . . have words with each other. I've called people _far_ worse things than that. We all have tempers, and some of us don't have much patience to go along with them. But at least -- and it's a good thing for the World -- when we get angry with each other we tend to throw _words_ about, and not thunderbolts, or mountains. No matter how much we annoy each other, we find constructive ways -- or at least fairly harmless ones -- of dealing with it.

[shaking her head]

I can't imagine what agony it must have been for Melkor to go around all those days pretending he was happy and liked people, when all the time he was just plotting his revenge and hiding how much he hated everyone and hadn't recognized the problems with his behaviour after all. No wonder Nia calls him schizophrenic and compartmentalized! Why would you _do_ that to yourself? It's so much easier to just confront somebody when you've got a problem, and get it over with. Or at least make it clear to _everyone_ that boundaries have been _overstepped_ and one is _not_ _happy_ about it. And _no_ , pretty green rocks are _not_ going to make up for it, even if they _have_ been carved to look like new little leaves just opening and they're wearable, because shutting somebody out of a decision _that_ important and treating them with that much disrespect, and it _is_ disrespect even if you didn't think it was, because you ought to have known better and if you didn't think of me at all, well what does _that_ say, hm? and jewelry isn't going to fix _anything_  --

[breaking off mid-rant]

Um. Ah, did you say something?

 **Beren** : [wide-eyed]

No ma'am. I wasn't saying anything.

[aside]

I'm just sitting here listening to you talk to yourself about your husband. And playing with bees.

[holds up one crawling on his knuckles]

Want a bee? They're pretty cute. Would a _bee_ make you feel better?

[biting back a chagrined smile, the Earth-Queen carefully accepts the proffered insect, laughing at herself a little, but with a suspicious blinking, while Beren leans comfortingly against her shoulder. Meaningfully he says:]

Nobody can drive you crazy like the people you love. I know.

[Yavanna nods, sniffing]

 **Yavanna** : [bright, but a little ragged]

\-- Bees came out pretty well, didn't they?


	146. Act 4: SCENE V.xxxv

[the Hall. The mood of the audience is still tense & strained, though the Lord Warden has calmed down and is sitting up listening, shoulder to shoulder with the Ex-Thrall, who has given him the cloak and is clearly his guide-protector now]

 **Luthien** : [bleak]

. . . There's only so many times one can say "I told you so," before there really isn't any point in it. Either the person you're saying it to agrees with you, and then there's no more satisfaction in saying it again -- or they _won't_ agree with you, and saying so again just starts a fight. Or else you end up not talking to each other. He just got sadder, and sadder, and he hardly talked, not even to argue with me, and he never sang again.

[she shakes her head, on the verge of breaking down again]

It was just all so wretched and -- and -- I don't want to talk any more right now because I don't think I can.

[she rests her head against her hands, fighting for control, while Finrod sadly consoles her in silence. Huan, his head lying over her feet, sighs deeply, his ears mournful]

 **Teler Maid** : [aside]

Wherefore do them that would love go ever at odds with each other? For I see now it is not we two alone, nor Noldor blood that causes it, as I did think --

[frowning at the floor]

\-- unless it be merest _difference_ , that makes us to differ so --

[troubled]

Can there be happiness _only_ between the simple and the same? For it seems unequal must any friendship be that's between kind and kind, no matter _what_ their kinds, and where there's imbalance then it must split, I think, as a flawed spar under sail's weight, for the weight of the world all broken.

[Aegnor closes his eyes, and the Steward looks at her with anguish]

But -- nor can two that are equal in skill and might and worth so easily abide each other without rivalry --

[she looks innocently from Aredhel and Eol to Nerdanel, and then to Finrod and Amarie]

\-- no more than kingly brothers, be they Elf or god. _Or_ cousins.

[the representatives of House Finwe shift uneasily]

 **Elenwe** :

Nay, for my love as myself did ne'er seek mastery upon each the other's will, but in our agreements as our disagreeing, we did stand as Tree and Tree, that might shine now alternate, now in unison, yet ne'er might one supplant the other, nor strivest the same.

 **Finarfin** : [sad]

Thou kennst, Maiwe, no more it was the way of it with mine own lady Earwen, that we did make _matter_ of birth eke royal, as of Kindred's precedence, therewith to hold sway anent ourselves.

[sighing]

\-- 'Twas graver matter far, when we did in end dispute.

 **Nerdanel** :

Nor did thy good lady's true-love contend against his kin, nor his brother-prince seek honour over sibling, saving in respect to mine own lord, and that trouble, I confess, e'en as his and mine, was of root far darker e'en so deep, than merest likeness or unlike.

[Fingolfin gives her a grateful Look]

 **Ambassador** :

Our own King and Queen are more different than any other couple on this earth -- except --

[looking involuntarily at Luthien, he is suddenly overcome. The Apprentice starts to say something, then pauses and recollects himself.]

 **Apprentice** :

The same with the gods -- most of _them_ don't fight all the time. If that's how it is with people, that the only way to interact is in terms of power and control, then --

[frowning fiercely]

\-- we might as well all pack it up and go home, because the Dark's _already_ won.

[the Captain nudges him warningly, but in the general discomfiture his small slip is not noticed]

 **Teler Maid** : [doubtful]

I do hear ye, and yet . . .

 **Captain** : [loud and definite]

 _Sameness_ doesn't make for peace. -- No more than lesser ability makes people content with life.

[to Finrod]

Do you remember that mortal couple in Dor-lomin, Sire?

 **Finrod** : [a bit dry]

Contrary to popular opinion, I wasn't _personally_ acquainted with every inhabitant of Beleriand during my lifetime. -- Which cou --

[checks, glances involuntarily at the Steward]

Oh. _That_ story. I -- 

[meaningfully]

I don't know that it's _appropriate_ , really. Do _you_ think so?

 **Captain** :

Why? Because it's got an obnoxious mortal in it?

[Luthien flinches, and her shoulders go stiff]

 **Finrod** :

Ah --  _yes_.

[he gives his friend a pleading, bewildered Look -- the Captain continues in cheerful innocence]

 **Captain** :

It isn't about Beren, though. -- Or any of his House.

[Aegnor grinds his teeth; his brother disregarding, continues to lock stares with his liege]

 _Have_ I failed you, Sir, thus far?

[Finrod ducks his head, conceding this round. To Luthien, who is giving him a melancholy Look not unlike Huan's]

\-- You'll like it too, I promise.

 **Luthien** : [sad smile]

Does it have a happy ending, my lord?

[he has to think for a moment]

 **Captain** :

Not really, I suppose. But it's interesting. And it's got a duel of music in it.

[she perks up a little at this and gives an encouraging nod, as the Steward in turn hunkers down lower, trying to disappear. The Sea-Elf, meanwhile, has begun to give her former co-worker a knowing glare, folding her arms and giving him a Look of combined annoyance and reluctant amusement]

 **Teler Maid** : [tolerant]

Very well. Let us have this story _of_ _the_ _Secondborn_ , which --

[she pauses significantly]

\-- shall either show that I am wrong yet again, about the way of things, _or_ _else_ that 'tis worse even than I did say, for that _none_ might bide peaceably and in friendship, high _or_ low degree.

[her defensiveness has an almost playful, sparring tone, however]

 **Steward** : [aside]

Holy Stars, why ever did I ask for help?

[given permission, his friend launches at once into the story]

 **Captain** :

We were visiting the High King's lands on a horse-trading expedition -- at least, that was part of it, the rest of it's classified, not that it matters any more, I suppose --

 **Fingolfin** :

'Twould hardly add much of interest, I fear, our private negotiations over the siege garrison duties.

 **Captain** :

No, it wasn't all _that_ interesting at the time, even -- sorry, your Majesties, but you know I'm right. Not compared to the springtime we were missing for it.

[both Angrod and Aegnor cannot help but chuckle in agreement]

However that was, we ended up staying the night on the way there as guests of a lordling of Men, whose household was most conscious of the honour and prestige it would give them to have King Felagund under their roof. There's a mortal musician there, a harper as it would happen, and his lady as well, who played the flute for his accompanying. He was not kind to her. He spoke sharply to her, without any cause for it, and blamed his mistakes upon her playing, and did not once thank her for her aid, nor smile at her, except to show his contempt at her excuses. -- He was nervous, of course, because he had not thought to entertain a King that night, far less one so far and widely famed, and his playing suffered for it. And none of us had thought the worse of him, at all, if he hadn't taken his temper out on her. And even after, when he had settled his nerves, and his fingers, he still had no apology nor gentleness for her, and she had no hope in her eyes left, that there would be any.

 **Teler Maid** : [terse aside]

I did play the pipe, on a day.

 **Captain** : [as if he hasn't heard her]

We were seething at it, and while some that dwelt there were ashamed for it, none of their folk considered it a harsh enough matter to warrant rebuke. And the feast wore on like a foggy day, and try as we might to dismiss it as but a false note, and their business, nor our own, still the words and silences between them -- that _most_ humans would not even have marked, so privately they carried on their siege and defense -- soured all the viands at the board. And then Edrahil snapped -- I think it was hearing the harper playing a tune -- or a variant of it -- that Himself had composed in Estolad, and gets up and goes over to his place.

"You play an Elvish song, Man," he says to him, "your voice is sweet, and you have skill -- but _not_ the soul for it."

"There is no finer musician in the land than myself," the mortal replies, not thinking at all in whose company he was.

[he looks at Finrod, who is not _quite_ as embarrassed by the story as his chief counselor]

 **Finarfin** :

How might he forget mine eldest's presence, else Art?

 **Captain** :

Mortals get distracted by different things than we. And the King wasn't reminding anyone of it then. I don't think we were quite _real_ to him, either, not the way his own people were -- not mattering in his daily life, at least. Do you like the story so far, my Lady?

 **Luthien** : [faint smile]

Not sure yet -- but it is interesting.

 **Captain** :

So the Man brags, and his wife winces a little, but doesn't correct him. And all _he_ does is smile, and say, "Indeed?" And the bard's a bit drunk on his own lord's praise and gifts, for he'd been greatly thanked so far that night for being a credit to the hall in that hour, and he avers it so, even though now he's realizing what his consort had already, and had left _us_ out of his considering. Edrahil looks at the heap of gold he's won, and at the Man, and asks him, "Would you care to wager on that?" Then he hesitates. We're all watching, Elves and Men alike, and nobody's interfering because it's too interesting. And the mortal asks him, well, what would he wager? Edrahil sends for his harp.

[gesturing]

And when he takes the wrappings off, and it shines there before them like a song caught in wood, the mortal musician is _ablaze_ with envy, and lust for it chokes him at first, and he turns away from the thought of his gold completely, in the hope of winning that harp, and all sense of his flies right out the smoke-hole, so that he would have dared anything to take it.

 **Teler Maid** : [troubled]

 _Are_ the arts of the Secondborn so much less than ours?

 **Captain** :

Edrahil worked on that harp for four dozen years and his rival had not walked the earth as long. They haven't the time for it, Sea-mew, that's a lot of it.

[he continues, matter-of-fact, not caring whether anyone is made uncomfortable by facts]

"Shall we _hazard_ , then, with you to take my harp, if you win?" he asks the Man, and in his longing for it the other never noticed that he hadn't said what the prize would be, if it were the other way about.

 **Eol** :

He was brave -- though Usurper himself -- to challenge Noldor mastery, in such an unfair contest.

 **Captain** :

But cruel. Had he been kind, he might have boasted all night long, and none taken offense at his folly. -- And greedy. So the Man accepts -- on the condition that they should each use each other's instruments, for you could see he thought there was something "magical" about his --

 **Steward** : [forced to engage]

Well, there _was_ , as humans understand it: I'd reinforced both the internal grain and the finish against damp and surface damage.

 **Captain** :

Nothing that would affect its timbre, though.

 **Steward** :

In fact I've noticed a measurable difference in the tonal brightness of polishes containing finely-ground gems --

 **Captain** : [interrupting]

\-- All right, all right, yours was better and you went along out of fairness. He couldn't wait to get his hands on it, regardless, and he was sure that by using an Elven tool he could add its master's power to his own considerable skill.

 **Nerdanel** : [interrupting in turn]

What stones didst thou employ?

 **Steward** :

Garnet for warmth, quartz for clarity, beryl for strength, my lady.

 **Nerdanel** :

And hadst good success of it?

[the Steward nods -- she whips out her notebook and stylus and starts jotting this down]

And in what measure of each --

 **Captain** : [giving them a stern Look]

Ahem.

 **Nerdanel** : [laughing at herself]

Thy pardon, my lord -- though not to _all_ unwelcome was such disjuncture, I deem.

 **Steward** : [airily]

Do go on -- since you'll not stop.

 **Captain** :

So, at any rate, the mortal bard begins -- and he's _good_. He's giving it all he's got, and more, and then some. You can see why he's so arrogant, there's definitely command of technique _and_ a sense of the flowingness as well, mood and spirit and more than mere mathematics in his playing, and he starts out with a very simple pattern and a plain rhyme and in every repetition added more harmonies and more beats and more words until it not only became more complicated but an entirely different song by the end of it, and never a false note -- as far as his skill level and invention went, he could _almost_ be Eldar, but the overall feeling was quite different, of course.

 **Steward** :

That isn't _exactly_ how I would have described his performance --

 **Captain** :

Yes, and no one but another bard would be able to understand you. -- He finishes, and the applause in the hall's like thunder -- people are on their feet, cheering him and raising toasts, both Kindreds, in all fairness and homage to his Art -- and the Man's as proud as a peacock, you could see he's completely confident he's won already, and he looks at Edrahil with this arrogant little smirk, you could feel him saying, -- Beat that without your magic harp, Firstborn -- and sets his instrument down on the bench and waits, as if _he_ might back out of it now. But of course he's not going to, nor give away any sign of whether he's feeling confident or worried. "Excellently played," he says, and he bows. Then he takes up the Man's harp, and spends an inordinate length of time -- as usual -- fiddling with the tuning of it, while everyone fidgets and gets more and more impatient, and then he starts playing.

[he leans back, looking up into the arches, and sighs in reminiscence]

I can't begin to describe what it was like. The _Sea_ was in it, in the low booming chords and the rolling curves of the lines of the melody and the thin high picked notes like the cry of seabirds, and that alone would have been wonderful, but then he sang, and there was real Power in that, because it was the shores of the river first, and how seeing them made him think of the coast they ran to, and the wide harbours there and the White Tower like a red-gold flame at sunset, and then from that he spoke of the _other_ side, of Westernesse, and home, and how these beaches reminded him of _those_ , and how they made him sad for that reason, and yet he would not turn from thought of them despite all that, nor from the restless hunger and noise of the waves, because it was something that both of them had in common --

[with an apologetic look]

\-- that just sounds so flat, I'm sorry -- but "forever between us run two deep waters," and at first I thought he meant the river we would have to cross to get to the South again, and I wondered which one. And then I realized that one of them was the Sea, and the other was the Doom. The only thing comparable to it would have to be something of Daeron's, it was that _strange_.

 **Steward** : [tersely]

It wasn't _that_ good --

 **Third Guard** : [earnest]

Yes, it was.

 **Captain** :

And when the last note of it faded away, there was -- silence. Just _silence_. No one clapped, no one cheered, no one spoke a word of praise -- because no one could. Those of us who'd been there were all in tears, and most of the mortals as well, and the rest were in a daze. And he turns to the harper and just stares at him for a long moment, when all you could hear was the fire crackling on the hearth and the walls creaking, and before the Man can say anything Edrahil asks quietly, "Who is the winner, sir?" and to the hall, "Does any here deny me the contest? Speak, if you judge otherwise," -- and no one says anything. So he turns back to the bard and hefts the Man's own harp in his hands --

[gesturing]

\-- and looks at it with a critical eye -- well, _you_ know what he's like, gentles, you can imagine how -- and sniffs at it a bit, saying, "I could take your instrument, in forfeit, now, for our wager," and the Man gets a panic-stricken look on his face, trying to think how he could earn another, without it, and what kind of work he'd be able to get without being able to accompany himself. "-- But," he goes on, "I need it not, and 'tis so crude I might not even give it to students for practice, so little would it avail them to struggle against its flatness."

 **Steward** : [uncomfortable]

That isn't exactly what I told him --

 **Captain** :

Do you want to tell it?

 **Steward** :

\--  _No_.

 **Captain** :

Well, then. -- So the mortal is staring at him in relief at his words, with an expression of awe and humiliation together that was just painful to look at, and he asks him, even more quietly, "Have I cheated, harper? Do _you_ deny me the contest?" and the Man shakes his head, once. "Your harp is worthless to me. Is there _anything_ in the world you value more than your music?" and again the bard shakes his head. "Then I shall take your voice," he says, "as something else you take for granted."

[he pauses for dramatic effect]

"You shall regain it, if -- and _only_ if -- you drink a cupful of water taken living from these mountain freshets, drawn and borne to you by your lady's hands, as the Sun dispels the night. No chance-met hour will suffice, nor water from well or jar or unmoving pool -- and _no other woman_ may undo this binding. Only the free gift, made in mercy, of your consort's love shall set you free -- or a greater Power than mine. If she _will_ _not_  -- " and the Man looked at his wife with a kind of shock, as if he'd never seen her before, and only now realized he'd wed a stranger, and she was looking at them both in a daze herself, as if she'd meant to defend him, but now that the light was on him he wasn't so fair after all, and did she really want to, or not? -- "Then you must journey to the world's end, and find the Sea, and when Arien setting, you behold the Lady's flames upon the waves, this spell of silence shall be broken." -- And at that idea the mortal bard looks terrified half out of his wits, but _he_ just goes on, cool as midnight, "Otherwise, I cannot say how long it shall endure upon you."

[silence, alternately embarrassed and impressed]

 **Ranger** : [to the Steward]

What did you _do_ to him, Sir? We never could figure it out.

 **Steward** : [frowning]

What do you mean?

 **Ranger** :

The geas. It seemed -- well -- rather _Dark_ to us.

 **Steward** : [sudden realization]

Oh. --  _That's_ why everyone was so cooperative for six or seven years thereafter. I thought it was some rare alignment of the Circles or a conjunction of the stars --

[shaking his head in amazement]

I did _nothing_ to him. The idiot did it entirely to himself. It only worked because I could See the fool would believe and obey whatever I said to him. In other words -- I cheated.

 **Captain** :

Now, be fair -- you'd just convinced some two-hundred-odd people of both Kindreds that they were standing on the shores of a Sea most of them had never dreamt of, let alone seen. No wonder the poor wretch was dumbstruck.

[going on]

"You are thinking how you both shall manage if she will not -- but does not your lady have a voice as well?" And then to her, "Can you not sing as well as play, or do I misguess?" And she was so startled that all she could do was nod her head. "Then it shall be your part to accompany her and hers to sing, and the time for you to listen to her voice, as I fear you have not done enough -- if ever," and the two mortals looked at each other, wondering what to do next, and the woman was scared, but at the same time there was a strange light in her eyes, as if something about the idea pleased her, or would if she let it, and I, I wondered how long she'd make him wait before curing him of his dumbness. And Edrahil, here, in front of the court assembled all sees that look in her eyes and says to her, "Or else -- come with us." And he holds out his hand to her, like that.

[gesturing]

And she stands there, like a statue, holding her breath, and then looked at him, afraid, with the fear he was mocking her plain to her face -- and then afraid because he _wasn't_. And then she looks at her consort again, and back at _him_ , and makes this little brushing-away gesture, as if she could blow away the words like a bit of candle-smoke. But he kept waiting, and they wouldn't go away . . . and everyone else there, that had hardly paid a thought to her before, except in pity, looked at her then as if they suddenly only _then_ , realized that here was something of such rare value that a King's right-hand Elf would praise and treasure and why hadn't they seen it before? -- Especially the mortal harper.

[he looks grimly pleased at the memory]

 **Teler Maid** :

What did she say to him?

[glancing with a troubled look at the Steward]

\-- To _you_?

[he only nods her back to the Captain, with a resigned expression]

 **Captain** :

She said, "I cannot" and he said, "Why not?" and she said, "You have horses," and he said, "And one can carry you." And she wrung her hands at that as if she were trying to break her own fingers like twigs for kindling, so hard a choice it seemed it seemed to her.

[he grins as the Steward winces at the deliberately un-bardic formulation]

And _then_ she looks over at the side of the hall where the outchambers were, and some thought came to her that made her calmer, and she faces Edrahil back again steady as she might.

"I have a child," she says.

 **Nerdanel** : [knowingly, almost a sigh]

\--  _Ah_.

[Elenwe nods, with a bittersweet smile]

 **Captain** :

He agrees, "That is a difficulty," and she looked half-relieved and half regretful, before he goes on, "But has he given to the rearing of the child as he ought?"

"He earns our bread and our shelter," was her reply, to which Edrahil counters, "As do you, lady. But the wild creatures do as much, in nest and hole, and more besides, often enough. And he?" She shook her head, saying, "He doesn't do any more."

"Then your babe shall not miss him, for his part is easily replaced, being so little." And everyone looked at her husband, not able to help it. -- That hurt a bit, the look of his eyes then, for all he'd been speaking to her but a little before as I'd not speak to a disobedient hound, nor even one of my company that had failed me -- at least I certainly hope I've not used such a tone of commonplace cruelty and routine hate --

[the Rangers both shake their heads at once]

\-- yet now, with everything he'd taken for granted was his now at risk before his very eyes, and him helpless to utter a word in his own defense, it was -- it felt _unseemly_ to be witnessing it, just though his punishment was, as if one were to stand by gawking at the healing of a stranger.

"I am mortal -- we do not belong in such high company. I should be quenched in your splendour," she objects, looking at the King and the rest of us, and Edrahil counters, "Then I shall bear you to another land far from here, where there are kindly folk who will welcome you and give a music-maker such as you great honour in their halls, and you shall be eminently free among your own kind." Oh, but she was tempted by that. But finally she shakes her head.

"But I love him," says she.

[Amarie smiles bitterly]

"To that I have no answer," and he bowed to her and said to her husband, "See that you merit it," and then he walks out of the hall into the dark, and none to hinder him. And we don't see anything of him until the next morning, when we rode on our way and found him a long way's walk up the river waiting for us, looking grim and guilty. And he starts to apologize for having behaved so unmannerly and high-handed and shaming Himself before all, and our lord just says, "Thanks for dealing with that, and saving me the pains of doing so myself, for it would have been an awkward matter, had I as both guest and King and our host's lord's kinsman as well, stepped in -- but from one stranger to another, such an exchange were less weighty a blow, and no affront to our host's hall," as if he'd not spoken to abase himself.

"Oh," says Edrahil, just like that -- "I'd not thought of that." And the King says, "It's still true, despite that."

[Finrod chuckles at the imitation]

 **Teler Maid** : [frowning]

Would you truly have brought her with you, and looked after her, that mortal woman, only for that her consort was not kind to her?

 **Steward** :

Indeed -- had she been willing.

 **Luthien** : [suddenly]

Wait -- that was _you_?

[she touches him on the shoulder, leaning down to look at him in astonishment]

That tale -- was of you, my lord?

 **Steward** : [surprised]

You heard about it? In Doriath? Was it -- gossip from Brethil, then, perhaps?

 **Luthien** : [shaking her head]

From Beren.

 **Steward** :

But how --

 **Luthien** : [bemused]

I know some of the songs about it.

 **Steward** :

There are --  _songs_  -- ?

[she nods]

 **Luthien** :

But they're all different. From what happened, as well as from each other, that is. They're not about _you_ , though -- not in any way that anyone who knows you would recognize -- well, obviously, since _I_ never guessed. But definitely about the incident.

[in spite of everything, and herself, she is starting to smile and fighting impending laughter]

 **Steward** :

Somehow I -- am certain I should rather _not_ know the details.

 **Captain** :

 _We_ would, though.

[the rest of the Ten nod agreement; Finrod looks quite blank, but his eyes are twinkling]

 **Steward** : [sighing]

\-- But of course.

 **Luthien** :

This one never made any sense to me, really, until now -- though a lot of the mortal songs seem that way, at least at first. I mean, who would believe _anyone_ who said they could take you away someplace safe in a ship? Everyone knows about the Ban by now, that there's no way to get to the West except by being dead. But anyhow --

[sings]

  
Well met, well met, my own true love!  
......Well met, well met! cried he --  
...I am returned from the salt salt sea,  
.........all for the love of thee --

I could have married the King's daughter dear,  
......she would have married me --  
...But I have forsaken her crowns of gold,  
.........all for the love of thee --

\-- Well if you could have married the King's daughter dear,  
......I'm sure you are to blame,  
...for I am married to a house carpenter,  
.........and I find him a nice young man --

\-- Oh will you forsake your house carpenter,  
......and go along with me?  
...I'll take you where the grass grows green,  
.........on the shores of the flowing Sea --

\-- And if I should forsake my house carpenter,  
......and go along with ye,  
...what have ye got to protect me then,  
.........and keep me from slavery?

\-- Six ships, six ships all on dry land  
......seven more upon the Sea,  
...a hundred and ten all brave sailormen,  
.........to keep all harm from thee --

Oh then she picked up her own pretty babe,  
......and gave him kisses three,  
...saying -- Bide ye here with my house carpenter,  
.........and keep him good company --

Oh then she put on her finest gown  
......so glorious to behold,  
...when she walked in the sunlight bright  
.........it shone like glitterin' gold.

Oh they'd not been sailing but about two weeks,  
......I'm sure it was not three,  
...when that fair maid began to weep,  
.........to weep most bitterly --

\-- Oh why do you weep, my fair pretty maid?  
......Weep you for your golden store?  
...-- Or do you weep for your house carpenter,  
.........that you shall see no more?

Oh I do not weep for my house carpenter,  
......or for any golden store!  
...-- But I do weep for my own pretty babe,  
.........that I shall see no more --

Oh they'd not been sailing but about three weeks,  
......I know it was not four,  
...when that gallant ship sprang a leak and sank,  
.........never to rise no more --

One time around spun that gallant ship,  
......two times around spun she,  
...three times around spun that gallant ship,  
.........and sank to the bottom of the Sea --

\-- What hills, what hills, are those, my love,  
......those hills so fair and high?  
...-- Those are the hills of Aman, my love --  
.........but not for you nor I --

\-- What hills, what hills, are those, my love,  
......those hills so dark and low?  
...-- Those are the hills of Hell, my love,  
.........where you and I must go --

[the Steward only nods with a judicious expression, like a connoisseur presented with an indifferent vintage, though Finrod has jammed his knuckles against his lips and others of his acquaintance are watching with fascinated alarm]

 **Steward** :

You did say --  _songs_ , Highness.

 **Luthien** : [doubtful]

You really want to hear the rest of them?

 **Steward** :

Alas, no -- but there will be no peace until it's done.

 **Luthien** :

All right, then.

[sings]

  
An outlandish knight  
...from the north lands came  
......And he came a wooing me  
...He promised he'd take  
......me unto the northern lands  
.........And there he'd marry me

\-- Come fetch me some  
...of your father's gold  
......And some of your mother's fee  
...And two of the best  
......horses in the stable  
.........Where stand there thirty and three

He mounted on the milk white steed  
...And she on the dappled gray  
And they rode till they came  
...to the salt water side  
......An hour before the day

Light off, light off  
...your steed, he said  
......And deliver it unto me --  
...For six pretty maidens  
......I have drowned here  
.........And you the seventh shall be --

 **Steward** : [shaking his head]

A murderer of _seven_  -- better yet.

 **Luthien** :

Oh, no, _she_ tricks him, and flings him over the edge instead. There's another one like that, where it's a young boy with a message to the High King, and the strange rider tries to trick him in going to the sea as well, but he battles him with his own riddles in turn, and the Enemy's Servant has no power over him. Oh, and there's a longer version of this one too, only it's different --

[sings]

  
There stands a knight at the top of yon hill  
......Blow, blow, blow ye winds, blow  
...He blows his horn both loud and shrill  
.........-- The cold wind's blown my cloak away

Oh, if I had the horn that I hear blown,  
......Blow, blow, blow ye winds, blow  
...And the knight that blows upon that horn  
.........-- The cold wind's blown my cloak away

No sooner had those words she cried  
......Blow, blow, blow ye winds, blow  
...Than the Elven knight came to her side  
.........-- The cold wind's blown my cloak away

Thou art aye young a maid, said he  
......Blow, blow, blow ye winds, blow  
...Under my cloak thou ill wouldst be  
.........-- The cold wind's blown my cloak away

I have a sister younger than I  
......Blow, blow, blow ye winds, blow  
...And she was married but yesterday  
.........-- The cold wind's blown my cloak away

Married with me if thou wouldst be  
......Blow, blow, blow ye winds, blow  
...A courtesy must thou do for me  
.........-- The cold wind's blown my cloak away

For thou must shape a shirt to me  
......Blow, blow, blow ye winds, blow  
...Without any seam or hem, said he  
.........-- The cold wind's blown my cloak away

And wash it in yonder dry well  
......Blow, blow, blow ye winds, blow  
...Where never sprung water nor rain fell  
.........-- The cold wind's blown my cloak away

And dry it upon yonder hawthorn  
......Blow, blow, blow ye winds, blow  
...Where the sun ne'er shone since Man was born  
.........-- The cold wind's blown my cloak away

\-- Well if I shall do that task for ye  
......Blow, blow, blow ye winds, blow  
...Surely you'll do one for me  
.........-- The cold wind's blown my cloak away

Fetch unto me an acre of land  
......Blow, blow, blow ye winds, blow  
...Between the salt water and the sea sand  
.........-- The cold wind's blown my cloak away

I want that land for to be corn  
......Blow, blow, blow ye winds, blow  
...And you must plow it with your horn  
.........-- The cold wind's blown my cloak away

And shear it down with an eagle's feather  
......Blow, blow, blow ye winds, blow  
...And stook it up with a stem of heather  
.........-- The cold wind's blown my cloak away

And you must bring it over the sea  
......Blow, blow, blow ye winds, blow  
...Fair and clean and dry to me  
.........-- The cold wind's blown my cloak away

When you have done, and finished your work  
......Blow, blow, blow ye winds, blow  
...Then come to me for your seamless shirt  
.........-- The cold wind's blown my cloak away

\-- I'll not give up my cloak for my life  
......Blow, blow, blow ye winds, blow  
...It wraps my seven bairns and my wife  
.........-- The wind's not blown my cloak away

\-- My maidenhead I'll keep then still  
......Blow, blow, blow ye winds, blow  
...Let the Elven knight do what he will  
.........-- The wind's not blown my cloak away

[pause -- awkward brightness]

That one's closer, because she _doesn't_ go off with him, and there's no sign that he's trying to carry her off at all, instead he's trying to put her off, it seems, telling her she's too young for him, and _she_ gets angry with him when he won't marry her after she's been so insistent, and especially when she finds out he's already married at the last and tells him to just go away -- though that's got to be mixed up with Feanor, what with the "seven bairns" -- and the Ban's in it too, since the mortal woman puts crossing the Sea as part of _her_ impossible tasks . . .

[she trails off, looking apologetic]

Sorry. I didn't make them up.

 **Steward** : [flatly]

Am I not right in assuming that is _not_ the end of it?

[she shakes her head]

 **Luthien** :

There's lots of different versions of it, sometimes he's "the Lord of Elfland," and sometimes he's just a knight of the North, but you can tell they're the same even if the melodies are different. Then . . . well, there's the one about the King who loses his Queen in a game of chess -- to a wandering harper . . . Only first he loses his horse and his hound, or else it's his sword first and then his crown and then his lady. It depends. I can't sing them, because I don't really know the words, because Beren only knows them partly -- they're from Dor-lomin and he knows what they're about, but not how the actual verses go.

[silence -- everyone is still waiting for someone else to say something]

We _think_ people were trying to explain what happened to Prince Fingon's mother and didn't want to _ask_ , -- or didn't believe the answer -- and made up a story about the Enemy capturing her like the others who were taken prisoner --

[to Elenwe]

They might have been thinking about you and cousin Turgon, too -- and mixed it up with everyone who stayed over there, and --

 **Eol** : [exasperated]

 _Here_.

 **Luthien** :

What?

 **Eol** :

 _Here_. It isn't _there_ , now, for you. You keep saying that.

 **Luthien** : [frowns]

Hm.

[pause]

Quite right -- so it isn't. But anyhow, that explains why the evil deceiver in the legends is taking her -- and the others -- across the Sea, but we haven't any idea where the bit about the other lost things comes from, or where the idea of the Enemy having a _harper_ in his service came in. -- At least, we hadn't until now.

[she gives the Steward a very quizzical look]

 **Captain** :

\--  _Chess_  . . . can't imagine where _that_ came from, either.

[the Steward gives him a Look, to which he pretends obliviousness]

 **Steward** : [hopeful]

They _could_ be about other events, in which the Enemy's agents attempted or succeeded in luring away humans on various occasions in various guises.

 **Luthien** : [shaking her head]

Not the one about the woodcarver's lady. That's just too close, with the Sea and ships and everything else.

[musingly]

\-- Though the boy also is threatened with being carried off to the Sea and wrecked as well . . . and so is the lady in the other one . . . actually, it's in all of them. Hm.

 **Steward** : [shaking his head in turn]

Even _that_ is --  _possibly_  -- a coinciding with Enemy activities.

 **Captain** :

Even you don't believe that's the case, though.

 **Steward** :

Alas -- no.

[he sighs]

I should have realized how the offer would inevitably have been taken.

 **Finrod** : [worried]

Are you all right?

 **Steward** : [very dry]

What --  _should_ I be troubled, that instead of being remembered for my own songs and the deeds which I did accomplish, such earthly immortality as remains to me shall be in the misrecollections of mortals, as a miscreant and minion of the Lord of Fetters, going about the land seducing and kidnapping the wives and children of honest Men, set to simple canting rhymes and tunes scarce less plain?

[pause]

I think it shall be the richest joke I shall ever hear.

[the Sea-elf looks at him very warily, as if wondering whether he's been replaced by someone else]

 **Aegnor** : [abruptly & in a very harsh tone]

Don't flatter yourself -- they're _not_ all about you.

[there is an extremely awkward moment before Nienna's Apprentice tries to break the tension]

 **Apprentice** : [to the Captain, humorously]

That sounds more like you, anyhow --  _you're_ the one who loves socializing and talking to strangers.

 **Captain** : [shaking his head]

No, I don't think so. Too busy, what with all the dashing hither and yon and hither again, between all our lord's very many relatives and friends and acquaintances, before the Leaguer broke. No time to be standing about looking dramatic on hilltops blowing bugles -- damn' foolish, if you ask me, just asking to be shot -- or waiting for mortal girls with nothing to do to come up and be lured away by riddles.

 **Steward** : [acerbic]

Besides, three words out of your mouth would immediately prove you insane.

 **Captain** :

And? That makes any difference? News to me, then.

[gesturing towards Luthien]

Didn't you hear what her Highness said? You don't think I'm crazier than Beren, surely?

[his friend graciously lets this one go, very obviously]

No, no, it's got to be Lord Aegnor, as he said. After all, -- are we _sure_ there was only the one time? I only _knew_ of one -- but that doesn't really prove anything, does it?

[warming to his subject]

Why, for all we know, there could have been _scores_ of heartbroken human women all over the North Country during the past yen, all of them with stories to tell about the mysterious Elf-warrior who showed up out of nowhere, sang songs and talked about the meaning of life and told them they had eyes that rivalled the gems of the Starmaker for beauty, and promised to meet them there again -- and never showed up.

[everyone is trying desperately and futilely not to give in to appalled, nervous laughter, while the subject of the speculation only seethes in stoic pride]

\-- Not knowing he'd _panicked_ , and was quite incapable of making any kind of a lasting commitment, the result was these highly-coloured but emotionally-accurate bits of poetry -- which then took on lives of their own, making it seem as though the troops of the Leaguer had nothing better to do than roam about trifling with the affections of Men --

[Aegnor, quite incapable of articulate speech, lunges up snarling and flings himself on his tormentor, grabbing him by the tunic-front and dragging him half-up before shoving him down the shallow steps to the open floor, the Captain recovering with a fighter's efficiency and rising to his feet as the Prince comes up to him in a white-hot rage]

 **Aegnor** :

Will you _draw_ , damn you!

 **Captain** : [frustrated]

You know I can't, unless you assault Himself --

 **Aegnor** : [equally exasperated]

I'm not going to do _that_ just to oblige you!

 **Captain** : [angrily]

Then you're just going to have to _deal_ with the fact that you were a blithering idiot three-score years ago and you've not stopped being one since, and everybody knows it and is tiptoeing around you as if you were Lord Osse, and I'm _tired_ of your irresponsible behaviour, because right now you're _completely_ out of control. You're supposed to be an example --  _not_ , gods forbid, a cautionary tale of royal incompetence!

[Aegnor is shocked into silence, with an expression of the fury that would be remorse if the subject were not too proud, as his challenger presses on]

 _If_ we were alive and you were under my command, sir, I don't know _what_ I'd do with you, because I couldn't set you to _any_ task in confidence that you'd do it properly -- because you don't care enough about anyone else to stop you from doing it poorly. Forget fletching or scouting -- I wouldn't even trust you to make supper! You'd probably let all the bannocks burn to charcoal whilst glooming about your own misfortunes. How impressed would _Lady_ _Andreth_ be with you, eh?

[the Prince raises his hand to strike him, but the other Elf grabs his wrist and blocks him efficiently]

 **Aegnor** : [yanking his arm away]

Don't sully her name, you fool --

 **Captain** : [cruelly]

You've no kinright in respect to her. What do you think she'd say, if she knew your way of "honouring" her memory was to poison everyone about you with your bitterness? -- That you're doing everything your apathy allows to obstruct another couple in your same straights, nephew or no nephew -- I'll hazard the whole world that it _wouldn't_ be, "Poor darling, whatever you do is fine by me -- "

[Aegnor rips out his blade without further discussion]

\-- Ice, at _last_!

[he ducks away from under the resulting overhand swing, drawing his own sword in the left-handed fashion he used earlier -- then tosses it to his right and pivots to catch the Prince's return-stroke against the guard of his weapon, holding him at crossed bay]

You know better than that shoddy Orc-work -- good thing for you I'd not drawn yet, what? --  _Overhand_ , honestly!

 **Aegnor** : [through grit teeth]

Stop talking and _fight_  -- !

[he breaks the lock and falls into a more practical style of fighting than the flashy but unsafe "hewing swings" popularized by "barbarian heroes" in various media iterations, and they're very well matched as combatants -- and this time the Captain isn't holding back]

 **Elenwe** : [to Finrod]

Wilt thou not part them, Ingold, ere one or another dost the other hurt?

 **Finrod** :

Why?

 **Everyone except for the rest of the Ten** :

? ! ?

 **Finrod** : [reassuring]

It's all right, here. They can't _really_ harm each other this way, and if they finally get it over with perhaps that'll be the end of it, the constant hostile rhetoric and the pained forbearance both. It's getting _awfully_ tiresome.

 **Amarie** : [outraged]

Ah!!

[she turns away and refuses to watch]

 **Fingolfin** : [dry]

A most peculiar justification for kinstrife, that --

 **Finrod** : [shrugging]

Besides, it isn't really my place to interfere, though it's hard to explain -- but since they're both striking on my behalf, ultimately, though not _overtly_ in my defense, it's awkward for me to get involved. Some things are better off for not taking official notice of.

 **Finarfin** : [wryly amused]

'Tis something difficult, one perforce admitteth, taking such din, e'en such exertion, withal upon the senses.

 **Fingolfin** : [raising an eyebrow]

Really? And you with all those children, too?

 **Finarfin** : [sly]

Aye, and eke _thine_ , that ye moughten have peace in house, oft and oftwhiles, recallest not, how thou didst send this one and that to ask some thing else other, of us, -- and delay returning?

 **Angrod** : [bemused aside]

I'm -- astonished Father's taking it so calmly. -- Unless he's a great deal more frustrated with us than we thought . . .

[the combatants circle, neither giving an opening, and Huan begins to offer his own advice, or maybe opinion of it all]

 **Luthien** :

Hush! That's very distracting!

[she wraps her arms around his head and quiets him with a hug]

[the Teler Maid is watching through her fingers, unable to look away or take the Exiles' blase view]

 **Teler Maid** : [wondering tone]

It has a certain terrible beauty in it, like to the great fishes hunting, or storms in the Deep.

[the Ten look at her, shyly pleased that she isn't condemning that part of their lives without differentiation, and proud of her bravery. Aegnor suddenly draws his dagger and begins fighting two-handed]

 **Aredhel** : [annoyed]

He's _cheating_.

 **Finrod** :

Don't worry --

[the Captain catches hold of Aegnor's left wrist and slams it against the nearest pillar, jarring the knife from his hand]

\-- so's he.

[deliberately the Captain draws his own dagger, and tosses it away]

 **Aredhel** :

Show-off. -- Is he _crazy_ , challenging your brother like that, or just dumb?

 **Finrod** :

The former, definitely. --  _Dumb_ would be doing it for no good reason.

[although the comment was in no way directed at him, the Warden of Aglon bridles defensively, though without the old aggressive hostility. His companion gives him a wry smile, taking his hand]

 **Ex-Thrall** : [understanding]

Is _anger_ at being called "stupid" a good reason?

[he slowly permits himself the smallest amusement at his past vanity -- it looks painful, like a first step without crutches, but it is a smile -- and doesn't let go of her hand]

 **Ranger** : [mixed pride/bemusement]

There was the time he yelled at Lord Osse, once, when the deity was being uncooperative about us reinforcing the breakwater at Eglarest, remember? Every time we wanted to take the barges out it would get choppy out of nowhere, and Lord Cirdan told us not to worry, give it a few weeks and the Stormy One would get over his bad temper, or else the Lady would notice and make him stop -- but after the fifth time it happened, and we lost the load of stones, the Commander lost his temper and told him to get over it, if he really cared about the Teler he'd help us fortify their defenses, no matter what?

 **Angrod** : [checking]

Wait -- that wasn't the time he showed up with his arm broken and only said he'd fallen on the sea-wall. -- Was it?

[looking at Finrod]

Did you know the details?

 **Finrod** :

Er -- vaguely. "Your people are mad," was all _Cirdan_ told me, and when I asked privately for the details I was told that I really didn't want to know, that it had been stupid but at least it had worked, and no harm done -- that wouldn't heal. I didn't see that anything would be gained by pressing the issue, saving embarrassment.

 **Ranger** :

He went right out on the end of the old break-water and stood there yelling at the waves, and Lord Cirdan's folk were trying to think how they might get a boat out to rescue him, and pretty sure they'd break up or founder but still having to try, and rigging some sort of tackle with ropes -- and the Daunter slapped him hard off the jetty and then into it, breaking his arm --

 **Steward** : [short]

\--  _and_ dislocating the shoulder --

 **Ranger** : [nodding]

\-- So he's clinging to the rocks, because he can't climb back onto it, and what does he do but shout at the waves, "Fine but you're still an idiot," and another roller started building up, and right then Osse's Lady must have noticed and gotten control of him, because it flattened out just as it was building to a peak, and then went still as glass, and stayed that way all the while the Sea-folk were going out, and days after, all the while it took to finish building the wall.

[the Sea-elf's eyes are very big. Amarie snorts in disdain and continues ostentatiously looking at nothing]

 **Finrod** : [condescendingly]

You know, it doesn't really count as violence, because of it not lasting. It's just like any other game, really.

[Amarie condescends to look at the duellists, raising an eyebrow as Aegnor batters away at the Captain's defenses, his teeth bared in a snarl]

 **Amarie** :

As to that -- thy brother holdeth it otherwise, methinks.

[suddenly the Captain reverses the situation, and they begin traversing the Hall again, as virtual sparks fly wildly about]

 **Apprentice** : [watching them in dismay]

I'm dead.

 **Ranger** :

No, you're not. We are.

 **Apprentice** : [annoyed]

I wasn't being literal.

 **Ranger** : [shrugging]

Then why bother talking?

 **Soldier** :

When you make jokes, that's not being literal.

 **Second Guard** :

And when you use metaphors, neither. -- Like calling the Ban another ocean.

 **Ranger** :

But those aren't supposed to be literal. When you just say something, you're trying to _mean_ _something_ to someone, so you ought to make it as clear as possible.

 **Fourth Guard** :

Are you sure you're Noldor?

[the Youngest Ranger reaches forward and cuffs him lightly]

Hey! _You're_ abusing your rank.

 **Youngest Ranger** :

Am not. You weren't in _our_ chain of command before we were exiled, and not after either when we were consolidated into one unit. That means I can ding you upside the head as much as I want. --  _And_ vice versa which is why I don't do it very often.

 **Apprentice** :

Not really, though.

 **Youngest Ranger** : [solemnly]

No. He's gotten better, I don't have to so much, now.

 **Fourth Guard** : [sniffing]

No, it's just that it would make it that much more awkward when you have to ask me to touch up the camo on your armour. Just a little bit of a change in tone, what? Ow!

[he has ducked just a little too late]

\-- Oh, look --

[the fighters have worked their way over towards the Loom, when all of the sudden the Captain redoubles his attack, throwing the Prince distinctly on the defensive. Instinctively Aegnor springs up onto a lower projection of the assemblage, using it as a vantage point from which to rain down blows on his opponent and --]

 **Ranger** : [automatic, to everyone on the steps]

Ware!

[-- there is a thunderous flash-bang of blinding white light and reverberating sound, causing Finrod's brother to leap down and whirl in a general alarm, warding against what unknown adversary, while simultaneously and reflexively the Captain moves in behind to take up a defensive posture at his back, mirroring the Prince. There is however no further dramatics and they are left standing back to back in an empty space, looking rather foolish while everyone watches them with morbid curiosity.]

[After a second Aegnor lowers his sword and turns to face his antagonist, his expression very wary and dark still. The Captain matches his glower, both of them looking very much the proud, obstinate High-elves that they are. Aegnor looks down at the weapon in his own hand, back at his adversary, and then very deliberately sheathes the blade, standing empty-handed and defenseless in a gesture of leadership as he acknowledges the other's loyalty thereby; the Captain waits long enough with still-drawn sword between them to make the subsequent putting-away equally deliberate, not in defiance but in emphasis, as he acknowledges the Prince thereby regaining his moral footing. The glares give way to reluctant smiles, and then to embarrassed chuckles, attempts to be properly dignified failing as they both glance at the Loom, and then at each other again]

 **Aegnor** : [addressing the general direction of the ceiling]

Er, my Lady -- we do apologize, and it won't happen again, I promise you.

 **Captain** : [gesturing towards the other]

Just to be quite clear, Ma'am, that was _him_ , not me, and _I_ never touched the Loom.

[Aegnor gives him a very fell Look]

 **Aegnor** :

 _You_ worked that on purpose so I'd bring down the wrath of the goddess on me.

 **Captain** : [affronted]

I never.

 **Aegnor** : [flinging up his hands in exasperation]

How can you _say_ that?

 **Captain** :

Because you know it isn't true, and I know you know it isn't true, and because you know that I know that you know that it isn't, it's not untruth, it's a joke told straightfaced, whereas if you didn't know it wasn't true, but I didn't know you didn't know, it would still --

 **Aegnor** : [very sternly and regal]

Enough.

[the Captain sweeps him an elaborate bow, complying at once; extremely dry tone and expresion]

\--  _That_ too.

 **Captain** : [glancing at the Loom once more]

I didn't think she'd be _quite_ so upset about it.

[they both start laughing quietly again, until Aegnor pulls himself together and sobers up a little]

 **Aegnor** : [regretful, but not overwrought]

I should not have beset you and forced such a dilemma upon your choosing.

 **Captain** :

Highness -- I knew _quite_ _well_ what I was about.

[the Prince glances over at Angrod and back again]

 **Aegnor** : [same serious tone]

You never blamed either of us for leading you all in the rebellion.

 **Captain** :

Why? I followed as freely as any of us.

 **Aegnor** :

That did not stop _us_ from blaming our uncles, both of them, many a time. Fairly or not.

[the Captain shrugs a little]

I remember that you saved my life, on the Ice, more than once, and I remember that I thanked you after, but I also recall well that I have said other things as well, much more lately -- unforgivable things, that nonetheless I'd ask forgiveness for -- knowing well you'll grant it.

 **Captain** : [dismissive]

Things have been difficult lately.

 **Aegnor** :

Yes. But I've still been unfair to you. You _couldn't_ have stopped him, and to try beyond counselling would have been rebelling, and for you to stay by him with nothing to gain by it, I should be thanking you, not mocking you.

 **Captain** :

He stayed by us through the Crossing, with everything to lose, and I only paid in fraction my debt to him for all those years of plenty.

 **Aegnor** :

Nevertheless, you did, and I give you my thanks -- if a little late.

[they share a fleeting grin]

Will you also forgive me for my part in the Rebellion? -- I know you were not compelled to follow us -- but I also know that given who we all were then, you could hardly have failed to be carried along with our tide, and you deserved better from your House than what leadership we gave you.

[quietly but very earnest]

I thought -- feared -- you'd not ever laugh again, when we reached the end of that hellish journey, so grim had you become with every latest death. If I have reproached you lately for your good cheer and diversions, it has but been my jealousy speaking, that begrudges you what I cannot find -- and for which my own heart has reproached me every time I did so.

 **Captain** :

I knew that, Highness.

 **Aegnor** :

And that I knew as well, my lord, but of your kindness permit me to apologize.

 **Captain** :

Well, if you insist . . .

[he rests his hand on Aegnor's shoulder, familiar but not offensive -- and Aegnor does not take offense at it]

Want a beer?

 **Aegnor** : [after visible hesitation]

All right.

[he puts his own hand on the Captain's shoulder, and with linked arms, in a relieved cameraderie they return to the dais and sit down again, side by side, greeted by Huan, who isn't influenced by social conventions at all and very obviously happy that two of his people are friends again -- affection which is more tolerated than welcomed by the trodden-on, shoved and snuffled recipients and bystanders until they can get the Hound settled down again.]

[Keeping it prudently out of Huan's reach, the Captain manifests another drinking-horn and graciously offers it to the Prince after taking a pull first -- Aegnor in turn dutifully takes a draft, looking like someone who doesn't exactly enjoy beer but after a century or so as a lord over Men has gotten used to drinking it socially. As he hands back the vessel:]

 **Aegnor** : [meaningfully]

Thank you.

[everyone relaxes a little in turn, though the atmosphere is still a little wary and disturbed]

 **Captain** :

It's just as well Herself broke it up when she did, I've got to admit. I don't know how much longer I could have kept you at bay, really.

 **Aegnor** :

You're being far too kind.

 **Captain** :

Oh, no. You had the _focus_ , in life, that I never did, despite my initial advantage of years' serious hunting; your yeni at the fore of the Front left you more disciplined than I ever was -- too easily distracted by some passing bird or other.

 **Aegnor** : [aside]

Yes, and leave out all the combined decades spent spying and running errands for my brother, let alone teaching others to fight -- !

[earnest]

You could have destroyed me there, you know, by _letting_ me take you. That -- would have frozen my wrath in an instant, and left me broken in shame at having struck down one both kinsman and liegeman, and having to deal with my brother's disappointment on top of that.

 **Captain** :

Oh, no, that would have been dishonourable.

[Nienna's Apprentice gives him a sharp Look]

 **Aegnor** :

Lose fairly or throw the fight, the end result should have been the same.

 **Captain** : [nodding grimly]

I know. I didn't want that -- it was the least-acceptable of outcomes by far, though better than you staying locked in that damnéd tangle of guilt and fury.

[half-smile]

\-- Would have _hurt_ , too.

[gesturing towards the quiescent structure with the ale-horn]

If I'd not been able to force you to it, I'd have blundered into the Loom myself, to end the match by preferrence to this shadow-dying of our war games, but that would have been much more humiliating.

 **Aegnor** : [blinking]

You _planned_ on manipulating the Lady of the Halls into abetting your scheme without her knowing it?

[the Captain shrugs, trying to look innocent -- the Prince shakes his head, wide-eyed]

You're crazy, you _know_ that.

 **Steward** : [sighing]

It is a condition often remarked upon -- thus, not unlike the weather, and the curious human custom of confirming amongst oneselves its observéd state, manifest though it should be to all.

[Aegnor reaches for the drinking-horn again, at a loss for words. Glances both appalled and amused are exchanged by the onlookers]

 **Captain** : [to the Steward]

 _You've_ fallen into exaggeration too, you know -- you said "three words" would prove I was crazy.

 **Steward** :

That wasn't exaggeration.

 **Captain** :

Oh? _What_ three words? "I say there," or "Excuse me, please," or "Have you seen -- " or "Hallo, we're lost," aren't enough just of themselves to give it away.

[he reclaims the horn from Aegnor and incautiously takes a swig]

 **Steward** : [very deliberately and meaningful]

Happy. New. Year.

[the results are instant and alarming -- his friend chokes and begins a prolonged bout of coughing (Aegnor quickly rescuing the ale-horn) while there is a collective groan from the rest of the Ten and Finrod ducks his head against his knees, his shoulders shaking helplessly, while everyone else looks on in bewilderment.]


	147. Act 4: SCENE V.xxxvi

[Elsewhere -- the Corollaire.]

[the hilltop is getting pretty overrun with critters: not only all the insects, but more hummingbirds have come to feed at the wildflowers, and in the background quail run through the grass, tortoises plod, and lizards zip through the scene, sometimes darting right over the two as if they were just rocks in the way]

 **Beren** : [a little hesitant and awkward]

What -- what about the idea that things won't be just over, and hopeless, when the World ends -- that it's not, really, I mean, not the end like The End but a beginning too?

[Yavanna raises an eyebrow and he goes on, a bit jumbled:]

What the King -- Finrod, I mean, not his dad -- was saying about, that maybe -- maybe we won't have to lose each other, for always -- but I didn't think _you'd_ be offended, even if it is an impious claim to know things that You didn't teach them.

 **Yavanna** : [bemused]

Why would we think _that_? The more the merrier, say I. My poor husband only wishes he had students who wanted to _discover_ , and not simply _copy_ , from the things he makes. Hmph. -- Of course, that tends to the other problem, of swelled heads -- but _that_ isn't caused by _thinking_. It's quite a different activity, that wants to squash others out of the way, and it's as common in bluebottles and potato beetles as it is in Noldor Princes.

[he looks a bit uncertain at this demi-rant, and goes on:]

 **Beren** :

So . . . what do you think about it?

 **Yavanna** :

It's an interesting theory.

[he wasn't expecting that]

 **Beren** :

You don't _know_?

 **Yavanna** :

Nobody knows what will happen after the world. We can't. We didn't make it to end, and we're in it, so we can't see from outside what is going to happen to Ea, even if we had the ability to comprehend it all, which we didn't when we were younger. None of us is planning on stopping holding our end up, and only Melkor has ever expressed an interest in ripping it all apart, and we didn't anticipate the effects of his behaviour on Everything, so --

[admiring a lizard that has decided to sun itself on her wrist, like a bracelet]

\-- it seems likely that any termination of the project will be because of him, directly, indirectly, or both. But not even Namo has seen the details of it in any coherent frame of events.

[chuckling, not noticing Beren's deepening look of worry]

Apparently it's quite something when he gets arguing with your friend about the nature of Foresight and Vision. From what Vaire says, it's the mythical irresistible force and immovable object, clanging away until they call it off for a bit. What she finds amusing -- or rather, _she_ finds it exasperating and _we_ find it amusing -- is that it usually turns out that they're in agreement, but they won't agree on terminology.

 **Beren** : [very troubled]

You said earlier you were part of the World. That you _belong_ to it, and it to you -- you all -- and that's one reason that Melkor can't ever corrupt anything completely.

[in a rush]

So -- the End of the World -- Is -- does that mean --

[he looks at her imploringly, please-say-no]

Does that mean that _you're_ going to die too someday?

[pause]

 **Yavanna** : [quietly]

I expect it will be somewhat like it, yes.

 **Beren** :

But -- you -- you're --

 **Yavanna** :

\-- Gods, yes. And we _are_ part of _this_ , this all-in-all, and bound to all its Circles and its depths, in ways you cannot begin to fathom. And all this will _fail_ eventually, and come apart. That's what the End of the World means. I don't expect that it will be particularly pleasant, though I don't _think_ it will be much like what you went through.

 **Beren** :

Why? --  _Why_?

[she raises her hands]

 **Yavanna** :

Nothing lasts forever. The World _moves_ , and everything that moves wears down, and we with it. Add to that the wear and tear of constant battles and sabotage, and --

[sighing]

\-- I suspect that by the time _that_ Day comes, I will be as exhausted with bringing forth Life as Miriel ever was, and the rest of us no less.

 **Beren** :

But why can't -- why can't you just -- why do you have to -- can't you just --

 **Yavanna** :

\-- Leave?

[she smiles wryly]

What sort of Guardians would we be, if we simply treated it as a pastime, to be set aside when it grew boring, or like that game of yours, when we're losing -- just tipped off all the pieces and went away? Because that's what would happen, if we could leave the World's Circles: it would tear apart.

[looking at the horizon, distantly]

We cannot cheat, and make it so that we are free to depart, without enduring, until the End, while the Firstborn must abide. We don't even have that option.

 **Beren** :

You --  _can't_ go back to the Timeless Halls?

[she shakes her head]

 **Yavanna** :

But even if we might -- we wouldn't. No more than your father would have bent the rule of your company, that duty be chosen by lot, and _not_ by lordly whim -- even to spare _you_ from danger.

[Beren swallows hard]

\-- No more than you would have wished or taken such favoritism, _because_ you were foremost. We too, that are the Lords and Powers of this land, are bound to it no less than your own House. That's how it was, from the Beginning; we made a lifetime committment. It has to be that way. And we did so freely -- with more choice than you had in it, truly. We didn't have to come here, but those of us who did -- did so for as long as it lasts.

 **Beren** : [roughly]

\--  _When_?

[he is not quite crying -- yet]

 **Yavanna** : [shrugging]

Who knows? Not we.

[quickly]

Don't worry about it. It's not going to happen for Ages yet.

 **Beren** :

But it's going to happen.

 **Yavanna** :

Don't you think it's a little strange that you're upset, when it's _you_ that have already died? It was your song that was cut untimely short -- the Tree of _your_ life that was blighted just when the time came to flower.

 **Beren** :

No.

[through silent tears]

Your life was ruined --  _is_ ruined -- too, just like mine.

[the Earth-Queen looks at him with a sad, admiring smile]

 **Yavanna** : [gently]

But I will have many Great Years and more,

[her voice is almost a chant now]

\-- of beeches and birches and barberry green, of the gray dove and the white lamb and the black bear in the wood, fish in the stream and fry in the pool, and the speckled wings of moths and all manner of things that haven't yet wakened from their Sleep of my Dreaming yet, but will in Ages to come.

[she reaches to touch his maimed wrist, and the lizard scampers up to cling like a Lalique ornament in her hair]

\-- And it is very, _very_ good, is it not, my Champion? For all the sorrow we have at Earth's fading --

[unable to speak, he nods, and she brushes the tears from his face]

But it is of _your_ Song, your branch unbudded, _your_ dreaming of the days that would have been, and were _not_ , that I am concerned --  _not_ mine. I know mine well, but _you_ are different from me, and from all others that I know, Elf or Ainu or work of my hands.

[earnest]

Will you give me _that_ , then, as you would have given it to me had you lived, as you gave me all your born days under the Sun?

[as he gives her a wondering look, gentle, but still a command:]

\-- Tell me your hopes, what _you_ wanted from your life, and how you would have shaped your Song, if the World were not as it is.


	148. Act 4: SCENE V.xxxvii

[the Hall. Finarfin is looking shocked and agitated, not in the completely-stunned and distraught way as after Luthien's initial revelations in the Valar's council, but grimly shaken. The Nargothronders in particular are upset in turn, but there is a slight air of bewilderment among all the dead at his reaction]

 **Finarfin** :

Truly, I deemed no further recounting might surpass in bitterness the words of that your breaking, but this tale of defeat and near-slaughter ye did endure doth burn my heart anew, and deep.

[turning his head sharply towards his younger sons]

\-- Nor hold _ye_  -- nor dare ye! -- I should not ache so sore, did ye bespeak me of those selfsame hours ye did endure, and perish.

 **Captain** : [subdued]

I -- I'm so very sorry, Sir. I didn't think -- I mean, we survived it, after all, and the Marshes were pretty wretched at the time, but . . . it isn't so bad, now, looking back at it --

 **Finarfin** :

Nay, 'tis some wise the worse, lad, that ye do jest anent it now.

 **Second Guard** : [bemused aside to his friends]

But what's wrong with the joke?

 **Warrior** : [half-smile]

It was a jest.

 **Second Guard** : [snorting]

There wouldn't have been much point in saying, oh, "We're all going to die," after all. We knew _that_.

 **Youngest Ranger** : [quietly]

Only we were wrong.

[Finrod rubs abstractedly at his (ringless) hand, frowning at the floor]

 **Fingolfin** : [kind]

Of course it would come as a shock to you, having no experience of such things, both the facts themselves and our more cavalier regard of them.

[silence -- the Valinoreans look at each other]

 **Amarie** : [hardly aside at all]

Oh, thou prating _fool_!

 **Finarfin** : [somber]

Nay, long and long since the years lie 'twixt, that I have stood in fear of violence upon myself, else seen encarnadined the mire.

[pause]

 **Aegnor** : [incredulous]

When did _you_ encounter war?

 **Finarfin** :

That first hour thou surely dost recall, when anger rode upon us all as the lightning the stony heights, and my brothers bared the whetted fangs of their wrath all openly for the first.

 **Nerdanel** :

Nay, which that was there might e'er forget -- ?!

 **Fingolfin** : [discomfited]

No one was even hurt, _then_.

 **Finarfin** :

Nay, in truth; but the beast of bloodthirst was loosed in us that hour, though yet did but couchant lie in waiting shade. -- But I reck not that fear 'gainst thy travails -- 'twas of Alqualonde I spake.

[taut silence]

 **Finrod** :

But we were not menaced there -- horrible though it was --  _you_ were not in da --

[breaks off]

No --  _No_  --

[shaking his head, too agitated to continue]

 **Finarfin** : [with an edged smile]

Thou art clever, child: hast caught the drift of sense, I deem.

 **Finrod** : [faltering]

Were you -- Father, _you_ were not hurt?

 **Angrod** : [too quickly for their father to answer]

Would you have it otherwise for his sake, Ingold -- or for _ours_?

[as Finrod looks at him, going on with grim sympathy and a knowing Look]

You'd rather not _know_ about it, as much as any wish it should not have happened. But what difference does nearness of blood make -- or ought? So _you've_ said. Often.

 **Finrod** : [pained acknowledgment]

Ought not -- but you _know_ it does.

[to Finarfin]

\--  _Were_ you harmed?

[the living High King shakes his head]

 **Finarfin** : [calmly]

Nay -- naught worse than bruiséd knees, eke some disarray of raiment. I ken no part of aught ye have suffered, saving dread of harm, and heart aghast at horror its pangs.

 **Aegnor** : [frowning, pulled out of his abstraction]

What --  _why_?

 **Finarfin** : [lifting his hand]

Folk were affronted to behold an arméd host of Noldor return against them, as perchance 'twas, and time had let tempers' heat rise from that unsteady state of consternation that did obtain when first we passed -- there was an outraged multitude with all sharp tools and heavy -- and use of those, some presently within this place well might attest -- and also some swords whose makers needed them no longer, that wrath made up for unskill in wielding hands. Resolve was there, and eke great anger, that no enemy might take from them again unready such vessels as yet remained within Swans-Haven.

[the Teler Maid flinches, and looks wretched, blinking back tears, but remains attentive and self-possessed -- more so than the Exiles now hearing about the return to Alqualonde]

On myself, as foremost of the lordly line, their wrath did fasten, though for the moster part our folk but did submit unto our arresting, nor did protest in our confusion and new-come, late-come guilt --

 **Huan** :

[forlorn whines]

[Luthien shushes him quickly with a hand on his muzzle]

 **Finrod** : [fiercely]

Our House now stood aside, and did not rally to you nor defend you, then -- ?!

 **Finarfin** : [perfectly even]

Where was _right_ , else justice, in this wrack, when I had most grieviously failed to prevent their folly, nor led them well nor held mine own course unvarying, yet held still mine own authority at their head to stand? 'Twas in mind of many to _yield_ , not merely yield up, to whatsoever Doom awaited there; though not few did stand me strongly by, nor stood still-handed when hands were laid upon my person --

[to the Captain]

\-- thy sister one such was, that hung not back nor drew aside, but would bar them from my self until I bade her fling down blade, nor wavered, but pressed close by to share her liege lord's fate when we were haled unto Olwe's feet.

 **Captain** : [faintly, with a drawn smile]

Good for Suli'.

 **Ambassador** : [wondering aside]

In my own recent distress and pain, I had not thought that the scene of their disfavour and the Princes' chastisement by my lord their uncle should be rehearsed yet again, at home -- and perhaps many more times, indeed!

 **Finarfin** :

Th'indignation of our kinsmen at their losses -- of which not least verily the loss of _love_ , of trust broken with the breaking of heart and brain under edge of iron -- mounted as yon tall waves of Lady Uinen's sorrow that brakest anent the northwards course of our departing, harrowing against us like neap tide in its rising. -- All of the authority persuadant that Earwen and thy grandsire held was needful, to withold it falling hard on us.

 **Aegnor** : [horrified]

Mother -- was _there_  -- ?!

 **Finarfin** : [gravely]

Holdest thou she should bide still, when word did come of her City its ruining and her folk their need?

[to Aredhel]

\-- Thine even so too.

[the White Lady looks shocked; for the first time a flicker of uncertainty in her expression]

 **Aegnor** :

But why was _she_  --

 **Finarfin** : [cutting him off]

\-- Which else to deal with yon wreck we did leave behind in wake, that eke ye did turn face from? Or hold ye so, that the sad wounded ought best be left recovering their lost, that houses burnt and dwellings broken to lie uncared for 'neath the ruined skies, the whiles them unhurt do carry on all heedless saving only for their own lesser griefs eke loss? -- She came there, as true prince must, and certain bravest friends withal.

[his brother bows his head in solemn acceptance of the rebuke, though not explicitly directed at him, while his sons struggle with this revelation]

 **Finrod** : [quietly]

What . . . what did she say to you?

 **Finarfin** :

My lady had no word for me. -- Word for _others_ , that should spare me, aye -- but when that her kin had freed us, taking no right upon themselves that the Powers did not to punish, she turned from me, and did depart withouten hindward glance, nor mine own word to hinder her, unto her diverted task.

[Aredhel and the Lord Warden look away at his words, rather as Huan did when confronted by the Teler Maid earlier]

Nor spake she any word as I made haste to follow after, nor any sign saving only to point the baulk she did set aside to speak for me, that had been set to the upshoring, that they might salvage of the quay what haply might, and seek better after the dead for tally.

[sighing]

I recollect me well how we twain did meet, when those selfsame stones then reddened first were cut, how we did joy in the building of those very piers, and she did laugh so freely at my strivings to match the fashion of my speech unto her own, and the whole world sang, it seeméd me, of wave and wind and sweetest voice to each attuned --

[observing, aside]

\-- 'Tis passing hard, from stone once dried to setting, the blood congeal'd to scrape away. Like unto enamel, even.

[there is a choked sound from one -- or more than one -- of his Exiled family]

And thus was justice, and harder punishment than death and immurement in this peace, I deem, meted out to us by mercy, that we did labour by our kindred's side, and thence make way, at longest last to shadowy Tirion, when after they that had earliest borne hence the living wounded and worst hurt in spirit unto Lorien and some measure of healing did return, and give the greater strength of gods to that sad work, and we released from them that had little wish to behold us longer, even as we them --

 **Angrod** : [ragged]

We _can't_ go back. Ever.

 **Finarfin** :

Said I not, -- long and long time hath passed? All's changed; there is no stain nor wreckage anent the water's front, nor any bones yet scattered on the strand. Peace hath settled there anew, as the swan's breast upon the verge.

 **Aegnor** :

Alqualonde is back to normal? I don't believe it. I've seen --

[breaks off, abashed, as his father only shrugs, his eyebrows lifting over a gaze that has seen far too much]

 **Finarfin** :

'Tis far other, yet 'tis built again. Gated walls there are that may be made fast, that ne'er were elsewheres than Formenos, in the Day that was. But all's changed, and much ordered upon the thought of war.

 **Amarie** : [harsh]

Say rather --  _fear_.

 **Finarfin** : [meaningful]

Thou dost not speak counter to my lady's kin that they do train at ship's defense, else ward their gates, though they fear not in truth that we who did remain should e'er attack again.

 **Amarie** :

'Tis needful, for that they might ever feel some ease of heart, after.

 **Nerdanel** : [patiently lecturing]

Even so is the rest _needful_.

 **Amarie** :

 _Thou_ dost aver.

 **Finarfin** :

 _Thy_ king no less.

[Amarie says nothing]

Thy conscience, daughter, standeth in judgment overweening -- else it be pride, the which I must hold -- uncertain.

 **Amarie** : [adamant]

'Tis _ill_ that Elves should set hand no less than mind to war's consideration.

 **Eol** :

Yes, we should just let ourselves be enslaved and butchered, so that when the Enemy's soldiers overrun us we'll be able to feel pleasantly superior to them as we die.

 **Amarie** : [ice]

'Twas not of _necessity_ I spake, kinsman as kinslayer, nor defense, but of readying 'gainst needless battle.

 **Finrod** :

Talk about belabouring a point long past any reasonable end of argument -- how many years has it been, and she's still complaining about something that's been obvious since the first? We don't really need to be lectured about the evils of rebellion any more, I'm fairly certain.

 **Luthien** :

I'm getting the definite sense that there's some miscommunication.

[she stares intently at the Valinorean faithful for a moment]

You're not talking about us -- about Beleriand -- at all. You mean . . .  _here_. And _now_ , not back when the Trees were still alive, and you were feuding over who would lead the Noldor.

 **Nerdanel** :

Howsobeit else, than following the Dark One's assail, we should not make more perilous our 'fences, and guard most vigilantly all ways within and passages, that no new foe nor old returning might enter further without alarm and excursion to prevent? Even so didst thou describe thy mother's strong endeavour when telling of thine own home and history.

 **Angrod** :

But that's what Orome's people were doing, all along, -- Much good it did us.

 **Nerdanel** :

Aye, youngling, even so -- and for the same hath the numbers of them that stand unto the watch most great increase, by addition of eyes less keen belike than demigods' -- but diligent naytheless. Should any foe seek our lands to venture presently, a pale so much the mightier than the former fences doth loft its spires to the Stars so close that none saving only the very Eagles, I dare to guess, might rise to cross that stony hedge.

 **Aredhel** : [half-disbelieving]

The _mountains_ are changed?

[she is very upset by this idea, and not alone]

 **Finrod** :

How?

 **Nerdanel** :

Even as the lands their fashioning was shaped in ancientest time, in yon measureless Deeps ere any light save god-light did brighten this Marred world.

 **Finrod** :

But --  _how_?

 **Luthien** : [quickly]

In the technical sense, he means.

 **Nerdanel** : [straightfaced]

'Twould be something long of a whiles in the telling.

[gesturing as if sketching an alpine horizon in the air]

Our Lord did greatest part in it, assuredly, but all we his folk, Eldar else other, did contribute some measure of our abilities, be it to calm the restive spirits of plant and beast, else to mend all 'twas jarred unto damage of hands' fashioning, else more, as those whose nature as whose training did incline to it, should employ their better sense of stone, of ore and its flowing as the hot veins of the profoundest earth, to waken and rouse from lumber eke to guide thence where fittest.

[pause]

 **Fingolfin** :

You've been helping Aule move mountains around, 'Danel?

 **Nerdanel** : [modestly]

Mine own portion of the Working was but slight, in truth; Noldor or no, we do but fathom the surface whereof his greater Servants comprehend all many depths thereof.

 **Angrod** : [strung-out laughter]

All this time we were building castles and cities over there the old-fashioned way, and back home they've been rearranging the _skyline_.

 **Finrod** : [rueful]

And meanwhile I've been so proud of having figured out how to employ telekinetics for redecorating rooms!

[shaking his head]

Remind me of that next time I'm getting obnoxious, please.

 **Nerdanel** :

Nay, 'tis overmuch a skill for to employ in mere daunting of over-witty nephews, I vouchsafe ye.

 **Finrod** :

No, I don't suppose you could really threaten to open up a volcano in the middle of the dining terrace, could you?

 **Nerdanel** : [shrugging, smiling a little]

Verily. -- Moreover I am not currently much practised with such deeds, being much taken up by the needful present Work of our good Lord Aule's forge, to aid therewith the equipage of yon swelling ranks which do guard the Calacirya --

[overlapping]

 **Aredhel** : [even more incredulous]

 _You're_ making arms now?

 **Fingolfin** : [as startled as his daughter]

Gentle sister -- what is this world coming to?

 **Angrod** :

There's an _army_ about the Pass of Light?

 **Nerdanel** :

Aye, and even so.

 **Angrod** :

Whose?

 **Nerdanel** :

Why, -- ours.

 **Angrod** :

But -- um, who _is_ it?

 **Finarfin** :

Their armories the gods hath emptied: all those among the faithful that remained who wish it have been given arms and training in them by the Powers, far surpassing all the Arts of hunting and our own House's childish efforts to piece out the use of Morgoth's -- gifts. -- The which would occasion no little amaze, amid those of our kin that deemed no blood save Noldor should e'er have mastery of the Arts of war amongst the Elves. Preeminence hath passed to them that e'er were first among us.

[pause]

 **Finrod** : [blankly]

The Vanyar have taken up arms?

 **Aredhel** :

I can't believe that.

 **Angrod** :

Neither can I, I'm afraid.

 **Elenwe** : [bland]

 _Otherwise_ , I -- yet what, i'truth, ken I?

 **Fingolfin** :

The _Vanyar_  -- are become warriors?

[the Exiled shades look over at the representative of authority, who looks discomfited]

 **Apprentice** :

Some. -- Not all, by any means.

[everyone looks involuntarily at Amarie, who looks like one of the Fates in painted marble]

 **Steward** :

My lady, how difficult that must be for your spirit -- I am most sorry.

[shaking his head]

And so my dark imaginings are shown to be but shadows of the truth, that worse than nothing of the home I did recall is left, when what is left is changed, down to the very horizon!

 **Finrod** :

You Saw this.

 **Steward** :

No. I cannot See anything beyond the walls of this place.

 **Captain** : [bewildered]

Then how did you know to worry about it?

 **Steward** : [impatient]

I am not merely neurotic and depressed -- I obsess and fall into despondency for perfectly sound reasons, though I do not feel compelled to afflict everyone about me with them at all times and without cause.

 **Apprentice** : [aside, bemused]

Of all the things to specialize in -- worrying as a sideline!

 **Captain** : [sharply]

I don't see anyone else volunteering to take up the job, do you?

 **Finrod** : [still stunned]

 _Ingwe's_ prepared his people for war?

[to his relatives]

What does Grandmother think of it all?

 **Finarfin** :

She sorroweth for its needfulness, but --

[looking at Amarie pointedly]

\-- raileth _not_ in the street and square of Valmar, nor Tirion, nor upon Taniquetil's peak, thereto assail the peace that yet withholds, nor goeth about the Guarded Plain berating them that stand to ward our land.

 **Nerdanel** : [just as pointedly]

Indis hath ever been one to accept the world its changes, like them well, else like them little; nor to waste her heart in fretting 'gainst the course of time.

 **Finrod** :

Wait -- I'm still reeling at the thought of Aman a nation mobilized for battle, but -- are you really saying that not only have the Vanyar sanctioned it -- and participate in it -- but that _you're_  --

[looking directly at Amarie]

\-- now challenging the Powers on their decision and taking them to task -- and encouraging others to do the same?

[biting back an uneven grin]

Oh, this is rich. This is just too much.

 **Amarie** : [hotly]

Aye, mock me openly -- I'd have such in preference to soft words of consolation and disdain, as I were a child filled with folly, that might not understand such rougher concerns nor aye the harshest ways of this the world most marred -- !

 **Finarfin** : [patient]

Thou wert in veriest truth most impatient, no less than thou didst speak as if unto yearling babe, when bright Varda bespake thee thus.

 **Amarie** :

I did utter but words the same even as _thou_ did unto thine own, in despite of _multitudes,_ my lord!

[to Finrod]

\-- Aye, and thee no less, as thou hast perchance forgot in thine exiled days of blood!

 **Finrod** :

I just think it's funny that you're the one arguing against the Valar right now. I don't know enough about this situation to have any opinion on it one way or the other --

[aside]

\-- something I'm going to have to have a talk with Namo about, I can see.

 **Amarie** : [tossing her head]

 _Lawful_ _protest_ I but make, my lord, eke remonstration, unto them that hath most free and at no god's command nor king's now taken up the sword and battle-spear, and shield, and spells of force, as 'twere needful they should add unto the Powers' might, as aught they might essay should count in such defense!

 **Finrod** :

Making any headway?

 **Amarie** : [disgruntled]

Nay. As well to reason with the flying-fish, as proclaim peace amidst the Eldar.

 **Finrod** :

 _Lawful_  . . . so you mean that nobody cares enough about your troublemaking to tell you to _stop_ , I gather?

[he is not very successfully biting back a grin]

 **Amarie** :

. . .

 **Steward** : [to Amarie, frowning]

Indeed, such must be no less of upset to yourself, than all _this_ to us -- I think it must be as an earthquake, that your leaders and your people have all changed their way of thinking, and you that were secure once in their midst, though isolate among us Noldor, now are left apart, to stand alone upon the hard-beset ground of your strong-held principles.

[Amarie gives him a guarded, wary Look, and then nods very slightly, accepting the sympathy as if it were something unidentifiable and potentially dangerous. Glancing at Finrod:]

 **Amarie** : [unsteadily]

Thou art kinder than thy master, in truth.

 **Steward** :

It costs me little, that am but bystander. Had I such personal concern, I think 'twould be far harder.

[the object of their discussing flinches, looking guilty and stubborn both at once]

 **Teler Maid** : [troubled aside]

No self-interest, say you -- but is that _truth_ , taken at a remove?

[she gets up quietly and moves towards the front of the dais]

 **Finrod** : [choked]

Amarie, you've --

[before he can go on, the Sea-elf comes to stand beside, frowning down at them with her arms folded, her expression unhappy but resigned and determined]

 **Teler Maid** :

It is no _good_ , Edrahil, _no_ good in it nor hope. I cannot let you break my heart again.

[as she looks down at him from the steps, he turns to face her but does not get up, so that he is kneeling on the floor in front of her (and everyone else) as he looks up at her, stricken]

 **Steward** : [voice shaking]

You did grant me a chance, _one_ chance, Maiwe -- if I have failed with it, I beg you at the least to tell me in what fashion. I _meant_ no insult in my words -- my latest words -- to the lady Amarie.

 **Teler Maid** :

But it may be that you but speak so to impress me, and gainsay my fears, out of your great cunning, and thus by fair words to one so long your rival in your reckoning for Lord Ingold's friendship, so to make me think you are become generous and kind as Lord Ulmo's very self, and your power no more to fear than his! That you are gracious to _her_ itself is but deception, I do misdoubt.

 **Steward** :

\-- That I am changed --  _itself_ is proof I am not changed?

 **Captain** :

Curlew -- that's not _fair_.

[her lips tighten, but she does not back down or look at him, continuing to scowl at her ex]

 **Steward** : [bleak]

Then that chance was lost before it was ever offered.

 **Teler Maid** :

I am not _unjust_  -- not so! -- but ever and anon you did pledge me your unkindness to me would cease, and you to treat me not so coldly outside my lady's house -- and ever and anon you did again. And then did make me coils of words to foul my steering-oar and leave me unhelmed, proving how you did _not_ mock me with your mocking. That you are good -- 'tis _too_ _good_ to be trusted.

[she fights tears, very proud in her distress; he sighs and nods, once]

 **Steward** :

Indeed.

[he closes his eyes for a moment, before looking at her resolutely]

Then I offer you this choice, which I have pondered now some whiles, the making of it I will not attempt to sway, nor to resist once made. -- Would you not have the danger of me as I am, all that I was and yet am and have become, then I pledge you this: do you wish it, I will ask of the Lord and Lady here, when the time comes, that I should drink of the cup of forgetfulness --

[checks, frowning]

\-- though I think that must be metaphorical -- as I were one reborn whose child-soul newly wakening needs must be sheltered, lest the growing mind grow bent with too much press of knowledge and recollection of things beyond any means of comprehending.

[long shocked silence, as all his friends and enemies and acquaintances stare at him . . . most of all the Sea-Elf]

 **Teler Maid** : [breathless]

Why?

 **Steward** :

I think that I have hurt you so deeply, that you perhaps may never think of me without some secret fear that I will mock you once again, in secret smiling words that are too subtle for your thought's untangling, or in smiles alone, or perchance in _thought_ only -- and _that_ the worst.

[turning up his hand]

Therefore _if_ you will, 'tis _my_ will that _your_ words should be my first, taking up my life anew, _your_ speech that from which I learn the ways of thought, and thus my first proud self forgot beyond recall, a tale from a distant land, in a stranger's tongue, that hearing might be wondered at and learned of, but never quite the same. Let _yours_ be the world's translation, to my mind, hereafter.

[she comes closer, staring at him in dismay]

 **Teler Maid** : [almost whispering]

You surrendered your heart's dearest ambition for your people . . . and your flesh for the sake of your friends -- but for me you would give up that which you prize above all other things, dearer than pearls, dearer than praise even, -- the treasure of your mind --

 **Steward** : [with a very slight smile]

I have a better sense of what is _of_ _worth_ , and what is worth _less_ , I think, than I did in bygone Day.

[Finrod starts to interrupt, but Luthien puts a hand on his, forestalling him, though her expression is as serious as his and his companions'. Nerdanel takes a deep breath and presses her hands against her lips, closing her eyes on her tears.]

 **Teler Maid** : [rather desperate]

You do not know that the gods would grant such asking.

 **Steward** :

Perchance not -- but I trust I have _some_ skill at persuasion, and I cannot discern any harm nor wrong in it, if 'tis my will as it is yours.

 **Teler Maid** :

You -- you would become as one of _us_ , as one born of the Teleri, forsaking all your own House and folk and lore?

[he nods]

But you would be of Tirion a laughingstock, and a stranger, among the proud companions of House Feanor . . .

[confused aside]

. . . but they are not there, now, I do remember . . .

[pulling herself together]

But how should you _fare_ among us, lacking all memories, as a child full-grown, and knowing naught of the lore of ships?

 **Steward** :

Do not trouble about that. We are swift to learn, our people, even as to teach.

 **Teler Maid** : [increasingly panicked]

But you would no longer know your friends, and would you lose even _them_ for me?

 **Steward** :

That would not matter, for they would be my friends yet, would they not? and would surely treat me no less kindly, when I should be speechless and ignorant of them as of all else, than ever they did before.

 **Teler Maid** : [with a nervous glance at Finrod and the Captain]

But they would be greatly angered with me, or at the least reproachful.

 **Steward** :

You are not deliberating whether to wed Finrod Finarfinion, nor any of his following nor kin.

 **Teler Maid** : [taut]

You are _pushing_ me, Edrahil.

 **Steward** : [unrepentent]

Yes. You cannot push aside the burden of choosing onto others who have not chosen it.

[silence]

 **Teler Maid** : [whispering]

\-- Do you _want_ it?

 **Steward** :

Do not trouble about that. I offer it freely: naught else matters.

 **Teler Maid** :

Indeed but it does -- ! You shall resent me for it, if I say you yea, I think.

 **Steward** :

No, for I shall not remember it.

 **Teler Maid** :

But you shall so in time, when your past life returns to you, as I have heard, and shall you not then recall what skills you have lost and given up and regret them most sadly, and so too me?

 **Steward** :

Then shall I not also recollect the reason for so choosing?

[pause]

 **Teler Maid** :

You have answers for everything.

 **Steward** :

Yes. And so it shall ever be, -- unless you would have it otherwise.

 **Teler Maid** : [in a rush]

I might not love you then. Have you indeed thought upon _that_? That I might grow weary of you as _dull_ , and one no longer mysterious and strange, that did learn all words and ways of me, nor wish to wed you then, and leave you to go your ways bereft and all forlorn?

[he looks over briefly at his King and comrades, and their anxious looks of concern, and smiles faintly]

 **Steward** :

Not _all_ forlorn.

Teler Maid:

Why would you be willing that all your glory and pride and strength of wit be gone from you, for so little return as one I know you deemed me?

 **Steward** :

Maiwe, I am so wearied of the weight of days that the thought of a time without their burden on my soul is as welcome as it is otherwise. I have had for my consolation the certainty that you, at least, were well and better without me, for surely your true intended must be of your own folk, and you to have realized that with my vainglorious desertion -- and I have learned that even _that_ was an empty dream, and all my meant nobility of sacrifice to think of you wed to another and happy for that, a folly and arrogance, and no more.

[sighing]

I cast myself into the Lord of Water's embrace in hope of oblivion, and found it, but for a little while, and must ever wake again to the world, and the world Outside awaits, and I fear it more than ever I feared Ice or Fire or Wolf. To lose its imaginings were no loss.

 **Teler Maid** : [frowning]

But were the world so _ill_ that you would gladly lose it, then it may _not_ be so, that you might be _indifferent_ to unchange!

 **Steward** : [smiles regretfully]

You were not so bold to argue against my errors, in the Day that was.

 **Teler Girl** :

And _you_ would never, never have smiled so at it . . . !

[in almost a whisper]

Such a choice you give me, such an offering -- as rare and unreplaceable as any swanship, and shall I burn this gift, lest it be used against me?

[shaking her head]

I cannot accept your gift. I am not deserving of it.

[sadly but without regret]

I will remain the younger of us twain, and you shall keep the mastery, and memory of the Treeless world that I have never yet seen, nor shall I seek to lessen thee. Only --

[her voice trembles a little]

\-- be gentle with me, that am and ever shall be the weaker, and recollect the long years I did spend in shadow and dreams, while you wandered far under the changéd sky --

[he cannot answer at once]

 **Steward** : [strange intensity]

Weak? That has held power to harm, where wronged, and set aside nonetheless?

[shaking his head in turn]

There is no deed heavier in all of Arda, nay, _Ea_ , than to show mercy, when no gain or glory's like to come of it. And as for fearing the world Outside -- true, I have indeed beheld the Sun upon the water, and Tilion's cool flame amid the Stars -- but when I seek to think of the lands I knew, the home of my first beholding and my birth, not in the gentleness of the Silver and the Golden Ones but bright and dark and changing as Beleriand, -- I am filled with dread, and tremble to dream of looking on them, when all is changed and past recall.

 **Teler Girl** : [disbelievingly]

You, also? Afraid?

 **Steward** : [half-smile]

Very much afraid. I fear you shall find me a poor shelter, and little of strength or protection from me, nonetheless.

 **Teler Girl** : [slightly mocking]

What, shall I then defend _you_ , and be your protector, and your mainstay against the storm?

 **Steward** :

If you will have it so. And if you will not --

[his voice is unsteady now]

\-- then if you would, remember me not all unkindly, for I did love you truly, if too late, and if in vain.

 **Teler Girl** : [indignant]

In vain? Now that you have come to me? Small chance of that! I am not _you_ , Edrahil --

[he flinches, but she keeps on]

\-- neither who was, nor _is_ , to fend you off when you would hold to me, nor let you slip away unclaimed that come within my lee!

[she takes hold of both his hands and pulls him upright, then has to look up even though she is standing on a step]

 **Teler Maid** : [a little dismayed]

Oh! But you are so much the taller than I -- and I did recollect that, but it seemed otherwise for so long you have been kneeling.

 **Steward** : [very seriously]

Perhaps that might be changed, did the Powers will it; one might ask them at least.

[she gives him a very dubious Look]

 **Teler Maid** :

You would wish to be so short as _this_? Would that not be most strange to you, and hard or more so than to lose --

[checks -- frowning fiercely up at him]

You -- are --  _jesting_  -- with me!

[he does not deny it, though his expression does not change -- hers changes to wide-eyed wonder]

Ah! You are truly changed, to utter silly jests against yourself, and I heard it told, but held it past likelihood -- No, I would not have you less, so you do not stand so high you might not see me in your shadow.

 **Steward** :

I will never clip nor close your wings.

[the Sea-elf continues to match stares with him, and he with her. Suddenly she jumps up and grips his shoulders, setting her feet against his knee as if she were scaling a rock-wall -- or a mast -- and holds there like a gymnast, so that now she is looking down slightly into his eyes. Reflexively he catches her around her waist, keeping her steady, and in complete trust she lets go, leaning back against his hands, and runs her own down the sides of his face and through his hair, her eyes sparkling with delighted glee and more than a little mischief.]

 **Teler Maid** : [shaking her head earnestly]

You are _not_ who I dreamed you should be, did I have in all ways my will -- for never did it come to me, to dream of any realm so rich and strange that I should wonder at it no matter how long the world should last. -- Edrahil, I _do_ not forgive you -- for it is truly as your friend has said: him that you now are never did me wrong, nor might I hold hard grudge to another, when the one who hurt me has vanished.

[frowning a little anxiously]

\-- Are you happy?

[pause]

 **Steward** :

Indeed, I may answer that an unqualified yes.

[she looks at him with a thoughtful curiosity]

 **Teler Maid** :

Did you know, of a certainty, _how_ I should choose?

[pause]

 **Steward** : [remotely]

And if I _had_  -- if I had made that offer but in hollowness, giving you a choice that I knew most certainly you should not take, and thus no risk to me at all, but only the _semblance_ of generosity, as the Lady Luthien has told of her captors' bragging to her in our City, how Lord Curufin took pains that he and his elder should be seen to be Narog's defenders against preying Wolves, both so that they might obtain first information of my lord's death or return, and so that their nobility be ever in the people's foremost view --  _if_ that were true -- what shall you do _now_ , Sea-Mew?

[she slaps at his shoulders in exasperation]

 **Teler Maid** :

Why do you speak of such a thing, as you'd have me hate you yet and once again?

 **Steward** : [with careful emphasis]

Because you must be certain, that you know what it is you will -- and you must know, you must _not_ blind yourself, that such a subterfuge lies full well within my powers, to guide the course of others' thoughts and words -- most especially of them that are less practised or else weaker than I.

[pause]

 **Teler Maid** : [coolly]

You did not _say_ which, yea or nay.

[he smiles a little in appreciation of her shrewdness, but answers as seriously as before:]

 **Steward** :

I had seen that you were brave, and wise; and that your thought is not upon your own good alone, but that you take heed for justice -- and thus I could See whatever choice you made, were well for me. But I did not See so far as to _which_ 'twould be.

[bemused and oddly vulnerable]

I concede, it pleases me strangely more than I had thought, that you did choose me, as I am, in mine own despite.

[she tries to say something, but is at a loss for words]

 **Ex-Thrall** : [hoarsely, but smiling]

Speak, cousin; or, if you cannot, stop his mouth with a kiss, and let not him speak neither --

 **Teler Maid** :

Well-advised --

[she does so enthusiastically]

 **Steward** : [mild]

I think I will babble folly all the day, to be so silenced --

 **Teler Maid** : [interrupting, rising to his defense]

\-- You are no fool!

 **Steward** :

\-- and mine own self to censure, to be so praised --

 **Teler Maid** : [glaring in mock indignation]

Ah -- !

 **Steward** :

\-- and pardon beg for such _small_ subterfuge, that such a starry gaze might longer look down on me the whiles --

 **Teler Maid** : [trying not to smile]

Flatterer --

 **Steward** :

\-- and all these but empty words and worthless webs, phantoms of illusion to draw you after me once more, were it not for _one_ abiding flame of truth that kindles each to life: that I do love you, Maiwe of Alqualonde, more than any other place or state or thing upon this earth.

 **Teler Maid** : [smiling now, but trying not-very-successfully not to cry]

I know not what to say, Edrahil, I would have had you look upon me, and now -- your notice does undo me most completely --

 **Steward** : [calmly]

No matter; I have an answer --

[he kisses her in turn this time, as the scene ends]


	149. Act 4: SCENE V.xxxviii

[Elsewhere -- the Corollaire.]

 **Beren** : [explaining]

I never _wanted_ to be a warrior. I never _didn't_ want to. It . . . just wasn't an option one way or the other. That's what we did. I wasn't crippled. I hadn't any great skills like Healing or Smithing that would have been more valuable to the tribe. I was just a Hunter. I always knew someday I'd go off to the War. And then we got overrun and _everyone_ had to be fighters.

 **Yavanna** :

See? That's exactly what I was getting at earlier. You need to make your own decisions now, not based on factors that no longer apply.

[pause]

 **Beren** :

But I'm dead.

 **Yavanna** : [bland]

You keep saying that as if I didn't know it.

 **Beren** : [suspiciously]

You know something I don't.

 **Yavanna** : [smug, teasing]

 _Lots_ of things.

[pause]

 **Beren** : [sadly]

If I weren't dead . . . I would be too afraid to look at you, wouldn't I?

 **Yavanna** : [shrugging]

Maybe. But maybe not -- you've never feared any of my shapes, my shadows, never shrank from my touch in the world beyond, no matter what my mood or form it took while you were living. You're _mine_.

 **Beren** :

I -- 

[checks]

Wait . . . was that _you_? When I was dying? I'd lost so much blood I couldn't see, even the torches were going out it seemed like, but I could still see everyone -- like candles, kind of, except Tinuviel was like a bonfire, and all the trees glowing too, and over us the Lady-tree was like this pillar of light above, and everything was --

[with certainty]

You were there. _Watching_ over me.

 **Yavanna** :

Yes. After a fashion. A part of my --  _awareness_  -- was present.

 **Beren** : [as certain]

You helped me. You were the wind that carried me over the Sea, so that I didn't fall into the Grey Lands again.

[she only looks at him with a sad smile]

Thank you.

[frowning]

Who _are_ you?

[at her bemused expression]

We call you the Earthqueen, and the Lady of the Fields, and those aren't names, those are _titles_. And I always thought Yavanna was your _name_ name, but then I learned the Elven Old Speech, and it just means the one who gives us fruit, and that isn't a real name either, that's just a description. The same thing for the rest of you guys -- your names are just special ways of saying words, really. They're descriptions that _people_ gave you.

 **Yavanna** :

Obviously. We only use them because the Children prefer it.

 **Beren** :

Then -- what do you call yourself?

 **Yavanna** :

Me.

 **Beren** : [staggered and rather worried]

You don't have -- a real name?

 **Yavanna** : [with an wry Look]

What _is_ a name?

 **Beren** :

It's . . . it's the sound that means _you_. Or the thought, I guess, 'cause it can be letters, too. I mean written.

 **Yavanna** :

Where does it come from?

 **Beren** :

Your parents give it to you.

[she keeps waiting]

Or your friends, sometimes . . . Or you pick one, because it describes you, and okay, I get it, but they don't _seem_ like names. I mean, the Smith -- the Star-queen -- the Windmaster -- the Lord of Dreams -- they all seem sort of . . .  _impersonal_.

 **Yavanna** : [amused]

You sound like your friend, who goes by the name Finrod these days, and many more than when he left us. Do you know what he said, when he asked me the same thing an Age ago, and I tried to explain to him that it would take until the end of the world to tell him all my names, because _who one is_ keeps on going -- ?

 **Beren** : [wary]

What? 

**Yavanna** :

"Well -- do you think you could talk really quickly then?"

[Beren chuckles; the Earth-Queen sighs]

Aman has been such a quieter place, since.

[long pause]

 **Beren** :

We aren't really using words now, are we?

 **Yavanna** :

Sort of.

 **Beren** :

Okay . . .

 **Yavanna** : [shrugging]

You might be dead, but your mind still has the habits of years and your people think partly in words. It would be rather pointless for me to speak to you in ways you don't understand, or so well, when we can communicate directly at present.

[pause]

 **Beren** : [thoughtful]

 _Partly_. So . . . another way . . . is all this -- ?

[he brushes his hand through the grass beside him]

In images. And feelings.

 **Yavanna** :

Yes.

[he turns a little looking up at the dead Trees]

 **Beren** : [almost in a whisper]

Long ago -- for us -- the King gave my ancestors his memories of Aman in visions. You must remember them too, better than anyone else could.

[she looks at him intently, understanding perfectly what he's asking]

 **Yavanna** :

It will hurt. An awful lot.

 **Beren** :

There's this idea my friends told me about, I'm not sure I buy it, but it _could_ be true -- that the way the world is now, even _air_ hurts us, just a little bit at a time, every time we breathe it, only we don't even feel it because we're born to it, so we're always used to it, not like the first time you go up into the mountains and it's too thin, but like being born up in the highlands and it's thinner than down in the flats, so people from Brethil have a hard time moving north until they get used to it -- and maybe that's part of why we get _old_ the way they don't, because we don't heal right. Men as opposed to The Elves, I mean. But you understand me . . . all of what I'm trying to say.

[gravely she nods]

 **Yavanna** :

You will not be able to take it all in, though -- even my _memories_ are greater than your ability to grasp, dear one.

 **Beren** :

Then give me what I can. -- Please.

[she looks intently into his eyes]

 **Yavanna** : [softly]

 _You_ would have given Them to me, had I asked you, and you been able --  _Yes_.

[( _Note_ : we never see the Trees themselves during this sequence.) The light begins to grow around them, _not_ a blinding blue-white light at all, but a gold-silver, clear and intense but not painful, nor flat, but shifting like that of sunlight through leaves -- or rather more like that of the fireworks which become like weeping-willows made of golden light. As it increases in intensity the blue of the sky is overwhelmed and the green of the grass becomes translucent, as if each blade were an impossibly thin leaf of emerald, but the quality of it retains the same coruscating, shifting character. Tears fill the Earth-queen's eyes at the memory, and her expression reveals a combination of pain and joy.]

 **Beren** : [whispering]

You meant _hurt_ _you_  . . . I'm sorry --

[he reaches his hand up to her cheek, unconsciously, like a child comforting a caregiver, his own tears beginning to fall]

 **Yavanna** : [same tone]

Don't be.

[the light illuminates them the same way it does on the world around them, like the clear diamond-cut daylight of a Vermeer painting which makes even chipped mugs and windowsills beautiful, only more golden, or like sunlight in a Terrence Malick film, the mingled light of the Opening Hour. The butterflies and bees glow like blue topaz and amber, garnet and white jade. It is too much, even in recollection, and a dream, and the mortal begins to sway -- she catches him, gently leaning him back unconscious on the hillside, while the sky returns to mundane blue and the world to the ordinary light of day.]


	150. Act 4: SCENE V.xxix

[the Hall: the Exiles of House Finwe are in mid-argument with their relatives (it's less of an argument than a distress-airing session, really and the distress and bewilderment are mutual) about the fact that they've gone and changed home on them. (The Teler Maid and the Steward are now seated side by side holding hands, a little apart from Finrod and Luthien, but still part of the group; although the Sea-Elf is trying diligently to be attentive and serious, she can't help bouncing up and down on her knees from time to time like an over-excited little kid, and when they look at each other, it is with the lurking smiles of two who share a private joke. He, in particular, is changed -- no longer brooding or preoccupied, but completely relaxed: the worst is over, there's nothing left that he can't cope with now. Their quiet conspiratorial glee is the source of different reactions among the seated company: for some (Finrod, Amarie, Aredhel, Eol) it increases their unhappiness, others (his comrades, Elenwe & Nerdanel, the Ex-Thrall, Huan) are cheered every time they look at them.)]

 **Aegnor** : [indignant]

You didn't _say_ anything, Father, you never mentioned it to us -- if you had --

[he shakes his head in reproach -- aside, sadly]

. . . I would never have slighted you so, had I known you came so nearly to violence: my anger is gone, in my pointless fear for you in bygone danger -- but not my hurt, for rage gone cold is a cruel weight upon the heart --

 **Finarfin** : [gently]

Yet how shouldst thou give credence, that nor we nor eke this realm be withouten change, even as _ye_ in veriest truth are likewise given unto change?

[Aegnor does not know what to say; Angrod and the Captain try to comfort him. So does Huan.]

 **Luthien** :

But _nobody_ expects it to happen. I know _I_ didn't think that Doriath would be any different at all, not really -- certainly not like it was when we finally got there.

 **Finrod** : [sounding tired and unhappy]

Might we get back to that? If you don't mind, of course. But _talking_ about all this -- we can't change anything, and neither can they, and the longer it goes on the more upsetting it is, for myself at least.

 **Luthien** :

It just keeps on getting worse and worse from here.

 **Finrod** : [quickly]

I understand.

 **Luthien** :

No, I meant that it doesn't seem like that's going to be much of an improvement for you. I think I can manage the rest, now. But I'm afraid it will only depress you in a different way.

 **Nerdanel** : [wry]

Nay, there resteth in tales of others' woe the power most strange to lighten one's own grief, betimes; some do say for that one might gain better perception by compare, of this sorrow its insignificance, but I do aver 'tis moster that the tale doth occupy the heart so full that passing weight be much displaced by present.

 **Finrod** :

I do want to know how it ended, even if I already know what happens after. -- If you're sure you're all right with it.

 **Luthien** : [nodding]

Do you remember where I was?

 **Ambassador** :

Fighting with the Lord of Beor about what to do next, my Lady.

 **Luthien** :

Yes, but that's most of the story.

 **Huan** :

[sad whine]

 **Luthien** : [sighing]

All right. Yes. -- The hardest part for me was accepting what I'd demanded earlier, when it wasn't what I really wanted. It took me a long time to bring myself to acknowledge what a sacrifice he was making, to give up his pride and agree to go back to my father with me, _without_ the Silmaril, so that I'd be safe. When I said, "I'll only go back to Doriath with you by my side," I was imagining a defiant sort of way, me telling them that we weren't going to listen to their silly conditions and objections, and they could take me on my own terms -- with Beren -- or not at all. I didn't imagine us going back with a Silmaril at all -- I didn't even dare let myself _think_ it could be possible, even while I was doing everything I could to make it happen -- but _this_  --

[she smiles sadly]

Going back in utter defeat, limping home with nothing, to beg charity from them, even if I _wasn't_ going to admit that they were right all along -- it was just too awful a thought. And after that winter -- there wasn't anything about roughing it that bothered me at all. I was good at it. I don't need anybody else to look after me -- except for Huan -- !

[giving the Hound an affectionate look]

But -- Beren -- just _couldn't_. There wasn't -- something happened to him, when he lost to Carcharoth, more than just being injured. The poison, perhaps, or . . . Sometimes I thought he wouldn't wake up because he didn't want to, because he didn't want to live any more, only he's too stubborn to stop, either. And when he did . . . he was so -- so _old_. -- Weak. Even after his health recovered, he -- it was in his mind, not so much his body -- he was like an oak gone all hollow, there on the outside, but everything that made him strong and alive and _him_ all eaten away, with just enough left to keep going for one more spring --

[she swallows hard]

 **Finrod** : [quietly]

There are people who became that way after the Grinding Ice.

 **Angrod** : [nodding]

\-- Salgant.

[Aegnor also nods somberly]

 **Aredhel** :

Salgant was always a weakling with no moral fibre whatsoever. That fat fool let himself be pushed along into the March -- it wasn't _courage_ that stopped him turning back at Araman, it was simply that he hadn't the nerve to make his own choices.

 **Elenwe** :

Not so. I am sorrowed to hear the cold did break his spirit, and the deaths of children, yet such wondereth me not: 'twas for the same kindness and duty to his folk that set my lord thy brother on that trail even as Ingold.

 **Aredhel** : [giving Finrod a wicked smile]

Speaking of useless people -- never mind.

 **Angrod** : [exasperated]

When are you going to grow up and stop thinking that _fighting_ with everyone is a worthwhile use of your time?

 **Aredhel** :

 _You_ should talk -- you got to have an exciting life as a warrior for all those years, while I was stuck in that hole of Turgon's and then my _noble_ husband's so called Great Hall.

[Eol smirks knowingly at her mockery]

 **Aegnor** : [uneven smile]

Oh yes, _so_ exciting -- every year for yeni watching Morgoth's smouldering dump, waiting for something unpleasant to happen -- telling more people their loved ones weren't coming home, and then finally getting to watch all our friends die with us. -- And never the chance to have a real home, or a real life, with a family and children of our own. It got boring _very_ quickly, 'Feiniel. I -- envy _you_.

[she looks away haughtily]

 **Luthien** : [going on determinedly]

And finally I had no other choice. I couldn't _fix_ him -- not without destroying him.

[Nerdanel looks at her with a very pointed, knowing expression, Luthien matching hers, not looking away]

 **Teler Maid** :

I do not understand.

 **Luthien** :

I might have been able to change his mind so that he couldn't remember about Carcharoth or the Silmaril any more, and then it wouldn't grieve him so, or he to blame himself for it.

 **Teler Maid** :

But why would that be so wrong? Would that not be healing him, after a fashion?

 **Finrod** : [gently]

Sea-Mew, how if I had only _made_ you forget your fights and bitterness with Edrahil, so that you only had a vague recollection that you'd disagreed, but it was all silliness, and thus you should not hold it against him any longer -- instead of weighing all the past against the present and your own knowledge, to judge him false or true, so that you might have perfect bliss without any pain at all?

 **Teler Maid** :

Oh!

[she looks dismayed]

No, no, that would be _most_ wrong!

 **Steward** : [giving Finrod a Look]

Indeed.

[he puts his arms reassuringly around her shoulders]

 **Teler Maid** : [breathless and a little worried]

Could you _do_ that, Lord Ingold?

 **Finrod** :

I don't --  _think_ so. But I'm not a demi-god. If I knew how --

[he looks at his friends with a sad smile]

\-- it would have been far easier to do _that_ , than let you two terrify me so -- to _wrong_ you, to keep you both safe -- and thus to lose you _both_ , by so doing, and this harmony you have made for yourselves, that I never dared to hope for.

[Aegnor looks at him in concern, and then at Amarie, who sighs but does not say anything; Aegnor looks again at his brother with a troubled expression, and a profound, if belated, empathy.]

 **Luthien** : [unsteadily]

I think -- I think if I had once started to _try_  -- it would have been easy for me to master him thus -- because I'm strong enough, and I know his mind so well -- but most of all because he loves me so much. It wouldn't have been like my other battles --

 **Warden of Aglon** : [confused aside]

Of course not. He's a Man, not Ainur.

 **Aegnor** :

You'd be surprised -- Men are very tough, and capable of resisting mental interference to an astonishing degree, given their lack of life-experience.

 **Ex-Thrall** : [aside]

Better far than some of _us_.

 **Aegnor** : [wry]

Why do you think I fled the field, rather than try to argue with my true-love? _Luthien_ may be the only one of us more stubborn than House Beor.

 **Luthien** :

\-- As stubborn, maybe. I don't think anyone can be _more_.

[blinking rather hard, with a bitter smile]

All the while he was comatose, I kept thinking that there could be nothing worse than this -- that it would have been better if we'd both died before Thangorodrim, than for me to lose him like that, to have him alive without being there, as if fate were mocking us both. I'd rather have followed him through Nan Dungortheb, and faced the creatures that live in the ravines, than spent those nights and days watching him struggle against Death alone, able to do nothing but bathe him and sing to him and try to get enough food and liquids into him to keep him from wasting away --

[the High King's daughter laughs shortly]

 **Aredhel** :

And what do you think _you_ could have done against them?

 **Luthien** : [shrugging]

Not much, probably. I gather the giant spiders are fairly tone-deaf.

[this deadpan comment brings an involuntary sour smile to the face of the other Princess]

I heard far more than I ever wanted to know about Ungoliant's spawn and sundry fell creatures during his other illnesses, when he was delirious with fever or just having nightmares. I don't mean that I want to have anything to do with them, or ever did. But at least I would have been _doing_ _something_ , if I'd been there by his side, not --

[her detachment begins to fail her; Finrod grips her shoulder tightly]

\--  _waiting_ , to find out if I'd ever hear his voice, if I'd already lost him as I feared at Angband -- always afraid that he might slip away without my knowing it, not knowing if anything I did made any difference, or if he could even hear me -- but sometimes it almost seemed as if he was about to wake, there were moments when consciousness was almost about to return, I thought -- and then he'd slip back into dark again, like when there's a warm day and you think it's finally come to Spring, but then it turns out to have been an illusion, and a killing frost takes all the new growth.

[she wipes her eyes with her hand]

The worst -- the worst was that he was in pain, even when he was deepest in sleep, I could tell -- sometimes I thought that perhaps he didn't _want_ to come back, because it was too bad, like a wall o f fire to pass through. And when he -- he _did_ , that was all I wanted, I thought -- I thought it would all be all right, no matter about the Silmaril or even his poor hand. Only -- he was broken, and I couldn't change that, not by anything I said or sang or did, and it was worse when he tried to make an effort for my sake and be normal . . .

[wiping her eyes again]

. . . it _hurt_ so much to look at him that way, and finally I had to stop fighting the truth and admit there was nothing more I could do to heal him, and then I had to ask myself -- how much was I willing to give up for him? Could I stand to set aside my pride, and face my parents, for his sake, or would I keep on being a coward and telling myself that things would get better for us both if I just made him do what I wanted for a little while longer, so that I wouldn't have to deal with the stress and shame of dealing with my family again? 

[smiling faintly]

Poor Huan -- we both kept wanting him to take sides and choose between us, and tell the other one what to do and who was right, and he wouldn't, he wouldn't say anything, it made him so unhappy to have us at odds.

[the Hound whines, thumping his tail a little, his ears and eyebrows forlorn; it's Aegnor's turn to comfort him, patting him and rubbing his nose]

Finally, one day, I couldn't, and I woke him -- Beren, I mean, of course -- and told him we would go back home. And he was so -- so grateful for it, as if I'd just taken a huge burden off his back, and helped him up from the ground, and given him water. All the while we were breaking camp, he was so -- easy and almost cheerful, but the worst of it was that I knew why -- I knew it was because he didn't care what happened to himself any more, so the thing that I was most afraid of, that Dad would have him killed or imprisoned as he'd warned us, didn't mean a thing to him -- really, because he wouldn't have worry about me. I was afraid -- very -- that he was actually hoping he'd be put to death, just to get it over with, but how could I ask him that?

 **Fourth Guard** : [troubled]

That doesn't sound much like Beren.

 **Luthien** : [sniffling]

No. He wasn't -- he hadn't been himself for a very long time. Even before, when I first found him, but -- this was so much worse.

[pulling herself together]

So then we went back to Menegroth, together, for the second time, and I was so tense and afraid and angry that I hardly noticed how different everything was at first -- Beren marked it before I did, that the woods were completely still, there were no animals about at all, and there was a hush over everything; only it wasn't like before, when Daeron's moodiness bound everything -- this was more like the calm before a hurricane. It was fear, not unhappiness -- well, there was unhappiness too, but that came because of the fear, not separately. We didn't understand it, and it was extremely spooky -- if I hadn't been able to sense Mom's working, it would have seemed as though the Maze had failed and everyone been mysteriously taken from the land -- and we all crept through, on guard for we didn't know what -- else, at least. I was worried that someone might get -- overenthusiastic, and shoot without warning.

 **Huan** : [hackles raising]

[loud growls]

[those in the Hound's vicinity start and edge away a little]

 **Luthien** :

I was so paranoid, I was convinced it was some ways connected to us, their anger at us both causing the Forest to turn against us, or -- I don't _know_ what. I was thinking all the time of what I would say to them, and trying to rehearse in my mind how I would say it, and all the while I kept laughing at myself, because I've faced down Werewolves, war-leaders, and the Dark Lord himself -- I've gone where no free soul has ever gone, and come back to tell of it -- I've done what no one in the whole history of Arda has managed -- and I'm afraid to go home and face my _parents_.

 **Angrod** : [meaningfully]

They're pretty intimidating when they're upset. It isn't one of _my_ favoured memories.

[Aegnor shakes his head in rueful agreement; she manages a smile at his words]

 **Luthien** :

If it had only been me -- I don't think I could have done it. But I had to be strong for Beren. And then -- everyone was there, in Menegroth, and they were all so -- it was so _different_ from what I was expecting, all the turmoil of everyone gathered there in terror of Carcharoth, and this feeling that the end of the world was coming, and not focussing on us at all -- not in the way you'd have thought they would, -- Oh, here's poor little Luthien come back having learnt her lesson, she needs a brush and a wash and and a good feed, and who are these hairy ruffians tagging along after her?

[Huan thumps his tail]

\-- That's what I was bracing myself for.

 **Ambassador** :

Doriath was not as it was when you departed from us, my Princess, long before we were assaulted by the Wolf of the North. If you had been willing to come back, even prior to your attempt on the Silmaril, your father might well have been willing to set aside his pride and anger against your true-love, so that we might have had an end to our terrible silence.

 **Steward** : [not at all harsh]

Are you certain of that, my lord? For I aver it possible -- but your King is stern in judgment, and when his heart as well as the safety of the realm is touched, his wrath no small blaze lightly quenched. Is it not possible -- before further grounds for self-reproach are laid at her Highness' feet -- that Elu Thingol should have been yet more enraged, at such seeming mockery on The Beoring's part, and taken a broken bargain as full warrant for the enforcing of his bloody terms?

 **Ambassador** :

True, alas.

 **Luthien** :

And I wasn't willing to risk it, and Beren wasn't either, which makes it all moot.

 **Finrod** : [grim]

Until he saw no other road open to him.

 **Luthien** :

You remember I said that Beren seemed to recover a bit when I agreed to go home? He was like that still, fey almost, nearly -- cheerful, the closer we got to my parents' audience hall, with this weird little smile, as if he were laughing at himself and everything --

 **Captain** : [grimacing]

Ah. Yes. _That_ one. -- That's the real reason why Curufin loathes him so, my Lady. Beyond anything else objective.

 **Luthien** :

I -- hadn't actually _seen_ that before. Except the last time he told off my father. But this was worse.

[she sighs]

I was going to try to minimize the damage, and then we got close, and -- they _looked_ at me, and I didn't know what to say, I couldn't -- say _anything_  -- and Beren sort of stands there _waiting_ , just the way he did before, while everyone's staring at us -- at him -- and it was all so -- wrong -- and then he just shook his hair back and grinned at Dad and says very clearly, "Hi. I think we had a bargain," and took it from there. He . . .  _dominated_ the conversation.

 **Finrod** : [blankly]

I -- can just imagine.

 **Captain** :

No, you can't, Sir.

[to Luthien, earnestly]

\-- Tell him how it happened, please, because _I_ want to do it, but I wasn't there, and it's yours by right.

[Luthien smiles, looking down, blinking hard to get control; when she goes on her voice is very quiet and level, with a kind of amusement that is half-exasperation, half admiration]

 **Luthien** :

He went and knelt down, very formally --

[to the Ambassador]

\-- not mockingly, but it _looked_ like it if one didn't know him -- in front of my father's chair, and looked at him _very_ seriously, and told him that yes, he _had_ gotten a Silmaril just as he promised. And Dad asked him where it was, then, and Beren says, in the same way, that it's in his hand. And my father looked at _me_ , and I didn't say anything, I just looked at him. He knew something was up, but not what, I don't think. I waited. _He_ waited. I was more patient. Huan didn't say anything, either. So he turned to Beren again, and looks at his left hand, which is empty because I was holding it until a moment before, and told him to show it to him, then. Now Beren's got his cloak all across his front, like that --

[gesturing]

\-- and when Dad said this, he shakes his head, still with that weird little grin, and tells him, "Sorry, I can't." And then he shrugs back his cape, and tells them that the jewel's in his hand -- but his hand was swallowed by the Great Wolf of Angband, who ran mad into the wilderness. And while this is registering, he says, perfectly straight-faced, "-- But that still counts, right? I was gonna bring it back to you, in fact I was on my way, before it got stolen from me. I did like I said, I kept my word. So I _think_ you owe me something." And he looks up at me, and raises his eyebrows, and just looks at Dad, smiling.

[Finrod closes his eyes, covering his face with his hand -- his brothers look at each other, aghast]

 **Aegnor** :

He said _that_ to _your father_?

 **Angrod** : [disbelief]

Is he cr --

[checks]

Oh. Right. We'd already decided _that_.

 **Eol** :

If _I_ were Elu, I'd not have stood for such insolence from a mere Man.

 **Captain** :

It's a good thing you weren't, Master Smith. You don't know how this story turns out.

 **Eol** : [heavy emphasis]

Nor -- do --  _you_.

 **Finrod** : [quietly]

What did Melian say to all this?

 **Luthien** :

She started laughing. And crying, all at the same time. And Beren was just -- like a wall of rock, like the edge of the Andram, completely immovable, with everyone's eyes on him, and I wanted to go drag him out of all that, protect him from them all, -- but he didn't need it, he was so brave, and I was so proud of him --

 **Finrod** : [half smile]

One thing House Beor has _never_ lacked for is sheer nerve.

 **Luthien** :

But you weren't there the last time, when he was so overwhelmed by all the people and -- and _everything_ , and my parents especially, that he was completely tongue-tied.

 **Finrod** : [quiet]

"Inarticulate loser in ripped camouflage" was how he later described that episode to me.

[she gives a short, strained laugh and wipes her eyes quickly at his words]

 **Luthien** :

It was bad. And I was too shaken by all the changes and all my planned words now being irrelevant, to say anything just then -- it was almost as much a blur as when I fell off Horse. But instead of thundering at him, Dad told him to get up, quite politely, and sit down if we didn't mind, and tell them all the details. So we did that, and everyone told us what had been happening there meanwhile -- I mean that both ways, meanwhile we were gone, and while we were trying to describe our adventures --

 **Captain** :

Beren did say it was rather overwhelming.

 **Luthien** :

Yes. He started getting whelmed pretty quickly, too. And I got -- sarcastic.

[apologetic]

I was so angry still, and it hadn't anywhere to go, and I was starting to get frightened, too, hearing about Carcharoth in our country, and people getting killed or lost on my account --

[the Ambassador scarcely even winces at this reminder now]

\-- and they were being so -- so _miserable_ about it all that I was even more frustrated and angry, because I wanted them to suffer guilt about it, but they _had_ , already, and I wasn't even there for it -- and so it was all very anticlimactic and not going the way I'd imagined it might when I was thinking about what dramatic speeches and denunciations I'd make to them on Beren's behalf.

 **Huan** :

[reproachful whines]

 **Luthien** :

I know it wasn't very noble of me, but you went through all that yourself earlier, and all my sympathies were with _us_ then. And I didn't like having to share them.

[with a resentful little smile]

\-- Home was so different, and I don't know if it was that they were different, or I was changed, or both.

 **Finrod** : [looking at his father]

Both. Undoubtedly.

[she nods agreement, sighing again]

 **Luthien** :

Everyone kept being surprised, saying that I was so different now -- not simply at first, they kept on _being_ surprised, over and over again.

 **Finrod** :

Different how? That you were no longer in doubt of yourself, of your powers?

Luthien 

Well, that, yes, but mostly how I looked. Saying what a mess I was, -- that my hair was darker --

 **Teler Maid** :

Was it so?

 **Luthien** : [shrugs]

I couldn't tell.

[her cousins are confused]

 **Aegnor** :

How could it be?

 **Angrod** :

What's darker than black?

 **Luthien** :

They said it didn't shine any more, that it was all shadow, now, like my cloak. It really upset them -- I suppose because it wasn't something that could be taken care of by hot water and recourse to a clothes-chest, or even time.

 **Finrod** : [very skeptical]

Was it true? Wouldn't Beren have noticed, if it were?

 **Luthien** :

All that struck him was that it was _off_. We had a lot of conversations like that at first -- "What happened to your hair? -- Oh, yeah." -- "Your hair -- it's short." -- "Yes." I'd almost forgotten by that point until he reminded me, really, what with being a prisoner and everything. I asked him that night, when we were alone, if it was true, if he'd noticed any change in it, besides shortness, and what he said was even _more_ troubling, in a way.

 **Teler Maid** :

What said he?

 **Luthien** :

He said, that _everything_ about me was changed, then, that it was hard to remember back to that moment, but he couldn't forget it either, that I was bright and dark like Elbereth's night come to life -- and that I _went_ _on_ changing after, and hadn't stopped yet. So he couldn't say _how_ I was different, when I found him, from when we were together in Doriath.

 **Nerdanel** : [thoughtful frown]

Nay, I recall me only now, didst declare how none were taken up with such matter as thine unkempt state, nor only with thy living return. Which, then, was't?

 **Luthien** : [awkwardly]

Well. When I said "people" it was _mostly_ my parents.

[looks down, then at Nerdanel again]

Well. My mother, really.

 **Aegnor** :

That doesn't _seem_ very like Melian, to be concerned over something so trivial in so consequential an hour.

 **Angrod** : [sad smile]

I think, from all the sounds of it, that our aunt has found out the hard way that when it comes to familial feuds and protecting people on both sides, there's no winning. Remember how much _we_ talked about the weather?

 **Luthien** : [nods]

Mom kept trying to avoid my questions, and treat me like a little girl again --

[laughing, wiping her eyes]

\-- we got into the stupidest, childish arguments over what I was going to wear and where we were going to sleep and what kind of spells I'd been working -- Do you know, we even got into a dispute over whether or not I knew how to make lembas? I was talking about how we'd survived in the woods, and how I'd substituted other grains for amaranth sometimes, and hazelnuts, when I couldn't find beechmast, and she told me that it wasn't real lembas then, no matter what else I did to it, and we both got very adamant about it -- and so I told her that according to the High-Elves, _we_ were making it all wrong anyway, because we used the wrong words here, so there.

 **Ambassador** :

I fear I do not understand.

 **Luthien** :

That's what Finduilas told me in Nargothrond.

[looking at her Noldor cousins]

She explained to me very sweetly that _yours_ was the only proper way to do it, because they used the words that Yavanna taught in the right language, you see, and because ours was only a translation -- "a very free translation" was what she said -- it just wasn't the same. "But I'm sure it's almost as good," she said, quite generously, after teaching me the _true_ way to Sing it.

[pause]

 **Teler Maid** :

But -- is not -- your mother a very goddess, and of Yavanna's folk, that did house herself amid your people?

[looking around dubiously]

How then might _any_ say that _she_ does not know the way of making the blest bread? Or _you_?

 **Steward** : [solemn]

Maiwe, have you ever known us to be lacking in either boldness or in pride -- even to the Powers? The Princess Finduilas is a great lady of the Noldor.

 **Teler Maid** :

 _Oh_.

[she starts giggling at the absurdity of this, muffling her laughter with her braids]

 **Nerdanel** : [wry]

Nay, oft have I beheld mine own late love a-telling of the Servants of our lord Aule how they did err, in manifold and sundry way. --  _Betimes_ 'twas so, even, that he had the right of't.

 **Luthien** :

Poor Beren didn't know what all was going on, for most of it, between my parents and myself, and then with everyone being so completely polite to him, when he expected they'd toss him into a dungeon, or worse -- he kept bending over to "check on Huan" who was lying next to us, and wishing he could join the other hounds under the tables.

 **Finrod** : [confused]

Huan? Or Beren?

 **Luthien** : [ruefully]

\-- Yes.

[Huan grins, panting]

I rather felt like it too. All these stupid, trivial issues. And then . . .

[fade out, camera pulling back -- in the shadows, another brief gleam from the palantir, completely unnoticed]


	151. Act 4: SCENE V.xl

[Elsewhere -- the Corollaire]

[Beren is lying back with his arms folded behind his head, watching the clouds overhead with an expression of calm contentment. The Earthqueen is holding a blade of grass between her thumbs and blowing around it to make skreeky noises, very seriously. He rolls on his side (right), raising himself on his elbow, and looks at her, smiling, until she turns to him with an answering smile.]

 **Beren** :

I guess I should figure out what I'm going to do now.

 **Yavanna** :

What do you _want_ to do?

 **Beren** :

Well.

[he sighs]

I've asked what I wanted to ask; got an answer -- a _lot_ of answer; I've seen what lies beyond the Sea, and seen _not_ the least of the gods; I understand a little bit now what my part in the Song was, and -- I'm okay with it. I didn't win, but who does? I made a temporary difference, which --  

[giving her a rueful grin]

\-- puts me about even with you guys, on a slightly-smaller scale, and I don't think my family will be _too_ ashamed of me. What more can any Man accomplish? Or ask for? So I suppose I ought to accept facts and reconcile myself to the way things have to be and help Tinuviel understand that I'm supposed to move on.

[he swallows hard, but manages to keep back his tears]

 **Yavanna** : [dry]

I didn't ask you what you thought you _ought_ to want, I asked you what you wanted.

[pause]

 **Beren** :

I want --

[troubled]

Why are you asking me?

 **Yavanna** :

I asked first.

[he sits up, his expression one of distress]

 **Beren** : [struggling for words and against what he knows]

I want -- I want Tinuviel to be _happy_. And --

[breaking off, shaking his head]

\-- it won't -- I don't know _why_ this is so, but regardless, it's _not_ going to happen if I'm not around -- and I wanted her to be safe, and even if that sounds stupid now that we're dead, I still do, but _that's_ not going to happen either if she isn't happy. Because if you're discontent, then you're not safe. Not yourself, and not to be around. Not even here. Case in point, the late Lord Feanor . . . who . . .

[looking slightly shaken]

. . . ye merciful gods! is now _also_ some incomprehensible degree of related-by-marriage to me. Good grief! is there anybody in Valinor I'm _not_ related to now? Um. Anyway. Tinuviel won't be, happy _or_ safe, without me, and that's a fact.

 **Yavanna** : [laughing quietly]

I'm glad you've finally admitted it. You worked hard enough to avoid facing up to that fact!

 **Beren** : [gesticulating in frustration]

I know. But that just makes more of a problem, or the same problem again, because I'm still mortal, and she isn't, and I have to leave now.

 **Yavanna** :

Why?

[silence]

 **Beren** :

Because -- I'm dead, but you know that, so that isn't what you're asking. But what else _can_ I do?

 **Yavanna** : [raising her eyebrows]

What indeed? You haven't given any serious thought to the matter, I can tell.

[as he looks at her bewildered]

You were always so good at coming up with plans at home -- notorious for it, in fact, aren't I right? Daring raids and even more daring escapes. And the hardest part of all, just _staying_ from day to day. I remember a Man who was the most successful of all living trespassers, once. Two Kings and a Warlord remember that fact, at least, to their lasting sorrow.

[he stares at her, amazed]

Not to mention the fact that neither guard nor gate has ever held against your true-love and her liege. Was there ever a wilderness was barred to you, child?

[silence]

 **Beren** : [faintly]

I don't believe what I think you're saying.

 **Yavanna** : [tilting her head]

Why not?

[he jumps to his feet and begins to pace in agitation]

 **Beren** : [a bit of a beginning rant]

But it would be _wrong_! -- At least, if you're actually suggesting what it sounds like, that we should just sneak off and li -- stay -- here in the forests of Aman. -- As ghosts.

[she rises and comes to stand in front of him again]

 **Yavanna** : [raising an eyebrow]

Would it?

[he doesn't have an answer]

Do you _will_ any harm here? -- Quite apart from whether or not you could _do_ any.

[he shakes his head]

This present state of yours -- sadly diminished though you are -- is it any more of a hardship than your other loss? It seems to me that you've adjusted quite well to reality, better than to that of your hand. Since all you required in life was love, and friendship, and the freedom of the woods -- does anyone here have anything to fear from you, all of you, housed or unhoused?

[again a silent negative]

Has being "outlaw" ever bothered you before?

[long silence]

 **Beren** :

But -- is that even _possible_?

[she shrugs]

But I --

[he stops, frowning -- into his worried expression slowly enters a glint of rising, irrepressible laughter]

Hah. Sneak off and live in the woods again out back of the kingdom -- hoo boy, is _that_ idea gonna give Lord Mandos conniptions! -- and everyone in Valinor, I bet.

[shaking his head, grinning]

\-- She's gonna say "I told you so, you idiot," and I'll just say, "Hey, better than never, right?"

[thoughtful]

Does it have to go that far? I mean, maybe I can just _suggest_ it and the Lord and Lady will consider it a good alternative to dealing with Tinuviel for the rest of Time. It ain't like they can just stick her up in a tree and ignore her in the Halls. We can ask, right? But if they don't --

[fighting back mirth]

\-- oh well -- !

 **Yavanna** :

\-- Ask for _everything_. Who knows what you'll get? That's what I do.

 **Beren** : [laughing]

I will. Oh, I will --

[he becomes serious and gives her a troubled Look. Suddenly hoarse]

Will I ever see you again? -- Like this, I mean?

 **Yavanna** : [shrugging again]

Perhaps.

 **Beren** :

But it won't be the same.

 **Yavanna** : [serious]

It's never the same.

[consoling]

But that is true for all. _Whenever_ we meet it is anew, for all the past that's been.

[she places her hands on his shoulders again, speaking carefully, earnestly, holding his full attention:]

Every _thing_ changes. --  _We_ _abide_. That's the Secret. -- That's how it _works_.

[as he assimilates this summation of how all the cells in an organic being, or all the individuals in a given species, can die and be replaced, and the entity on a microscopic and macroscopic level remain the same despite changes, she pulls him into a strong embrace and holds him, resting her cheek against his hair as if he were an almost-grown son before stepping back and looking at him proudly]

Astonish us -- again.

[he nods, his eyes bright with tears, but his expression resolute, and vanishes]


	152. Act 4: SCENE V.xli

[The Hall. Eol is staring incredulously at Luthien]

 **Eol** :

He threw himself between the Hellhound and your father?

[she nods]

\-- Why?

 **Luthien** :

To save him.

 **Eol** : [patiently]

I gathered that, thank you. -- Why?

 **Captain** : [confidential aside, gesturing with the ale-horn]

Thus the outcome to which I was previously referring, which would have been impossible had you dealt harshly with Beren for his supposed impertinence, previously -- if you had been the Greycloak, that is, and not yourself.

 **Eol** : [disregarding him]

Is the Man merely a fool, or was he greedy enough to think that your father would somehow reward him further, for saving him, or did he seek to humiliate Elu by rendering him service after his misfortunes at your father's hands?

[pause]

 **Luthien** :

You don't understand, do you? Beren was _never_ Dad's enemy. He never wished to be, he never thought of him that way. It was just -- Fate, as far as he was concerned. It wasn't -- personal, it just happened to be the two of them. He understood why Dad thought it was a bad idea, and he agreed -- he just couldn't get me to give him up. It wasn't like with Curufin, or Celegorm, at all. Beren considered him as much a kinsman as if he had been human, and as much an ally as if he had been one of the Noldor, and for either reason he would have defended him. -- As he did.

 **Eol** :

But, Luthien dear, are you _certain_ that . . . sentimental story, is the truth?

[pause, relishing the confusion he has sown]

Might not your consort's death have been arranged upon the hunt -- it's a convenient scenario for it, all those people with weapons and animals moving and confusion in the darkness, nerves on edge, edged implements -- and a noble tale concocted to cover the deed, and deflect your wrath before its inception?

 **Luthien** : [staring at him]

Your mind really is _broken_ , and badly healed, cousin.

[shaking her head]

Either not only my father, but also both our Captains, _and_ everyone else upon the hunt that day, lied to me so seamlessly that I never even guessed it, and never slipped up -- that _I_ _never_ _guessed_ _it_ mind you, and I'm not much good at trusting my family these days --

[to Finrod]

\-- with exceptions -- and kept it up all the while afterwards . . .  _or_ Beren did what he always does -- did -- when someone was in danger near him, and tried to protect them regardless of his own risk. I know which one seems more plausible to me, at least.

 **Captain** :

And wouldn't the Lord of Beor have _noticed_ , eh?

 **Eol** :

I'm sure my royal kinsman could manage putting a glamour on a human -- even if such is beyond your capacity.

 **Aegnor** : [sardonic]

There's also the little problem that injuries inflicted by weapons don't look like bite wounds, so you've got to add in the assumption that Luthien couldn't tell the difference . . . kinsman.

 **Eol** : [shrugs]

There are ways around that, too -- for those with sufficient intelligence.

 **Angrod** :

But _not_ around a morsel much harder to swallow -- that _everyone_ in Doriath is so lost to Good as to conspire deceit and subtle murder, and follow that with more deception still. You know perfectly well that my uncle has crossed swords with us --

[to his Valinorean family]

\-- metaphorically, I mean --

[to Eol again]

\-- and we've heard enough from Luthien tonight as to his willingess to be both devious and ruthless when it comes to protecting his own from his own --

[looking back at the Faithful Eldar]

\-- which is something I know everyone here can sympathize with, even if we're all mostly inclined to take Luthien's side in this, and even if we highly disapprove of the way _you_ define protecting, Master Smith --

[shakes his head]

\-- and disregard my aunt's counsel, which is unheard of, in the process -- but I can't accept such a calumny upon Elu Thingol. He would, I doubt not, have treated Beren as he treated _us_ , with open challenge and punishment, _not_ put a smiling face on treachery. If he spoke to him with kindness in Menegroth -- he meant it.

 **Aegnor** : [aside]

\-- Even if it was as hard for him as it was to speak civilly to us for the next score years after he let us come back to visit.

 **Finrod** :

And wouldn't have gone back on his word after, either, for anything under the Stars.

 **Eol** :

Well, of course you'd think that -- you're Finwe's children, of course you can do no wrong in Elu's eyes.

[the Finarfinions look at each other blankly]

 **Aegnor** :

I'd hate to get on his bad side, then.

 **Angrod** : [to Finrod]

What was it you said, brother, something like -- Don't bother packing, leave it, 'Tari will look after it, and even if he burns all our gear the moment we're gone, I'd rather cross Beleriand in my shirt-sleeves than endure the aura of his wrath even ten minutes longer than necessary.

 **Captain** : [snorting]

 _Some_ of us didn't even have time to saddle our horses, not being at hand when the edge came down and finding out about it late.

 **Steward** :

 _You've_ never minded riding native-style.

 **Captain** :

I know. Principle of it. And it was a very fine saddle.

 **Finrod** :

And he didn't, as it happened, throw our belongings out, either. They were all neatly organized in storage, and some of the things that he thought we might be needing -- like our saddles -- he sent downriver by boat afterwards. With little labels on.

 **Luthien** : [apologetic]

That was Galadriel, actually. Dad said, "Throw it in the river, ship it down river, I don't care and I don't want to know." -- And then he told Celeborn to go see if there were any boats ready.

 **Angrod** :

Case rests. Elu wouldn't stab Beren in the back --  _or_ commit secret murder.

 **Ambassador** : [looking hard at Eol]

I thank you for your kind words, Highness. -- Unlike certain others here, who disgrace the very name of Eldar.

 **Aredhel** : [suspicious]

\-- Wait -- did you mean _unlike_ as in hard words, or as in secret murder?

[simultaneous]

 **Ambassador** : **Angrod** :

Yes.

 **Aredhel** :

You --

[she breaks off, torn between defending her husband and the reverse]

 **Nerdanel** :

Did thy folk comprehend thy lord his honour, and give him due in full measure of honour in their turn, or did but the same as yon Darkened soul, to hold as folly, else suspect of less-than-worthy will the motive force of his great deed?

 **Luthien** :

No. That's how it was when they finally came home, and I knew my fears were true, that someone I loved was going to be dead that day, and that no matter what, I would never be happy again -- all of Doriath bowing down to him, and it meant nothing, _nothing_ at all, because he was dying. And I thought --  _perhaps_ I could repair what's broken, I could certainly _try_ , though it would be harder than anything anyone has ever Worked -- perhaps I could force his body to stop destroying itself, draw enough power from the Forest to make his wounds mend and the bones grow properly again -- with or without Mom's help -- perhaps I could simply _take_ _what_ _I_ _needed_ from Doriath, _with_ their permission or not, and _fix_ him again --

[her voice and face are hard as iron; her hearers look at her with combined awe and dismay]

Perhaps -- there _was_ no real perhaps about it, I don't know.

[Finrod tries to say something, but can't manage it; she stares into the distance, and the scariness goes out of her tone:]

But I _couldn't_. 

I couldn't do that to him. I loved him too much for that. He needed rest, he needed to be free of -- of _things_. It was only for my sake that he was holding on despite the pain and the shock and the poison, I had to let him go.

[tears are running down her face, but she does not notice]

Only I couldn't. I kissed him goodbye, and I whispered to him -- I told him -- to _wait_ for me --  _here_.

[distraught half-laugh]

\-- And everyone thought there'd be a miracle, some wonderous power, to break the power of his Fate that he foresaw, everyone was hoping that _somehow_ it would all come right, and we'd be saved from their mistakes -- and something unbelievable _did_ happen. He stopped fighting, finally, and _let_ _go_ , and died.

[silence. Finrod tries to say something, several times, and cannot; the Eldar living and dead who have not heard the earlier versions are overwhelmed by the story, even Luthien's kinfolk of Nan Elmoth being temporarily respectful -- those shades who heard the same events narrated earlier by a participant, however, take a more critical view:]

 **Soldier** : [aside to his friends]

It's _almost_ the same, the way she tells it, this part --

 **First Guard** : [nodding]

Only Beren still comes off much more the hero than in his version. The way _he_ tells it he just blundered into things --

 **Ranger** : [interrupting]

Well, we knew _that_ couldn't be right --

 **Fingolfin** : [aggrieved tone]

 _Gentles_  --

[shaking his head]

\-- can you not forgo your levity for a little while, in reverence to the Lady and her tale of woe?

[the Ten look abashed]

 **First Guard** :

Sorry, your Majesty -- we've heard it already.

 **Youngest Ranger** : [severely]

There's no need to go ruining it for everyone else, just for that.

 **First Guard** : [defensive]

I didn't ruin it. I didn't tell anything out of order, or what's going to happen.

 **Youngest Ranger** :

But we don't _know_ what's going to happen.

 **Ranger** :

Yes we do. Beren gave his word to the Princess. And we're all here, and we've got Huan, and the King will sort everything out, you'll see.

[Luthien and Finrod are both shaken into reluctant amusement (& some dismay) at this expression of total confidence. Huan yawns and lays his head down on his forefeet, complacent. Across the dais, the Dark Elf looks at his consort with another troubled glance]

 **Eol** : [patronizing, but also oddly vulnerable and uncertain]

You don't really -- really _want_ me to be that way, do you? To be your hapless swain, besotted --

 **Aredhel** : [suspiciously ragged voice]

What do _you_ care? You don't care what I want -- you _never_ did --

[she pulls away as he tries to caress her arm; he grimaces, his expression wavering between concern and hauteur]

 **Ambassador** : [to Luthien, meaningfully]

What did House Feanor finally do about it all, Highness?

 **Luthien** :

Nothing.

[pulling herself together]

\-- I'm sorry. Mom convinced Dad it wasn't worth trying to get any answer from them, and they've been quite happy to pretend that we don't exist again.

 **Finrod** : [disbelieving]

There were no apologies, no -- no offers of recompense or weregild from Himring, no conciliatory gestures whatsoever?

 **Luthien** :

Not that I know of. They didn't even send another letter telling us the Silmarils were all theirs by law. Of course, they were rather busy.

[silence]

 **Fingolfin** : [indignant outburst]

Too busy to give account, explanation, expiation? -- Too _busy_ , say you? -- Doing _what_?!

 **Luthien** :

Getting ready for their own invasion of Angband.

[longer pause]

 **Finrod** :

I don't think you're joking, Luthien.

 **Luthien** :

Why would I be?

 **Finrod** :

What do they think they can accomplish?

 **Luthien** :

The others. So I gathered, at least. They might be planning on taking down Morgoth, too. I'm afraid I wasn't really paying much attention to the news at that point, but there were lots of rumours from our contacts in Estolad about their recruiting efforts. Beleg might have done some more infiltration missions eastward, I don't know. He and Mablung spent a lot of time talking about it over maps, or arguing, rather. They _wanted_ to think it could work, but I don't think they could.

 **Finrod** :

House Feanor is going to try a direct assault on Angband?

 **Luthien** : [shrugging]

Apparently so. People couldn't understand why I didn't care about it at all, so I kept hearing things.

 **Finrod** :

That's insane.

 **Captain** :

They _were_ privy to our own plans, Sir -- Curufin doubtless thinks he can _improve_ upon them.

 **Angrod** :

But . . . they didn't consult you?

 **Luthien** :

Why would they?

 **Finrod** :

Only living person who actually _did_ what they're planning to do? Inside information? Valuable data about various pitfalls that would lead the rational individual to conclude that no, frontal assault is _not_ going to work, without a force much more powerful than ours before we were decimated in the Fell Year?

 **Fingolfin** :

My nephews are not that stupid, surely.

 **Luthien** :

But if Maedhros were going to consult with me, he'd have to apologize. And discipline his brothers. And decide what to say or not say about the jewel. And why would he need to? Obviously, if _we_ could manage it -- a mere mortal and a woman with no martial skills -- then _certainly_ House Feanor can do us one better and get _two_ , not just one.

[Huan barks]

Yes, but they don't know about _your_ part in it all, because they didn't ask. Besides, there's no other giant Wolf there -- as far as anyone knows, at least.

[the late High King closes his eyes]

 **Fingolfin** :

My nephews _are_ that stupid, evidently.

 **Angrod** : [flatly]

It's not going to be very long before we see them again.

 **Aegnor** : [grimacing]

No.

[he checks, and his expression changes to an edged smile. Giving his brother a meaningful Look as his hand goes to lock around the hilt of his sword.]

 _No_.

[Angrod's expression turns equally wolfish as he thinks of the possibilities in this; but Finrod buries his face in his hands.]

 **Luthien** :

I'm sorry -- I really don't know any of the details. It might be more coherent than all that.

 **Captain** : [aside]

It might not. This _is_ House Feanor we're talking about. -- Charging Balrogs, accepting invitations from the Enemy, and then sitting around for a couple of yen while the other side rebuilds and regroups and oh, incidentally, gathers all manner of information about our battle array, on the grounds that it's "safer" than provoking him -- we're about due for another round of impulsive offensive action, I should guess.

[to Nerdanel]

\-- Sorry, milady.

 **Nerdanel** :

No more than I, certes.

 **Luthien** : [earnest]

I could very well be leaving something else out. I spent most of that year out in Neldoreth anyway, except when they kept finding me and bringing me back home to try to make me eat and cheer up.

[the expression on her friends' and relatives' face shifts from sympathy to astonishment as her words sink in.]

 **Finrod** :

\-- Year!?

 **Luthien** : [shrugging]

About that. A little less.

[the shades look at each other, impressed]

 **Captain** :

No wonder the staff were so put out with Beren.

 **Ranger** :

I wonder if all mortals are that much trouble.

 **Second Guard** :

No, it's just House Beor, don't you recall what the Lord and Lady were saying before? About Bereg-the-Turned, how Beren was like him?

 **Soldier** :

Not that we needed any more evidence about his stubbornness. A whole year!

 **Angrod** : [shaking his head, indignantly]

What's a _year_? No time at _all_ , especially here.

 **Steward** : [aside, looking at the ceiling vaults]

It is when one is obliged to put aside other matters and is continually forced to keep an eye on unfinished Work.

[with a lifted eyebrow]

"I say, Edrahil, what are we supposed to do about _this_? The King didn't say before he left."

"-- But I've not the authority to determine that, when his brothers are in residence -- you need to ask _them_."

[with a quirk of a smile]

"Oh, we did -- Lord Aegnor said to see _you_ about it, he's going hunting. Lord Angrod's already gone."

[silence -- Finrod glances at his brothers, knowingly, as Aegnor rubs at his lips, while Angrod looks almost innocently blank]

 **Captain** : [quietly]

You do yourself very well --  _and_ us.

[the Princes exchange a look of wordless communication, and then, drawing a deep breath and bracing themselves, they make a sincere effort at apology for recent slights without going into embarrassing specific details]

 **Aegnor** :

Thank you for looking after us so well, in all the varied regions of our domain, that we might take your service for granted, my lord.

 **Angrod** :

We are not insensitive of the fact that such reliance might appear as a cavalier assumption of use, but such could never be possible, were not such worthiness of trust present, that no doubt of reliability should ever enter the imagination.

[the King's Steward gives them a nod of acknowledgment, his expression of tolerant amusement]

 **Finarfin** : [raising an eyebrow]

Handsomely uttered, my sons -- yet with, perchance the merest trifle of _facility_ , that seemingly underlieth such quick-given grace.

 **Nerdanel** :

Such did I deem to observe, yet thou dost ken thine own somewise better, haply, than might I.

 **Fingolfin** : [dry]

 _Quite_ shameless, indeed. You may trust my most recent observation, brother.

 **Aegnor** : [earnest]

But true.

 **Angrod** : [very frank]

And it's been _tiresome_ , being patronized as a boor and a churl for -- well, behaving churlishly, towards my King and his household.

[he gives Finrod a rueful smile]

\-- If I must swallow my pride to make amends -- it's a small price for an end to endless sarcasm sheathed in the velvet of exquisite courtesy.

[looking seriously at the Steward]

And . . . it's _true_. No realm can manage well without those who give such faithful service for love, and not for acclaim or gain . . . even if we, sometimes -- be we prince or populace -- forget that fact. That I say so for my own benefit doesn't make it false, no more than does the benefit it gives to you, friend Edrahil, that your long Work be recognized by we who did rely on it, and you.

[the Steward gives up trying to hide his emotions and wipes his eyes on his sleeve]

 **Aegnor** : [reasonable, not defensive]

Besides, he wasn't very good at _accepting_ gratitude when he was alive -- he'd always brush thanks off with some snappish comment about it _being_ _his_ _job_ , and managing while at it to imply that no one _else_ ever did anything, except possibly Finrod.

[without looking up the subject of their discourse nods, half laughing, at the recollection]

 **Angrod** : [bittersweet smile]

Oh yes, that used to drive Orodreth half-mad whenever he did it.

[to the Steward]

It _was_ pretty off-putting, my lord, though that's small excuse for neglect of thanks.

[aside]

Though I'd rather _that_ than this -- having _Edrahil_ break down is almost as bad as having _Ingold_ furious and yelling.

 **Teler Maid** : [giving the Finarfinions her glare]

 _No_ _one_ shall take him for granted now, for I will not permit it.

[severely]

Not even _you_ , Lord Ingold.

[her ruffled, protective attitude draws smiles from many]

 **Amarie** :

Aye, -- but _thy_ love dost heed thy counsel, little one, and lettest thou to guard him from's self.

[Finrod flinches back, looking miserable, and less stubborn than before]

 **Youngest Ranger** : [loudly, forcibly changing subject]

But Beren wasn't _doing_ _anything_ to cause trouble. He said so himself.

 **Apprentice** :

Er -- that isn't _exactly_ true.

[as a lot of people give him askance Looks]

Or -- it is, but -- that's the _problem_ , isn't it? He wouldn't respond, wouldn't let anyone help him, wouldn't explain what he was about, or who he was, or what his problem was -- and wouldn't stop _this_ beast here from behaving like a bloody Hellhound whenever anyone tried.

[Huan grins, his tongue lolling out -- and showing an awful lot of teeth]

 **Ranger** : [sadly]

If only we'd _known_ he was here, we could have come to look after him.

 **Luthien** : [consoling]

Of course you would -- I know that as well as he.

[the Ten look regretful at this, but not for long]

 **Warrior** : [with a wry smile]

\-- Causing trouble for a whole _year_ without doing _anything_.

[there are some perfunctory attempts to behave appropriately, but they soon give way to grins]

 **Soldier** :

That's our Beren, all right.

 **Steward** : [rallying to his usual manner]

 _Most_ assuredly.

 **Third Guard** : [frowning, to Luthien]

If Beren was dead for all of that time, and never realized it, -- how long have _you_ been here, my Lady?

 **Fourth Guard** : [solemn]

That's why we need a chronometer.

[innocently, as his colleague gives him a disgruntled Look:]

You should have helped your nephew and his friends when they first asked you. Then we'd _know_ , wouldn't we?

[the other swats him lightly]

 **Luthien** :

I'm sorry, I'm afraid I've no idea. And I don't think Time happens the same way here at all -- would a clock like Celebrimbor's even work?

 **Aredhel** :

Oh, don't get _them_ started on that -- it's worse than _chess_!

 **Fingolfin** : [dry humour]

Truly spoken, 'Feiniel.

 **Finrod** : [bewildered, to Luthien]

I -- somehow I expected that you -- would have followed him, immediately. I'm rather surprised that you say otherwise, now.

 **Captain** : [nodding]

So did we all.

[the Ex-Thrall shakes her head, knowingly, with a sad smile]

 **Luthien** :

I -- I couldn't. I _tried_  -- but I couldn't manage it. Not at first.

 **Aredhel** : [shaking her head]

 _I_ don't understand this _wanting_ to die at all.

[the Ten share meaningful glances at her disdainful comment, but don't say anything]

What good does it do one to give up all the joys of life, simply out of guilt? It isn't as if it makes any _difference_ , to make yourself miserable over it.

 **Elenwe** :

Nor might I comprehend -- though 'tis passing strange that thou and I might upon a thing agree, I deem. Much joy to me, else shadow of joyous hour, that mine own dear love doth live and walk and joy beneath the Sun I ken naught of, nor that his sorrow for my death hath brought him to this pass.

 **Teler Maid** : [serious]

I do --

[checks, looks at the Steward earnestly]

\-- Do not take hurt at what I am about to say, for 'tis not at _you_ that I do speak -- no longer.

[when he nods she goes on:]

I do know well how drear the days can be, when heart is broken, and all joy of the world is broken, so that one would not be about anyone else that is happy, for that but makes it the worse. -- And I recall me how it was to hurt so much, before I was unhoused, that living was worse than any grief, and to escape here a refuge of blessed coolness and peace from anger and harsh hours.

[the Noldor princess cannot match her calm steadiness, and turns away, as does the Lord Warden when the Sea-Elf gives him a pointed stare before looking up at the Steward again]

I do not hold you a coward, for that you had rather to stay within this gray and shadowed harbour, as did I.

[he leans his forehead against her hair, smiling a little]

 **Angrod** :

I'm afraid I don't see it either -- I suppose it's because I've never been in that situation --

[he glances at Aegnor, troubled]

 **Aegnor** : [flatly]

No. Even when we were dying, -- I at least only experienced regret at not being able to fight on, not relief at being able to leave the fray. But then --

[sighs]

\-- as you said, we didn't live long enough to find ourselves in our cousin's situation. -- Or our brothers'.

[he looks at Finrod, meaningfully]

\--  _You_ understand it, don't you, Ingold? And have, these past ten years.

 **Finrod** : [automatic]

\-- Eleven -- no, twelve, now.

[his brothers share a Look of amusement and the torc passes between them again]

 **Aegnor** :

You're right, he just can't _help_ correcting people.

[Finrod looks slightly embarrassed, but mostly moved]

 **Finarfin** : [aside, melancholy]

Too well the truth of warning word so darkly uttered in darkest space of earth as soul, I fear, mine own dear ones, ye did learn most hard and severally in Hither lands.

 **Fingolfin** : [grim smile]

I, too, know well how great a burden breath may come to be, when all that one loves, all folk, all work, all hopes and duties together are collapsed in one great wrack of flame, so that nothing short of death may burn away the torment that sears soul and body at one, nor consume the pain of loss but a stroke of vengeance that sweetens the agony of losing, and swift release.

 **Luthien** : [shrugging]

For me . . . there wasn't any such _direction_. I couldn't go seeking my revenge from Morgoth, after I'd thrown everything I had at him and then some, and been outmatched, or even Sauron, entrenched somewhere in the middle of the Nightshade, and both of them on constant guard. Even if I could have gotten anyone to back me up this time -- and I might have, Mablung at least, and Beleg, I'm certain -- what would it have accomplished? Besides getting us all killed, very likely. It wouldn't have brought them back.

 **Nerdanel** :

Some things there be that none may comprehend them, I do fear, ere that hour that such a thing cometh upon them -- and still for all that, 'tis past fathoming, e'en as one doth ken such loss-pain in the heart and bone.

[she looks at Amarie, and reaches out her hand to the younger Elf -- who this time does not refuse the kind gesture, but lets Nerdanel grip her hand in comfort]

 **Luthien** :

I think -- I think it was that I hadn't said goodbye properly the first time, that I'd left in such a hurry, without caring whether I came back or not, and so now that I knew it was for ever, I had to do it again -- or for the first time, rather. I had to appreciate everything that was in Doriath, that I'd always taken for granted until I fled, and only then when it was too late, did I realize how deeply rooted in my heart my homeland was. Or how deep my soul's roots were sunk in Doriath's earth.

 **Finrod** : [grim]

A seedling can be uprooted more easily than a sapling -- and you're far older than that. Nor are we meant to be uprooted so.

 **Luthien** : [thinly]

I just -- I had to See it all, one last time, and yet it was so hard, it hurt so much -- I'd find something, a place, oh, where the moss had grown this year so deep it _shone_ , and I'd think, -- How Beren will love to see that! -- and then I would _remember_ again, and it seemed as though the pain would kill me, but it never did. And Mom didn't want it -- she tried so hard to keep me bound to Life, and it hurt _her_ so much that I couldn't mend, and I didn't want that either, and Dad -- Dad didn't know what to do. He thought that by honouring Beren's memory, that would make me happy -- but it couldn't. Nobody understood why I simply didn't _care_ what they did about funeral arrangements, or what sort of carving they should put on the lintel of their barrow, or even being there for it -- Mom had to practically walk me through it all like an illusion she made, I was hardly even there -- and after, they wanted everything to return to normal, but it couldn't, and so in consequence nobody ever knew what to talk about, because if they did refer to Beren, or any part of our adventures, I cried, and if they didn't, it was so obviously false --

[Huan gets up and comes over to put his head in her lap again]

 **Ex-Thrall** : [softly]

When each breath is an hour, and each hour a day, and the changes of the year slower than Ages --

 **Luthien** : [nods]

And then -- one day in late Spring, right about the same time we'd first met, only a year ago, I was sitting by Neldoreth again, the way I had when first he left me, thinking about how this time there was no hope that he'd ever come back to me -- it was suddenly all clear. There was nothing holding me back any more, and the world just opened up for me. And I left -- home -- behind, and never looked back.

[frowning]

I got a little lost coming here, though. One's sense of direction is rather strange, without a body, and I kept getting tugged North, so that even though there was no chance of me being wound in Morgoth's nets, I ended up at the Ice at one point -- I think that must have been where I was, it was all so very strange -- and I think I went in circles for a bit until I ran into the Eagle again and had him show me the way West.

[snorting]

It was very tiresome, and it didn't help that I was already worried sick that Beren wouldn't have been able to wait, either.

 **Warden of Aglon** : [bemused aside]

Star and water! She speaks of the possibility of being lost in the Unseen realm as though no more than taking a wrong turning in a hall!

[wistful]

I'm glad my death came so easily, by comparison, since come it did . . . but if it could have been otherwise, I think almost I'd wish that rough journey upon myself, if only hers might have gone the smoother for it. No one who delivered such a mighty stroke against the Lord of Fetters should have to suffer for it so.

[he does not notice the considering, but approving looks the Ex-Thrall and the Valinoreans give this almost-generous expression]

 **Apprentice** : [to Luthien]

My lady --

[but he gets flustered when she turns to him]

Er.

[finding his nerve again, earnestly, not unkindly but doubtful]

\-- Do you think he _will_ return to you, truly?

[as she frowns, apologetic:]

I -- I've been following your story for a while now, and -- no offense intended, so please don't take any, but -- while your parents both have considerable prophetic gifts --

 **Ambassador** : [sighing]

For all the good it did us in this pass.

 **Apprentice** :

But, well, I'm just -- wondering what it is that makes you so certain, because -- you really haven't much Gift at all to know the future, less than Huan even, and I really hate the way it's all but impossible to be discrete here, but -- I know you're Melian's daughter, but I don't understand why you have such confidence, because Lord Namo doesn't, and it is your true-love's Doom, and I'm not sure why you think you know better than the Doomsman himself, or that your consort will be able to convince our King and Queen to let him stay against the laws of nature.

[she only shrugs, not offended]

 **Luthien** :

I don't know how it happened, that I didn't get any special ability to look ahead. Perhaps a double inheritance of Foresight turns out as extra Insight. Because that's what I _have_ got. That, and music, from both sides of the family.

 **Ambassador** : [meaningfully]

And _courage_ , in double measure, and more.

[the Princess for whose sake he died (even if she didn't know about it at the time and wouldn't have wanted the venture undertaken if she had) gives him a long Look of gratitude and acknowledgment and forgiveness before turning back to Nienna's student:]

 **Luthien** :

I don't know what's _going_ to be -- I know _what_ _is_. That's why I'm certain. Not because I can See how it's all going to turn out -- but because I know _Beren_. I trust him more than anyone else in the world, I -- I trust _him_. That's all. He waited for me . . .

[struggling against her tears]

. . . so what else can I do, but wait for him in turn?


	153. Act 4: SCENE VI.i

**Gower** :

'Twixt love and folly, little variance 'twould seem,  
nor better much than madness might it deem,  
that suffer the former, the latter would forfend.  
Of all things for which in life Men do contend --  
prizes of plenty, treasure of gold, or gem, or land,  
of memory enduring past all things, in poet's hand  
a fame immortal made, and in hearing mind --  
Love should be least-lasting, measureless -- kind  
but in hope, in consequence of price more dire  
than battle grim -- for 'tis the loss of love its fire  
that giveth all other losses their sharpness keen;  
and so the proof: Love's yet greater, though unseen -- [The Hall]

 **Luthien** : [gesturing vaguely]

Sometimes I feel as if -- as if _Luthien_ doesn't exist any more, that person who once lived in Doriath, that she's _gone_ like the Trees, and all that's left are people who knew her and remember her. Including myself, someone named Tinuviel, who met her long ago.

[sighs]

And then -- and then --

[shaking her head, while her cousins look at her in concern]

\-- other times, I think . . . perhaps, who I am now is simply the _completion_ of me, as if Luthien were the seed, and not gone but _changed_ , completely, into this flowering of Tinuviel, someone who doesn't need and doesn't depend for her existence on those who gave her life, but still that other being is there, somehow, within this present self of mine.

 **Finrod** :

But a flower is not the end, either, for a tree. There's always _more_.

 **Apprentice** : [mournful aside]

\-- Should be, at least.

 **Luthien** : [sad emphasis]

Yes. _Should_.

 **Huan** :

[long keening whine]

[checks, perks up his head and sniffs the air]

[loud happy bark]

[Beren strides back into their midst, from out of nowhere. None of them have ever seen him like this (though Luthien comes the closest), without the burdens of anger, guilt, fear, pain, hopelessness, exhaustion, and generalized anxiety to weigh his spirits -- he is not simply at peace, but ebullient, undauntable, and ready for anything or anyone foolish enough to challenge him. A subtle change is in his stance -- his balance is back, he no longer favors his right side or holds aside his arm stiffly. We see a glimpse of who he might have been, without the Breaking of the Leaguer, a leader of Men . . . but far more than that now. Luthien springs up and embraces him, and he hugs her back, lifting her off the floor for a second]

 **Luthien** :

Did you speak to them?

[he nods]

What's going to happen?

 **Beren** : [not letting go nor looking away from her]

The gods themselves -- haven't a clue. We're all working it out as we go along.

[the others rise, drawing around them in amazement and curiosity; Finrod comes closest, staring at Beren with a touch of awe, as well as concern, as he looks him in the eyes:]

 **Finrod** :

What are you going to do?

 **Beren** :

What I should have done a long, _long_ time ago.

[to Luthien]

\-- Tinuviel, will you run away with me?

 **Luthien** : [smiling through tears]

I thought you'd _never_ ask.

 **Beren** : [wry]

See? I _do_ learn from my mistakes. -- Eventually.

 **Finrod** :

\--  _Run away_? How? And where to?

 **Beren** : [half turning to the others, but still keeping his arm around Luthien's waist]

I'm reminded by a most gracious lady of my long acquaintance that there was never a wilderness or woodland barred to me, nor a wall that could hold Tinuviel for very long, either. -- And Aman is full of forests, I'm told --

[shocked silence]

 **Finrod** :

You don't mean -- is that even _possible_?

 **Beren** : [shrugs]

Dunno. -- Nobody does. But we're going to find out. -- Huan? Will you carry us both?

 **Huan** :

[loud happy barking]

 **Finrod** : [urgent]

That's the maddest plan I've ever heard. _Beyond_ crossing the Helcaraxe on foot! Are you really going to make the attempt? You're not just making an empty threat?

[Beren doesn't say anything, just looks at him]

You are.

 **Beren** : [regret but not shame]

I'm sorry --

 **Finrod** :

\-- Why?

[pause]

Obviously it's the only solution, if they're set on parting you two for no good reason.

 **Beren** : [cryptic]

Not all the powers in the world are against us, I've learned. -- You were remembered fondly, by the way.

[he laughs suddenly, from sheer joy in being, and everyone stares at him in renewed amazement]

 **Finrod** :

Beren, what -- what's _happened_ to you?

[pause]

 **Beren** :

I -- Saw it. -- The World. Without the veils.

[shakes his head]

I can't -- it was -- there aren't words to tell of it, the view from Taniquetil --

 **Ranger** : [confused]

But that's not hard to describe. The hills look like slabs of jade, with silver for the rivers and lakes.

 **Third Guard** :

And one can see all the way to the coast, just as if it were a map.

 **Luthien** : [but smiling]

Shh!

 **Soldier** : [understanding]

Oh, he's being metaphorical, that's all.

 **Finrod** :

But you _were_  -- answered.

[Beren nods; Luthien is trying to discreetly wipe her eyes]

What _was_ the Answer?

 **Beren** :

What I said -- they're just muddling along like us, making it up as we go.

[pause -- the Eldar, living and ghostly, look at each other in silence]

 **Finrod** :

That . . . is essentially what I've been saying. All along. For great years.

 **Beren** :

Yeah, but I didn't get it before.

 **Finrod** :

But -- how does that answer your outrage? -- How does that relieve your mind at all? I don't "get it," I fear.

 **Beren** :

Don't you, Sir?

[he lets go of Luthien's hand and grips the Elf-king's wrist for a moment, hard as a handcuff]

I thought for sure _you_ would.

 **Finrod** : [ragged laugh]

I know what you're saying -- that we your lords made our mistakes and led you into danger and and failed to protect you when Bauglir struck, even as I erred and failed in my attempts to save you, and still despite all that you loved me no less, for being powerless, but --

 **Beren** : [cutting him off, roughly]

Not in spite of. --  _Because_. And all the more.

[clearing his throat]

\-- So. They're just a bunch of poor bastards struggling along to do the right thing, same as me. I can feel for that. Respect it too. -- Kind of makes it hard to stay angry, though.

 **Apprentice** : [finding his voice at last]

And yet -- for all that _respect_ , you're going to defy them now by trying to leave the Halls?

 **Beren** :

Nobody actually _told_ me I couldn't. Tinuviel? They tell you?

 **Luthien** : [grim triumph]

Nope.

 **Apprentice** : [faintly]

I . . . think it's presumed to be unnecessary . . .

 **Ambassador** : [urgent]

Highness, is this what _you_ will, what you truly think best?

 **Luthien** : [lifting her chin]

And will you tell me now, _again_ , that I am but young and foolish, and ought to listen to wiser heads for my own good?

 **Ambassador** :

No.

[shaking his head]

I have learned to trust _your_ intuition, my Princess, as I have placed my faith in your lady mother for all these ages -- if belatedly -- and I have confidence that your choice shall be the best that might be made, under the circumstances. -- However much I might regret the outcome.

[he looks deliberately at Beren, and then bows]

I commend you, my lord, upon your valour -- but most especially for your Goodness, and thank you for your gift of generous heart in defense of my King, when Doriath was unready, and -- wish you --  _well_.

 **Beren** :

Um -- thanks. You're welcome, I meant. -- And thanks. Yeah.

[he laughs, unselfconsciously cheerful, at himself, as Thingol's emissary bows again, smiling sadly]

 **Fourth Guard** : [bemused]

Beren, you're really going to escape from the Halls? Just like this?

 **Beren** : [shrugs]

You know how it is when counsels get outta hand and too many stupid suggestions -- sometimes you just gotta bang on the table to get folks to listen up.

 **Finrod** :

This is more like flinging _over_ the table, I think.

 **Youngest Ranger** : [raising his eyebrows]

Somebody did that?

 **Steward** :

Lord Caranthir. Before your time.

[the dead High King snorts, exchanging a glance with his sibling; Nerdanel closes her eyes in disgust/dismay]

 **Fingolfin** :

Before your friends take their leave, Finrod, might I perchance trouble you for an introduction to this renowned young Man?

 **Beren** : [with a little smile]

Another one of your relatives, Sir?

 **Finrod** : [exchanging an amused glance with Fingolfin]

Rather. -- My uncle. One of them.

[comprehension dawns]

 **Beren** :

 _Oh_  -- Sorry --

[he kneels at once, and with great respect, faltering a little as he introduces himself:]

Y -- your Majesty. Beren Barahirion, Lord of -- that was Lord in Ladros of Dorthonion, a -- at your service. Sire.

 **Luthien** : [sharp aside]

Beren. You got a _Silmaril_ from Angband. _You_ don't stammer to _anyone_. High King of the Noldor or not.

 **Fingolfin** : [nodding, his eyes twinkling as he gestures grandly to Beren]

Quite so, lad, quite so. -- Rise, Elf-friend, and let me see the Man who succeeded where all the armies of the Eldar could not.

[completely embarrassed, Beren gets to his feet, blinking a little as the High King of the Noldor in Beleriand c laps him approvingly on the shoulder.]

\-- Well done.

 **Beren** : [nodding towards Luthien and Huan]

It was mostly them, your Majesty. I just -- was there.

 **Fingolfin** : [raising an eyebrow]

Indeed, I suspect there will be as much deliberation on the question of who did the deed, and whose the credit, as there shall be among us as to which was the most valiant challenge -- mine, of mere combat in forms mundane, or your demi-divine lady's of Song.

[it is Luthien's turn to look embarrassed, though Huan just wags his tail happily at hearing his people praised]

 **Beren** : [solemn]

Oh, I'm sure. You're great ones for talking, you Elves, I've noticed, Sire.

 **Fingolfin** : [appraising]

Ah yes, that mortal humour. -- You've the air of House Marach about you, for all you're Beoring, lad. I suspect that's where you get that streak of indomitable stubbornness, from our side of the mountains, -- to temper your native common sense, and dare I say, _wisdom_  . . . which is your heritage as followers of my nephew here.

 **Finrod** : [disgruntled]

Uncle! You've just put me in the position of having to contradict you out of courtesy -- and thereby to concede myself irrationally stubborn, if I will not be rude.

 **Fingolfin** : [smug]

Checkmate.

 **Steward** : [offhand]

Truly 'tis said, the rarer a delight, the sweeter.

[the High King's shade gives him a disgruntled glare, while Finrod restrains a grin]

 **Finrod** : [to Beren]

Have you made any plans as to how you're going to effect this, yet?

 **Beren** : [shrugging]

I just figured on making it up as we go along, same as usual. -- And letting Huan do the thinking.

[Luthien chuckles; the Lord of Dogs waves his tail from side to side]

 **Finrod** :

Oh, I think we can do a bit better than that. If --

[checks, looks over at the Apprentice]

You _don't_ want to be here for this. If I might make a suggestion, that task I set you earlier -- you might continue it, if you'd be so kind.

 **Elenwe** : [curious]

For what cause givest _thou_ orders, Ingold, and unto him, that's hither at Lady Nienna's behest, I think?

 **Apprentice** :

Er . . .

 **Captain** :

He lost a bet.

 **Aredhel** : [to Finrod]

You're doing something devious and political again, aren't you?

 **Finrod** : [innocent]

When have I _ever_ been devious and political, 'Feiniel?

[Aegnor and Angrod have a spontaneous coughing fit]

 **Aredhel** : [giving him the evil eyebrow]

Who was it convinced our cousins that the best thing for them all would be to remove to the other side of Beleriand, hm?

 **Finrod** : [puzzled]

 _Maedhros_ made that decision after consulting his siblings -- and _not_ , may I remind you, with any interference from me.

 **Aredhel** :

 _After_ you came back from one of your little jaunts to the back of beyond burbling about all the gorgeous uncut stones you'd seen in the Blue Mountains and all the monstrous great beasts you'd seen in the woods to the east.

 **Finrod** : [bland]

Upon my honour, I only talked to them of those things they each were interested in -- as I always do, wherever I happen to be visiting.

[while Aredhel smirks knowingly, he gives the Apprentice an expectant Look]

 **Apprentice** : [daunted]

I am in _so_ much trouble . . .

[sighs, shrugs]

...that it doesn't really matter if I get into more. Good-bye -- for now --

[he bows a little and hurries off out the door]

 **Finrod** : [clapping his hands together]

Right, then. Arm up, people, we're going to make a Stand.

[the Ten look at each other, with some confusion]

 **Captain** :

 _Here_?

[he gestures towards the dais and the Thrones, giving his King a bemused glance]

 **Finrod** : [edged grin]

Oh yes. Most definitely here.

[his brothers look at each other in awed dismay]

 **Angrod** : [faintly]

Um. Ingold . . . ?

 **Aegnor** :

\-- Right.

[as they are fumbling for words, Finrod's foremost counsellor steps in without waiting for permission]

 **Steward** : [decisive]

My lord, is this _wise_?

[as Finrod looks at him, frowning]

\-- Is this a prudent course of action? Have you considered in full the consequences, likely or unlikely?

 **Captain** : [exasperated]

Grinding Ice! You're _not_ saying we should stop helping Beren and his Lady _now_ , are you?

 **Steward** : [taut]

No. I am saying that this does _not_ appear to me to be the most rational _or_ appropriate manner in which to help them. This seems -- premature --

 **Captain** :

You don't think there's been _enough_ talk yet? Morgoth's mercy, how much more do you want -- until the _mountains_ wear away?

[ignoring him, to their King]

Dismounted, Sire, or ahorse?

 **Finrod** :

No. We're just trying to make an effective demonstration of purpose. Cavalry would be counterproductive and rather too dramatic.

 **Steward** : [not-quite-aside]

Ah yes, and an armed stand in the Halls of Mandos, is otherwise discreet --

[the Teler Maid looks from him to the others, frowning and worried]

 **Finrod** : [raising his voice a little]

It would be a distraction and might escalate things without any pertinence. -- Besides --

[he pats Huan on the withers]

\-- we have the Lord of Dogs on our side: how could imaginary horses compare?

 **Fingolfin** : [meaningfully, to Finrod]

Gentle nephew, you entreated my assistance, which alas, I came too late to render in the fashion you desired. Howsobeit, I am presently here, and as you have remarked, my deed holds _some_ little weight in the respect of the Holy Ones. It seems to me, it might be well if I did claim responsibility, and whatsoever business you may be planning, I shall attest it thus: for that Nargothrond is liege to me, and hence your vassalty as well, so that the Lord of Beor has too a claim upon my protection.

[this gets him both stares, and askance Looks from those who understand what the late High King of the Noldor is offering to do for them. Finrod smiles sadly.]

 **Finrod** : [gently]

No, my lord. I thank you for your offer -- but this is my affair, and I cannot accept your generosity; for the choice, and the blame, are entirely my own.

 **Fingolfin** :

But you are _not_ one of us in rebellion, despite that past outward seeming of circumstance, and that the Powers know as well as any. Hence your pardon, which it _seems_ you jeopardize without consideration.

 **Finrod** :

Right. _That's_ why it must be me, and none other. Or rather,

[he looks around with grim pride at his followers]

\--  _Us_. They'll pay attention to Our resistance, instead of dismissing it as yet another Noldor temper tantrum.

[Aredhel laughs in astonishment]

 **Aredhel** :

Still the delusions of grandeur, _Ingold_?

 **Aegnor** : [dismayed aside]

\-- That's what we're afraid of -- and you're not?

[before his brother can explain (or try) Amarie turns to her dead compatriot]

 **Amarie** :

And wilt _thou_ not reproach him, for that he seemeth to pay thee some heed at least, or respect, belike, for thy -- discretion, kinswoman?

[the Vanyar shade only shakes her head]

 **Elenwe** :

Passing clear it is that thy consort shall ne'er be still within the Circles, nor let deed be a-doing without he hath some part in't. Wherefore then no more am surpriséd, than at Sun's rising -- for certain 'tis that he shall strive 'gainst overwhelming Night, no less than the Powers, to make some change upon it.

[she sits down on the lowest step again, resting her chin in her hand and watching in a benignly curious way, as if a spectator at an event in a sport whose rules were not entirely explained. The living High King of the Noldor breaks silence finally, in no uncertain tone:]

 **Finarfin** : [sharply]

Good my sister 'Danel, I pray thee come aside a little and a little while with me, and hold me counsel on such question, as calleth for _most_ fine discernment, 'twixt duty, and desire, that latterly doth colour all the first --

 **Nerdanel** :

Aye, I'll gladly that.

[glancing over her shoulder at her nephews, she takes his arm and they go back to the rose-crested hillside to talk, while the Finarfinions share wide-eyed looks of sibling empathy and worry -- then Finrod shrugs, and goes back to business.]

 **Finrod** :

Now, both of you, I'm not ordering you to leave the talking to me, but at this point I _think_ perhaps it might be better if you'd at least let me set the pace and lay down conditions --

[Luthien and Beren nod, guardedly, while Huan cocks an ear quizzically]

 **Amarie** : [aghast]

Thou meanst to do it again? Thou'lt rebel _again_?

 **Finrod** :

Not if I needn't. Hopefully everyone will be reasonable enough to negotiate.

 **Amarie** :

Finrod -- thou dost not truly mean to throw away everything thou hast gained back -- all's been given thee -- by throwing in with these -- these -- unworthy reprobates!

[as she gestures wildly around there is some nudging and wry Looks exchanged among the Ten and Huan]

 **Captain** : [aside]

\-- Reprobates?

 **Second Guard** : [solemn]

Unworthy, that's us.

 **Captain** :

We're not _that_ bad.

 **Ranger** :

Some of your jests, though, Sir --

 **Finrod** : [ice]

By any standards --  _I'm_ one of these unworthy reprobates, Amarie.

 **Amarie** : [exasperated]

Thou differest --

 **Finrod** : [cutting her off]

\-- No. Marginally more competent in some areas, perhaps, but not _different_. Except, perhaps, to _you_  -- as you, _always_ , are to me.

 **Amarie** : [unsteadily]

Do not -- let not thou _dare_  --

 **Finrod** : [cool smile]

I cannot speak anything but truth here, love, even as you. Reproach me for daring, if you will, and call me overbold -- but how else should I dare to love such a one as you, oh loftiest of ladies?

[Luthien gives him a very sharp Look, but his attention is all on Amarie for the moment]

 **Amarie** : [her voice almost a snarl]

Oh wretch! to cut me with a honeyed word -- ! _Out_ on thee --

 **Beren** : [warning aside]

Sir, you're doing it _again_  --

 **Finrod** : [waving him silent]

No. Beren. I know you want me to be humble with regard to my lady, and to give up my pride as _you_ did -- but I can't. My heart would incline me to be as pathetic and needy as you wish -- but my duty permits it not. I owe it -- not to you, but to _myself_ , to keep faith. If I do not -- there is no spirit here left worthy of her love, nor capable of it, but only a hollow shell less substantial than my present nakedness. I cannot change myself so far. I cannot _be_ a lie.

[sadly]

Do not blame me for this -- still less, yourself.

 **Beren** :

No.

[uneven smile]

There's no blame here.

 **Amarie** : [fatalistic]

Thou'lt do it, shalt not? Shalt go hence from me once more.

 **Finrod** : [grim smile]

I asked you once, to come with me.

 **Amarie** : [gesturing wildly]

Oh, I did fling away my chance, say'st thou?

[he shakes his head]

 **Finrod** :

I'm still waiting. You never gave me an answer, remember? I wasn't the only one walking away that Night -- nor the last.

[pause]

 **Amarie** :

Thou _art_ arrogant, Finrod Ingold Finarfinion! How dost thou _presume_ against me!

 **Finrod** :

 _Amarie_  --

[she stalks away -- but not back to the Hill. Instead she goes to the Falls, besides which, pausing in the manner of Victory Tying Her Sandal, she pauses to unlace her footwear and leaves it on a nearby boulder, then wades out knee-deep into the pool, heedless of her draperies. Closing her eyes, she stands there amid the illusory flames facing the cataract, her hands held out a little before her as if catching the spray -- or asking a question. Lifting his chin determinedly, Finrod looks at the Princes, who are looking like ghosts who hope they won't be asked but know that's a vain hope . . .]

 **Aegnor** : [earnest]

We're not _against_ you, brother. But --

[he looks at the Ten, some of whom are now in chain mail and helmets, standing around expectantly, and shakes his head]

\-- whether we can be _for_ this --

 **Angrod** :

\-- which has all the appearances of rebellion, whether it is so or not --

 **Aegnor** :

\-- or otherwise, we must consider -- we cannot simply choose without thought.

[he looks between the late King of Nargothrond and Luthien, avoiding Beren's eyes]

Please understand, it is not -- as Father said -- a question of desiring --

 **Angrod** :

\--  _only_  --

 **Aegnor** :

\-- but also of our _duty_.

[with last imploring looks, they go over to the lee of one of the columns, where they engage in animated discussion of what Ought To Be Done. The set of his shoulders showing his discouragement, Finrod turns to his foremost comrade:]

 **Finrod** :

Edrahil.

[the Steward looks at him. So does his no-longer-ex; Finrod swallows and presses on under the Sea-elf's cool stare:]

Might --  _might_ I rely on you in this? I know you do not approve, and so -- though I cannot pretend any longer that I claim no royal authority over my own, at least, I will not demand your aid in this against your conscience.

 **Steward** : [reasonable]

But I took you as my lord, King Felagund, and the world has not yet ended -- that I have remarked, at least. I cannot refuse you.

 **Teler Maid** : [indignant, looking up at him and giving his arm a sharp tug]

But you can indeed! Only do you _will_ to?

 **Steward** : [glancing at Beren and Luthien]

For the sake of fellowship, aye -- I will follow such a duty without compunction.

[pause]

 **Finrod** :

Even into error?

 **Steward** : [shrugs]

'Tis not, I judge, of the same degree as refusing a summons to account for crimes that were or might have been committed, the which to be determined by hearing and appeal.

 **Finrod** : [meaningful]

Your exacting conscience is not troubled, then, my friend?

 **Steward** :

No more than yours, to follow our own folly.

[they share a speaking Look]

 _I_ should do otherwise -- but I trust your wisdom, Majesty, to make no choice that shall work more harm to them than otherwise.

[to his true-love]

Forgi --

[stops short -- then rephrases without imperative:]

I'm sorry.

 **Teler Girl** :

Why?

[as he looks down uncertainly at her]

By what cause should you be sorry that you should aid your friends?

 **Steward** :

Because it should bring sorrow to you, Maiwe, that I should contend with the Powers yet again, and I would not have you lament for my sake again.

 **Teler Maid** :

For what should I sorrow that we should aid our friends?

[he is completely thrown by this]

 **Steward** :

Maiwe --

 **Teler Maid** : [interrupting him]

Only you must not say you _cannot_ do otherwise, as you were yet in chains, for that does make the gift of your duty a bitterness, as much to get as in your giving.

[he blinks, and slowly nods agreement]

 **Finrod** : [aside]

I envy you, my friends -- but I love ye none the less for that.

[the Captain, now in full armour, cuts in and shoves a spear and shield into the Steward's hands, impatiently]

 **Captain** :

Come along, you laggard, stop dallying and get yourself together. Enough agonizing about decisions long made!

 **Teler Maid** :

It is not his fault alone -- you must reproach Lord Ingold also!

 **Captain** :

Can't do that, Lapwing -- he's the King. If I were to tell him off in public for making _far_ too much of too little --

 **Steward** :

\--  _Little_  -- ?!

 **Captain** :

That would be unwarranted disrespect and damaging to his power.

 **Teler Maid** :

But you only now _did_ so.

 **Captain** :

Yes, well, that's how it works.

[he winks at Finrod, whose melancholy expression shifts into a smile for a moment]

 **Steward** :

Shall I assist you in arming, Sire?

 **Finrod** :

It isn't needful, here --

[his appearance wavers and resolves into a long hauberk like the Captain's, his hair likewise drawn back in a single plait. (Note: unlike the conclusion of Act II, their chainmail is not darkened now, but very gleamy and bright, in spectral monochrome.)]

 **Steward** :

Nevertheless it is my office, and no others', when I am by.

[he hands the war-gear back to his confederate, who, having manifested his own armament, is now stuck holding both spears and shields. Kneeling down at Finrod's side he begins to add the remaining pieces of armour to the ensemble.]

 **Captain** : [resentful]

Do I look like a weapons-rack? What am I, _furniture_?

 **Steward** : [closing the buckles on the greaves with a snap]

No, furniture is serviceable but _not_ obtrusive.

 **Captain** : [sniffing]

This, from the Elf responsible for leaving me with a punctured lung and purblind the best part of a year. Talk about being taken for granted.

[the other freezes and gives him a Look indicating that a line has definitely been crossed.]

 **Steward** : [stiffly]

You --  _vowed_ me you'd not ever _reproach_ me for that -- so that _I_ did not apologize another time.

 **Captain** : [patiently]

I told you I'd never bring it up to you again as long as I lived. And I haven't.

[pause -- his friend is losing a fierce battle to keep a straight face; covering, he manifests a long sword and belts it about the King's waist, while Finrod says nothing, very obviously, to all this patter]

 **Steward** : [biting off his words as he adjusts the hang of the scabbard]

Were you _half_ as simple as you feign yourself, you'd have twice wit enough to know your jests are --  _lacking_ so much as a quarter of the . . .  _humour_ you . . . hold they hold -- !

[pause]

Nothing? -- Stars above. You concede my point, then?

[Luthien is covering her laughter with her hand]

 **Captain** : [with an indulgent sigh]

I'm _trying_ to figure out what you just said. I think you've got an arithmetical error in there somewhere. But there wasn't enough of substance or clarity for me to really tell.

[snorting, the Steward unfolds a long, shimmering cloak, with panels of embroidery down the front edges in Byzantine style, about Finrod's shoulders, arranging and pinning the folds with swiftness and elegance and an ornate brooch with high relief interlacing.]

 **Teler Maid** : [to Beren]

Is this what caused your folk to think them foes?

 **Beren** :

Oh yeah. They'd go on for days like this sometimes, playing the game. I think I figured it out, though -- they both look good, no matter who wins a round, because anybody who's brave enough to tweak _him_ is pretty impressive, regardless who's got in the last word.

 **Teler Maid** :

Which? _Him_ , I mean.

 **Beren** :

Both. -- And I bet it encourages strangers to make, um, imprudent comments, when the other's not around. Useful for finding out who wants to spread discord in the court, I bet.

[the three former senior administrators of Nargothrond give him appraising glances.]

 **Captain** :

Have I said that the lad's entirely too sharp for his own good?

 **Steward** :

 _Often_.

[he presents his sovereign with the final bit of necessary equipment; the King's mood is lifting from strained melancholy to normal with their deliberate normality of behavior]

 **Finrod** : [solemnly]

Well, at least there's _one_ thing you can agree on.

[he accepts the helmet and puts it on: this is the war-crown, not the plain battle helm he wore in Act II, gleaming with chased designs and studded with small white gems, and the central stone flanked with two magnificent silver wings in three-dimensional relief swinging up from the temples like a crest.]

 **Teler Maid** :

Oh! Those are swan's wings!

[knowingly, and a little wondering]

You claimed your right to lead from the House of Olwe --  _not_ Lord Finwe of the Noldor.

 **Finrod** : [gently]

From both sides of the family, in point of fact, Sea-Mew.

 **Teler Maid** :

I see what I do see.

[she gives him a quick, impulsive hug, making him smile still more, then turns expectantly to the Steward]

Well? I want to see how _you_ appear in that guise.

[a little abashed, her true-love lets his appearance flicker to resolve as the same type of long hauberk and armour, slightly less ornate than Finrod's. She purses her lips.]

It does not look much comfortable, I aver.

 **Steward** :

It is not. It is heavy, cumbersome, --

 **Captain** :

\-- and saved your life on _several_ occasions.

 **Teler Maid** : [critically]

I do not fancy it.

[the Steward sighs agreement]

But an ugly coat that keeps off the storm is better than no cloak at all.

[frowning]

Why have _you_ not a sword? Is it because you were Lord Ingold's herald?

 **Steward** :

I --

[checks, goes on]

I did not wish to perturb you again.

 **Teler Maid** :

But how shall you help to defend Lord Beren against the Servants of the Halls, without one?

[he smiles ruefully, bowing his head]

 **Captain** : [ironic aside]

No, the real question is, how shall we deal with the Servants of the Halls, armed or not.

[to Finrod, as his counterpart dutifully manifests and buckles on his own blade]

You do have a plan, Sir, I trust?

 **Finrod** : [loftily]

Of course.

[slight wry smile]

But I'm not sure why you're reassured by that. I thought we could _break_ them out, if it comes to it, and eliminate the trouble for them of having to elude notice at the gates.

[aside, looking at Beren]

\-- He's taking this much more calmly than I expected.

 **Beren** : [sighing]

Oh, I figured out a while back there wasn't any point in arguing with Eldar royalty -- you're all _way_ too swarn.

[Luthien gives him a Look and pokes him]

Hey! It's true.

[she snorts and tosses her head; behind them the Youngest Ranger looks up at the ceiling whistling.]

It doesn't look like I have any choice about him meddling this time. And I didn't even _ask_ for help this time, either.

[giving Finrod a sidelong glance]

I never heard that Old Beor asked for help, either, come to think of it. It'd be pretty ungrateful of me to start turning it down now.

[he smiles around at the Ten, who are standing about looking rather excited and cheerful (if slightly nervous) at being able to do something finally, leaning on their spears and waiting for orders. Aule's Assistant appears in the middle of the Hall, and gives the company a dubious, critical stare]

 **Aule's Assistant** : [sniffing]

These costumes are in very poor taste.

[dismisses them from concern, he walks up to Luthien. Very officious:]

Luthien daughter of Melian, the Greater Powers of this worlds-realm have sent me to summon you once more unto their presence, to privately discuss your fate.

[changing tone]

That means alone, as in, _not_ bringing him along. -- Or the Dog.

[Huan snorts affrontedly, and both he and Beren look to Luthien for direction. She in turn sighs deeply, and answers the junior Maia in almost a sing-song, with the tired whimsy of some of the darkest stretches of Act III]

 **Luthien** :

No. Not going. -- Sorry.

[with a weird smile]

You've wasted far too much of my time already, and I'm not going _anywhere_ without Beren. And _he's_ not going anywhere without me.

[tilting her head on one side, almost playfully]

'Bye.

 **Assistant** : [stiffly]

Princess Luthien, I am very sorry, but that was a command, not a request. You will accompany me back to the council. _Now_.

 **Luthien** :

 _No_.

 **Assistant** :

As I said, that was _not_ a request --

[he starts to move towards her as if to arrest her]

 **Finrod** :

Form _sandastan_!

[the Ten present spears and raise shields, forming a short but very sharp barrier between]

 **Assistant** :

How absurd. What do you think you could possibly accomplish with this display?

 **Captain** :

Want to find out? You could test it.

 **Assistant** : [snorting]

You're discorporate. None of this is _real_.

 **Finrod** :

There is that, yes. -- There's also _that_.

[nods towards the reconstructed wall; the Assistant looks over at it and does a double-take, not having noticed it in the brevity of his last brief sojourn.]

 **Assistant** :

So you're at it again. I suppose you mean to convey some form of solidity to these illusions of theirs, then?

 **Finrod** :

No, _I_ didn't make that. _They_ did. On their own, without any help or guidance from me. I merely teach. My people learn and improvise. I have no idea how real you'll find our thorn-hedge. Are you absolutely sure it can't possibly affect you?

[the Assistant begins to look a bit doubtful]

I strongly suggest that you pass this one back up to your superiors. Unless they're giving you hazard pay. -- Or dealing with mad rebel ghosts is in your job description.

[pause]

 **Aule's Assistant** :

I will do so. -- Though you may not find the consequences much to your liking.

[he vanishes]

 **Captain** :

Do we stand down, Sire?

[Finrod shakes his head.]

 **Beren** : [unhappy]

Sir --

 **Finrod** :

Objection noted and overruled, Beor. This is normal procedure for a standoff between civilized peoples. -- I may be stretching a point to call my cousins "civilized," but we were able to manage around Mithrim with only minor casualties and no fatalities on these principles. I'm going to extend the benefit of the doubt to the gods and assume that they're civilized as well.

[the bystanders look shocked and there are murmurs of horror from both camps, incarnate and discorporate. Several of the Ten cringe a bit, too. Without saying anything, the Ex-Thrall adjusts her mail and gear and walks up into the heart of the wedge, standing calmly by the lovers and Huan as if it were the most natural thing in the world. She is followed by the Ambassador, who moves to stand in a matching position of attendance on Luthien's side. With the addition of support staff, their tiny outpost starts somehow looking more serious; left alone, the Lord Warden wraps his arms around himself, looking defensive and forlorn, and very uncertain. Huan yawns, with no prospect of immediate action, and stretches down, couchant. Luthien perches on his back as if he were a big rock.]

 **Beren** : [thoughtful, to Finrod]

You're being extra offensive on purpose, aren't you?

[Finrod nods]

Why? You're not really angry.

 **Finrod** :

There's a reason it's called "offensive." Pushing people makes them remember that not all power is one one side, however disproportionate the odds, and -- it keeps them off balance. You must have seen your uncle dealing with local troubles, even if you never had to do it yourself.

[grins]

And besides, it's rather fun.

[simultaneous]

 **Luthien** :

No, really?

 **Ambassador** :

I had never guessed, I'm sure.

[Beren just Looks at Finrod]

 **Beren** : [flatly]

Fun.

 **Finrod** :

Beren, it's too late to panic now.

 **Beren** :

No it isn't. You can panic all the way through. Believe me, I _know_.

 **Finrod** :

Well, you needn't. -- Yet.

 **Captain** :

\-- Oh, _that's_ going to reassure us. --  _Him_.

 **Beren** : [emphatic]

This was _not_ part of my plan. I wasn't going to involve you guys.

 **Steward** :

Far, far too late for that, my lord Barahirion.

[Beren grins in spite of himself]

 **Finrod** :

This time I have reserves to draw on. Now hold the line, while I think things through.

 **Captain** : [blandly]

Surely not yet, Sire?

[receiving a Look]

\-- Er, sorry.

[Finrod steps aside a little and stands staring at the walls behind them, frowning a little, his arms folded. Beren sighs, resigned to the fact that this is now totally out of his control, and sits down against Huan's side. Luthien leans over and ruffles his hair, and he looks up at her. They smile and clasp hands.]

Warrior:

We should have a banner.

[all look expectantly at the Steward]

 **Steward** : [sighs]

Why not? Since subtlety and restraint are already thrown to the winds --

[he grounds his spear, steps back and lowers the point carefully, sliding it back so that he can reach the ties that now keep the banner wrapped around the somewhat-longer shaft -- then stops]

 **Captain** :

Come on, what are you waiting for?

 **Steward** :

There's a slight problem.

 **Captain** :

What?

 **Steward** : [edged patience]

What flag do we usually fight under?

 **The rest of the Ten** :

Oh. I _see_.

Er . . .

\--  _Right_.

Aha --

[they all give covert glances towards Finarfin]

 **Teler Maid** :

 _I_ do not understand.

 **Steward** :

In Beleriand we went to war under the radiance of the House of Finarfin. I can't imagine what Lord Finarfin will say upon seeing us hoist his insignia in our -- endeavor -- though I do have some guesses.

 **Teler Maid** :

\-- I will ask him.

[Before he can object she scoots through the line and dashes over to Finarfin. The Steward tries to look oblivious, an expression shared by some of the Ten, while others cringe in embarrassment and at least one makes a cursory attempt to not grin. Returning -- perkily:]

He says he does not understand why you trouble yourselves over it after all these years.

[the Steward winces, closing his eyes]

 **Youngest Ranger** :

My lord, why don't you use the other insignia?

 **Steward** : [sharply]

It's the same problem.

 **Youngest Ranger** : [still polite]

No, sir --  _his_.

[nods towards Finrod. Silence]

 **Steward** :

Because I'm being an idiot and didn't think of it. Thank you.

[shaking his head, he begins to unfasten the knots]

 **Youngest Ranger** : [solemnly]

I think it's called "being preoccupied," my lord.

 **Steward** :

That too.

[he unfurls it -- the emblem is Finrod's personal sigil, the Harp and Flame. He carefully does not look at the incarnate Eldar on the hill as he raises the standard.]

We need a wind.

 **Teler Maid** :

Oh, let me!

 **Steward** : [anxious]

Not too much -- just enough to carry it.

 **Teler Girl** : [innocently]

Not enough to rip it and drag you across the deck?

 **Steward** :

Hmm, no -- I rather think not.

[a small breeze lifts the flag and spreads it out.]

 **Teler Maid** :

Is that enough? Or too much?

 **Steward** :

It's perfect.

[behind them, Finrod looks from the smooth wall over towards the waterfall with a calculating frown, and then freezes, his eyes meeting Amarie's. She gives him an edged, fixed smile, not unlike the gleam of a spearpoint in "rest" and he looks worried, but she only stands there smiling at him without saying anything, like a wingless, rather damp, and extremely-piqued Nika between victories.]

 **Teler Maid** : [to the Steward]

I say, do you know -- this is like one of the old stories about the March!

[he starts to make an acerbic reply, checks it.]

 **Steward** :

\-- It is, rather, isn't it?

[sighs]

We still might lose.

 **Teler Maid** : [shaking her head]

No. I think not so.

[Finrod and Amarie are still staring at each other over the kneeling ranks, each waiting for the other to do something first]

 **Finrod** : [hopelessly]

Whatever I say is going to be wrong. -- I'm sorry.

 **Amarie** : [as if he hadn't spoken]

Thou didst not say 'twas the Lord of the Deeps that did command thee to thy secret City.

 **Finrod** : [thrown by the seeming non-sequitur]

Well, who else would it have been?

 **Amarie** : [staring at him coolly]

Why, which else, but for the Lord of Dreams, to send thee warning in a dream?

 **Finrod** : [increasingly rattled as he goes on]

He can't any more -- no one can, because of the Trees -- being gone, that is -- to the other Shore --

[behind them the Sea-elf grips the staff of the banner beneath her true-love's hands and glances up with a speculative expression]

 **Teler Maid** :

Might I? Please?

 **Steward** : [concerned]

It's heavy.

 **Teler Maid** :

I shan't drop it.

 **Steward** :

Will you tire of it?

[she thinks about this, then shakes her head]

 **Amarie** :

Aye, and what then of thy friend's dream, and the missives of thy cousin his consort? Or dost think those eke did come of the Waters, verily?

[pause; behind them the Steward hands over the banner, carefully, waiting until the Elven-girl has it braced before letting go. It dips a little alarmingly, but he doesn't take it back, only helping her move her hand a ways along the spear, and she stabilizes it at once, smiling proudly.]

 **Finrod** : [starting to slip into lecture mode automatically]

That's possible, but there's reason to think that Luthien's experiences were but natural phenomena --

[Amarie raises her hand in a commanding gesture]

 **Amarie** : [serene]

Hold thy prating, my lord, this one hour --  _if_ in truth thou canst -- for it mattereth naught the least proportion one way else the other.

[to the nearest Elven-shades:]

Gentles, give way: I had liefer not to cross ye, for 'twould seem discourteous.

[surprised, they glance first at Finrod, who is no help, and then to their senior officers, who nod right back -- they open the shield-wall and move aside so that the Vanyar lady may pass through their lines, even though it would be simpler for her to go around the flank of the wedge and join Finrod that way. Amarie moves into the space between Huan and the Standard-bearer, ignoring all the Looks she is getting]

 **Finrod** : [shaking his head]

Wait, _something_ _just_ _happened_ _here_ and I don't understand what.

 **Amarie** : [ironic]

So much thou art amazed, as 'twere sign of the world its ending?

 **Finrod** :

No, but wait, -- I _don't_ _understand_.

 **Amarie** : [mock surprise]

How then, my lord -- thou art e'en as other Elves!

 **Finrod** :

But -- you're standing _with_ me --

 **Amarie** : [raising her eyebrows, in a patient tone]

Aye.

[her expression is that of someone on the verge of either laughing or crying or both -- and possibly hitting someone, as well]

 **Finrod** :

But I don't understand. --  _Why_?

 **Amarie** : [still patiently]

I am so bid -- and I obey.

 **Finrod** :

But -- by whom?

[she only sighs and shakes her head, still smiling that spearblade smile -- he becomes even more frustrated and manically insistent, but before he can say anything else, his chief counselor steps in between them and puts both hands on the King's shoulders, forcing him to attend:]

 **Steward** : [calm but earnest]

Sire, what purpose does this line of inquiry serve -- except to unsettle you further, and through you, your following?

[brief pause]

\-- Can it not wait? Can you not simply accept it as _fact_ , for the present?

[Finrod glares at him, and then at his wife, still trying to figure out what in the world just happened]

 **Amarie** : [patiently, but looking up at the ceiling with a highly flammable amusement]

Else might I depart, were _that_ more favorable unto thy will -- ?

 **Finrod** : [checking]

Ah -- not at all. -- Please.

[he takes a deep breath and pulls himself together, and nods to his Steward]

Right, then.

[and with that he's back to being King, earnestly contemplating the tactical situation, but with a strange bemused smile threatening to break through from time to time, the look one might wear after having been hit with a rock and discovering it to be a priceless gem . . . as he ponders strategy, Beren turns to the Ten with a nagging question:]

 **Beren** : [somewhat worried]

Hey, guys -- was I obnoxious about being a vegetarian while we were travelling upriver?

[silence -- the Ten look at each other, bemused, while Luthien sighs, smiles, and rubs his shoulder]

 **Captain** :

No. You didn't claim it as a mark of moral superiority. You didn't object to anyone else hunting. We rather admired your consistency at not making exceptions for meat taken by anyone else.

 **Beren** : [but with a smile]

You're just saying that to make me feel better.

 **Captain** :

All right -- you were an obnoxious little brat. Happy now?

[as they are speaking Finarfin leaves the Hill and comes over to them; Nerdanel does so separately. He stands there looking at them -- the Noldor, especially of his House, tense up and become rather woodenly expressionless, trying to fade into the background as much as possible; but the living King only looks them over with a mild, quizzical expression, walking along their line as if sightseeing. He stops, addresses one of his former people:]

 **Finarfin** :

And in this wise thou didst 'fend against the Power of the North, all this Age?

 **First Guard** :

Yes, Sir.

 **Finarfin** : [to Beren]

Eke thy folk, as I do gather?

[Beren nods]

 **Finrod** : [low voice]

Are you angry with me, Father?

 **Finarfin** : [calmly, even coolly, neutral]

Wherefore dost ask? For thou meanst not to change thy course for mine approbation, I deem.

[Finrod shakes his head, slightly, jaw set -- but he is blinking hard. The living High King of the Noldor looks at the flying insignia of the King of Nargothrond, and then at the latter's insignia, noting the wings above the war-crown (hard to overlook, true.)]

 **Teler Maid** : [observant]

He did not answer.

 **Finarfin** :

Thou art no babe, my wiseling, but an Elf of full years, nor answerest unto me.

[Finrod starts to say something, but doesn't -- or can't. His father looks at the ones all this spectacle is in aid of, with a neutral expression, while all the companions grow uneasy under his stare.]

 **Finarfin** : [quietly]

Belike thou mayest say unto me, how thy folk did recall them my son his deeds amidst ye, Lord of Beor?

[Beren looks puzzled, Finarfin glances at Luthien:]

Thou didst remark, good my kinswoman, how that a variance did stand, 'twixt his and his, i' the telling.

 **Luthien** : [to Beren]

\-- The verses. The ones you taught me, about the First Meeting of Men and the King from the Sea.

[his expression changes to comprehension, but he is too flustered in the present company to comply; Luthien, with a slightly impish sparkle in her eyes, begins to chant while Finrod closes his eyes in embarrassment:]

...............They looked upward  
and high upon a hill hoar and treeless  
the guest beheld they: gold was shining  
in his hair, in his hand the harp he bore;  
at his feet they saw the fallow-golden  
cornsheaf lying. Then clear his voice  
a song began, sweet, unearthly,  
words in music woven strangely  
in tongue unknown. Trees stood silent  
and men unmoving marvelling hearkened.

 **Finrod** : [plaintive]

I don't _like_ being idealized into a remote figure of legend. It was much more complicated and confusing and took longer than that, anyway.

[very seriously Beren takes the next verse, chanting:]

 **Beren** :

...............-- No sight so fair  
had eyes of mortal, since the earth was young,  
seen when waking in that sad country  
long forsaken. No lord they had,  
no king nor counsel, but the cold terror  
that dwelt in the desert, the dark shadow  
that haunted the hills and the hoar forest.  
Dread was their master.

 **Finrod** : [snorting]

Your House was wiser than ours, for they _fled_ the Dark King's shadow, instead of trusting him.

[Beren only smiles, and goes on:]

....................-- Gladness wakened.  
To the hill they thronged, and their heads lifting

on the guest they gazed. Greybearded men  
bowed before him and blessed his coming  
their years to heal; youths and maidens,  
wives and children welcome gave him.  
His song was ended. Silent standing  
he looked upon them. Lord they called him,  
king they made him, crowned with golden  
wheaten garland, white his raiment,  
his harp his scepter. In his house was fire,  
food and wisdom; there fear came not.

 **Finarfin** :

And here, I deem, is thy badge its source, recounted in the plain song of Men.

[he looks up at the flag; his eldest nods silently]

'Tis well-crafted, for withouten hearth for bread and weal, must e'er be life most bitter and full of woe -- yet dost hearth shelter no song upon its warmed stones, then soul too starveth in sated body's despite.

[Finrod does not say anything, but Finarfin's approving tone is reflected in his expression and posture; there are changes in the looks turned on Nargothrond's former King by those not of his party, as well -- the Warden of Aglon uncertain, troubled, thoughtful; Aredhel and Eol less so, but still with an air of considering.]

 **Luthien** :

...............Their need he healed,  
Words he taught them wise and lovely  
 --their tongue ripened in the time of Nom  
to song and music. Secrets he opened,  
runes revealing. Riches he gave them,  
reward of labour, wealth and comfort  
from the earth calling, acres ploughing,  
sowing in season seed of plenty,  
hoarding in garner golden harvest  
for the help of men. The hoar forests  
in his days drew back to the dark mountains;  
the shadow receded, and shining corn,  
white ears of wheat, whispered in the breezes  
where waste had been. The woods trembled.

 **Finrod** : [lightly, but plainly deeply moved]

Somehow the bards left out all the blisters and splinters involved. There's more to farming than song!

 **Beren** :

Halls and houses hewn of timber,  
strong towers of stone steep and lofty,  
golden-gabled, in his guarded city  
they raised and roofed. In his royal dwelling  
of wood well-carven the walls were wrought;  
fair-hued figures filled with silver,  
gold and scarlet, gleaming hung there,  
stories boding of strange countries;  
were one wise in wit the woven legends  
to thread with thought. At his throne Men found  
counsel and comfort and care's healing,  
justice in judgment. Generous-handed  
his gifts he gave. Glory was uplifted.  
Far sprang his fame over fallow water  
through Northern lands the renown echoed  
of the shining king, Nom the mighty.

[silence]

 **Nerdanel** : [meaningful]

So. _That_ is what manner of deed it be, for to be a King over multitudes, in hardship e'en as danger, upon the wild shores of that our ancient land --

[she gives the Lord Warden of Aglon a speaking Look -- he swallows hard, his eyes falling under hers.]

 **Finrod** : [quietly]

All that has passed.

[as he says this, Aegnor and Angrod move in quietly around the spear-hedge to stand flanking him, their manifested appearance changing to full armour as they do.]

 **Aegnor** : [clearly and clearly ceremonially]

Sire, the Lords of the Northern Marches stand ready to your service, at your command.

 **Angrod** : [equally intense]

\-- With all our strength, and all our will, your Majesty -- all that remains to us.

[again Finrod is at a loss for words, but the Look he gives them speaks very well what he cannot manage to get out; his brothers turn to look at Beren. As before:]

 **Aegnor** :

Hail, son of Beor, Lord of Dorthonion, faithful friend of our House!

 **Angrod** :

For debt of honour, and in gratitude to your House for such great service to our own, we render our assistance in your time of need -- and for friendship's sake, good Edain.

[too overcome with emotion to speak, Beren drops to one knee before them, but the brothers each take hold of his forearms and draw him gently back to his feet]

\-- I have not our lord's gift of Sight, cousin, but I think it not unlikely that in days to come, your name will be of greater renown than ours, the hero who won two treasures from great Kings at such terrible price.

 **Aegnor** : [intense]

We are _honoured_ to call you kinsman, my lord.

[Beren smiles through tears, bemused, while the heroes of his childhood -- and generations of his countrymen before him -- proudly take their place beside the ex-King of Nargothrond, tall and impossibly handsome in the high helms and jeweled swords of the Leaguer, and Luthien shakes her head fondly. After a visible hesitation, the Lord Warden of Aglon comes up to the intransigents and glowers at Finrod, looking torn.]

 **Warden of Aglon** : [gruffly]

 _I'll_ stand with you --  _if_ you'll have me.

 **Finrod** : [curious]

Why wouldn't We?

[pause. The Lord Warden looks baffled]

 **Warden of Aglon** : [defiant]

I won't apologize for what I've said to you lot. -- Or about.

[pause]

\-- Or done.

 **Finrod** : [raising eyebrows]

Why would you?

 **Warden of Aglon** :

. . .

 **Soldier** :

Aren't you going to arm?

[the Feanorian looks at the Steward's no-longer-ex, and away]

 **Warden of Aglon** :

I -- cannot.

[fierce]

Go ahead and laugh at me, if you will.

 **Soldier** : [bemused half-smile]

Why would we?

[the Kinslayer bows his head, with a short laugh, and then pulls himself together]

 **Warden of Aglon** :

Wh -- where do you want me in your line?

[the Captain points towards the end, left flank, indicating a place by, as it happens, the Youngest Ranger. After a brief hesitation, he moves in, giving the Sindarin warrior a defensive Look and gets a wry, sympathetic grin in return -- misadventures with chess pieces and knees and knives all being now past]

 **Youngest Ranger** :

You can have a shield, even if you won't bear arms any more, can't you?

[subdued, the Warden nods and takes one from nowhere, looking less vulnerable and more part of the company as a result]

 **Warden of Aglon** :

What's going to happen? Is this going to be possible?

[the nearest of the Ten shrug, and look questioningly at the Captain -- who shrugs in turn]

We're going to get _hurt_ , you know. Not like when _we_ play war, either.

 **Captain** :

Come now, where's your sense of adventure?

 **Warden of Aglon** : [muttered aside]

Back in Beleriand -- with your sanity.

 **Fourth Guard** :

It's a shame none of the rest of the old crew are with us.

 **Warrior** :

This is awfully much. We're pushing it farther than is safe, you know.

 **First Guard** : [snorting]

They didn't bother about that in Tirion.

 **Warrior** : [knowingly]

 _That's_ why now.

[Aredhel has been watching all this with arms folded, doing a good imitation of her husband's air of superior amusement, but the pretense grows too much]

 **Aredhel** :

Oh, I can't stand by and let them have all the fun!

[she manifests a helmet and resumes her sword, but is interrupted by the Dark Elf's laughter]

 **Eol** : [snorting]

Of course not. You're still the same charmingly impulsive hellion who ran herself into unnecessary dangers and trapped my heart all those many score years ago. I wouldn't expect you to start showing _caution_ now.

 **Aredhel** : [with a sidelong Look]

I'd expect you to approve of anything that would wreak havoc and anger the gods, given that they've proven quite resistant to your manipulation -- your _efforts_ at manipulation, I should say.

 **Eol** :

If I thought for one instant that this little display of sentimental gallantry was going to annoy the Lords of the World as much as everyone else seems to believe it will, I'd endorse it -- but be realistic: this is your cousin Finrod we're talking about. They'll just smile indulgently and let it go, of course.

 **Aredhel** :

You have to take all the fun out of everything.

[she lets the helmet vanish (but not her sword) and leans against a pillar, sulking]

 **Eol** : [with a cynical flourish]

Oh no, go ahead and be a _reactionary_ , my love -- you've defined yourself as a Rebel Against The Gods, don't be false to yourself for _my_ sake. It isn't as if doing things purely to spite me was something _new_ for you, after all.

[she makes an impatient exclamation, and looks over at the others longingly, but doesn't join them after all. Silently the Valar appear before them on the dais, accompanied by an outraged Maia. Namo sits down and leans back in his chair, lurking behind his teacup again, but Vaire remains standing along with her brother-in-law, the Hunter, and the affronted messenger's patron.]

 **Captain** :

Tally-ho!

 **Aule's Assistant** : [indignant]

\-- You see, my lords?

[he points at the wedge drawn up facing the judgment seat with a shaking hand]

 **Orome** : [ironic]

Be hard not to.

[It is actually a weirdly-impressive assembly, the Elf-lords and their retinue in the ghostly array of battle -- and the ornate, resplendent panoply of the Leaguer, very "fairy-tale illustration" with crests and gems and embroidered cloaks, not the grim camouflage of their setting forth from Nargothrond, either -- with banner and shield and engraved spear-blade . . . the effect spoilt a little by the motley nature of the command group, the fact that the war-steed is a large shaggy dog, and the banner-bearer is standing on one leg.]

 **Assistant** :

They offered me violence!

 **Fourth Guard** : [snickering behind his shield]

But he wouldn't have any.

 **Irmo** : [troubled]

Are you sure there's not been some misunderstanding?

 **Assistant** :

My lord, look at them! Where is there room for misunderstanding in _that_!?

 **Aule** : [reassuring]

Don't worry. We'll clear this up, and deal with any troublemakers as proves to be appropriate.

[his servant looks mollified, and reassured by this, for some reason]

 **Vaire** : [edged]

 _Finrod_. I might have guessed it wasn't safe to leave you alone here.

 **Namo** : [setting down his teacup]

What's going on?

[he leans forward resting his elbow on the arm of his throne, his chin on his hand, looking at them with a quizzical expression.]

What, exactly, do you think you're doing?

 **Finrod** :

Defending my kin, Sir.

 **Namo** :

I see. -- Why?

 **Luthien** : [cutting in]

Because we're not going to let you send Beren away from the world.

 **Beren** :

And I'm not letting you keep Tinuviel a prisoner here for my sake either.

 **Luthien** :

So we're going to run away. Don't try to stop us.

 **Huan** :

[sharp barks]

 **Finrod** :

But if you do, we'll interfere on their behalf -- as our warlike appearance should indicate.

[Aule's Assistant looks vindicated; the other Ainur bewildered]

 **Irmo** : [disbelieving tone]

\-- Amarie?!

 **Namo** : [to Finrod, curious]

What, exactly, makes you so certain that you're going to be able to accomplish what Melkor couldn't manage over the course of Ages?

 **Finrod** : [cheerfully]

Water.

[he gestures towards the fountain with one hand, not looking away from the assembled Powers]

I know where all the conduits and channels go -- and I know how to _change_ that.

[pause]

I'm reasonably certain that I can create enough of a distraction to keep most of your staff preoccupied, while I help my cousins here effect their own departure. And any who aren't diverted --

[he looks at their defensive line]

\-- we're ready.

[meanwhile the Teler Maid is holding their banner with one hand so that she can wave at the Lord of Dreams and Visions again, but the staff dips wildly again -- as she scrambles for it, the Steward, who has been surreptitiously keeping an eye on it all the while, tenses but does not try to get up and help, and she manages to right the flag herself]

 **Orome** : [snorting]

So you're, what, just going to take on the world by yourselves again?

[Finrod lifts his hand towards the water again, not in command but as if in request -- the fountain increases in volume, but the spill does not overflow; instead it begins to build up in a slowly-rising wave, (sfx) holding in place as it mounts, in constant motion in the pool. Namo's consort gasps.]

 **Vaire** :

Don't you _dare_ , you miserable wretch!

 **Finrod** : [polite]

Don't compel me to the choice, then, Ma'am.

 **Vaire** :

What of your _promise_?!?

 **Finrod** :

You only told me not to amuse myself by rearranging your home. This isn't a _jest_ , my Lady.

[the Smith and the Hunter exchange long Looks]

 **Aule** :

This is . . .  _pathetic_.

 **Orome** : [grim]

Yes.

 **Irmo** : [waving distractedly back at the Sea-Elf]

Nobody wants to hurt you Children --

 **Vaire** : [bitingly]

Speak for yourself!

[Orome turns aside quickly and scrubs at his eyes, regaining his stern composure by the time he faces the defenders again. Elenwe seems however to be suffering from almost uncontainable mirth as the situation progresses.]

 **Irmo** : [to Finarfin, pleading]

Can't you do _something_ about this? They're yours, after all.

 **Finarfin** : [raising his hands]

Ye do ken so well as I, how well mine offspring shall heed my direction --

 **Vaire** : [to the late High King]

Your Majesty, won't you intercede with them to stop this nonsense?

[he smiles regretfully]

 **Fingolfin** :

No, my Lady, as it happens, I am here to intercede _for_ them, rather than the reverse -- though it seems my presence is nigh superfluous.

 **Aule** : [intense, glaring at Finrod]

Have you considered what devastation this --  _plan_ of yours is going to cause, if you start tearing apart the roots of the mountains? What damage you could do to the terrain above and everything supported by it?

[Nerdanel answers before Finrod can respond, with a musing air]

 **Nerdanel** :

Nay, should be small matter, for to damp all tremors even as to disperse the force of echoes outward unto the Western horizon's rim, I deem.

[her patron deity looks appalled]

 **Aule** :

\--  _You're_ not helping these lunatics wreak havoc, surely?

 **Nerdanel** : [innocent]

Far from't, good my Lord; I pledge I'll keep all destruction to its utmost least.

 **Aule** : [wounded]

'Danel!

 **Eol** : [to Aredhel]

I take some of that back -- this could get interesting.

[he is darkly (how else?) amused by the proceedings]

 **Finrod** : [reasonable]

I don't _want_ to inconvenience anyone. But that would be but an effect -- and an unintentional one, mind you -- of a Good action.

 **Orome** : [baffled laughter]

You _idiots_. Haven't you learned _anything_? You're _here_ , and you're rebelling again.

 **Steward** :

No, gentles all; we are _endeavoring_ to protect you from making a dire mistake.

[the Lord of the Forests shakes his head with a bitter smile]

 **Orome** :

Confident, aren't you?

[the Steward's expression is very amused, but he doesn't answer]

 **Finrod** : [airily]

If we were in the wrong -- would the Lord of the Deeps lend us his assistance? Or do you really think I have the power, of my own, to rule the waters by my will, counter to his own?

[as he speaks, the fountain begins to glow from within, as if the light from the now-submerged, illusory flames were spreading through the entire wave, like a giant mass of crystal. Heatedly talking over each other]

 **Aule** :

Well, of course he's going to support you, you're his favorite among --

 **Irmo** :

There's an assumption in there that isn't --

 **Assistant** :

Gentles, surely you see now your generosity has been wasted on these incorrigible reprobates --

 **Finrod** :

 _You're_ assuming yourself that --

[The Doomsman sets down his teacup and raises his hand until they stop]

 **Namo** : [wearily]

I asked this before, but -- would anyone mind explaining to me just what they _think_ is going on?

[half a dozen people try at once: the Lord of the Halls sighs]

 _You_.

[bringing his hand down to point at the Captain]

 **Captain** : [drawing back a little]

Me, Sir?

 **Namo** :

Yes, you. You usually know what seems to be going on, and what's really going on instead. Mind sharing?

 **Captain** :

. . .

[he looks worriedly to Finrod, who nods]

Er . . . my Lord, your messenger arrived and insisted -- quite peremptorily, I might add --  _insisted_ that the Princess of Doriath leave us and go with him. It sounded -- at least, in the context of prior reports and exchanges -- as though her Highness were to be compelled to remain here, and separated from Lord Beren, permanently. Nor does it seem so far of a stretch to proceed from that, to the judgment that in that case, the mortal would be required to obey his fate, and leave.

[glaring at the Doomsman]

\-- And we're not about to let that happen. Not without a fight. I'm sorry, my Lords, my Lady, but we can't.

[loudly, to the shadowy echoes]

\-- And anyone who's here and hasn't the guts to join us, or to join our adversaries -- you can all enjoy us getting what you think we've had coming to us for a long time, and the Void take you!

[the Weaver makes an impatient exclamation; the Lord of the Halls sighs. Long anticlimactic silence, in which several chilly stares are directed at Aule's Assistant, who begins to look uncomfortable]

 **Namo** : [closing his eyes briefly]

In other words -- panic, overreaction, and the dragging of bystanders along in the general enthusiasm for action.

[shakes his head]

Don't you people ever get tired of this?

 **Finrod** : [haughty]

We weren't overreacting --

 **Nerdanel** : [just as haughty]

No more than were compelled, my Lord, withouten full knowledge nor resoluteness.

 **Fingolfin** :

'Tis even as my noble sister attests.

 **First Guard** : [realistic]

Well, perhaps some of us.

 **Warrior** :

Not I. I haven't any more doubts, myself.

 **Steward** :

How _fortunate_ for you.

 **Aegnor** : [to the world at large]

 _But_ we're still here, if you'll remark.

 **Angrod** :

And this isn't _Tirion_ , Lord Namo.

 **Namo** : [looks around]

Really? I'd never have guessed.

 **Angrod** : [bridling at the irony]

I _mean_ that we are listening to my brother --  _not_ to my uncle, Sir.

 **Namo** :

Yes, I recognize the condescending tone.

 **Finarfin** : [quietly]

My Lord, I beg pardon for my children their rough unmannerliness -- yet never their mind forthspoken thus plainly. 'Tis the duty of each, be he Eldar, Ainur, else --

[looking at Beren]

\-- Aftercomer newly born --

[suddenly stern and very royal-sounding]

\-- living else dead, to speak against wrong judgment -- and what's more, in truth, to _stand_ , when that words suffice not, for duty general be subordinate to duty most specific, nor any duty masters that to stand against injustice, be it done by the highest even as the least, nor any hindereth the right most obligatory, to restrain even a lord from such.

[his sons are all left amazed at his display of open support]

 **Orome** : [not-quite-aside to Aule]

I know where they get it from, too.

 **Irmo** : [bemused]

Amarie. _This_ is a bit of a change, rather, don't you think? Given what you told my sister last time, that is. And the time before that, and the one preceding that one, and . . . Not to mention the presence of weaponry and so on.

 **Amarie** : [demure]

I but do as I am bid, Holy One.

 **Namo** :

By whom?

 **Amarie** : [raising an eyebrow, ironic]

Kennst thou not, Lord Namo? -- By the Lord that claimeth mine allegiance most especial, by Ulmo of the Deeps --

[Finrod gives her a sudden, shocked Look, as she goes on, softly, not looking at him]

. . . and aye, by my _heart_ , no less -- nor less, for that.

 **Namo** : [to the Lord Warden]

Are _you_ engaging in this for altruism, or out of defiance?

 **Warden of Aglon** :

I --

[pause]

I really don't know, my Lord.

 **Namo** : [flatly]

Right.

[he looks at them all, shaking his head for a second. At this moment the Apprentice returns, briskly, then sees everyone there and reacts -- then sees the situation, and does a triple take, quite horrified]

 **Apprentice** :

Oh dear.

[there is a slight change in his appearance this time, not drastic, but obvious]

 **Namo** :

Did you know that they were planning this?

 **Apprentice** :

Ah -- no, I, er, had no idea this was what they were planning.

 **Vaire** : [rising ire]

You mean you knew they were up to _something_?

 **Apprentice** :

. . .

 **Irmo** : [tolerantly]

You don't really expect him to be capable of dealing with Finrod and his lunatics, do you?

 **Vaire** :

Well . . .

[the Apprentice looks both grateful and chagrined at the back-handed defense]

 **Irmo** : [to Namo]

You can't _blame_ him for that, brother. It isn't fair.

 **Namo** : [bland]

You mean I can't do it anyway?

[as hs brother winces at his attempt at levity; to his sister's student, wincing in turn]

\-- And what _is_ that absurd illusion, anyway?

[the Apprentice puts a defensive hand to his chin, and the stubble beard he is currently sporting]

 **Apprentice** : [glancing at Beren]

After seeing how the mortal looked wearing it, Sir, I was curious --  _I_ thought it added a certain something, a -- a foreign air, a touch of -- raffishness, perhaps?

 **Namo** :

 _Scruffy_ is the word you're looking for, I'm certain.

 **Apprentice** : [protesting]

No, no, "dashing," surely?

 **Namo** : [flatly]

You look scruffy. -- You look like _Huan_.

[several people are offended by this remark]

 **Apprentice** :

Oh, I say!

 **Huan** :

[single piercing bark]

 **Orome** : [exasperated]

 _You_ be quiet.

 **Huan** :

[low-key dissatisfied-but-"behaving" canine grumbling noises]

[Aule's Assistant makes the mistake of chuckling at his colleague's discomfiture, thereby attracting the attention of his boss.]

 **Aule** : [ice]

Curumo. I thought I told you to go fetch her, please. Unquote.

[pause]

I do _not_ recall telling you to _antagonize_ her and her friends.

 **Assistant** :

Sir, I assure you I did no such thing!

 **Orome** : [raising an eyebrow]

Really? They look pretty well antagonized to me. Maybe I'm missing something, though.

 **Eol** : [positively cheerful]

This is getting better by the misplaced word.

 **Assistant** : [getting more and more defensive]

Milord, I only assumed that the same conditions as before were in force, as you did not not countermand them, and they at once met me with insolence and confrontation, for which they were already prepared --

 **Aule** : [looking very tired]

We're going to have to discuss this later, I can tell.

 **Assistant** : [a little desperate]

Sir, if I was too zealous in your task, and for your authority, then I most sincerely offer you my apology, but how was I to know that the former conditions no longer applied? Or were optional? You _know_ that my only purpose for being here is to make your Work easier, Sir --

 **Vaire** : [interrupting]

If I find out that this situation is _your_ fault, believe me --

 **Finrod** : [confidential aside]

And believe _us_ , you _don't_ want to get on the wrong side of the Lady's temper --

[the Weaver gives him a lethal glare, folding her arms crossly]

 **Namo** : [getting back to important business]

So. You think we're making a mistake, and you're going to rectify that, whether we like it or not, is that it? Even though it has been argued that this Man here, as well as his wife, are materially if indirectly responsible for your deaths.

 **Finrod** :

We are.

 **Namo** :

And the rest of you are giving them your blessing?

 **Fingolfin** : [while his brother, sister-in-law and daughter-in-law nod]

Aye, for the sake of loyalty long given, and kinship, and true fellowship, even so.

Teler Maid

In thankfulness for fair gifts of words, of jests, and tales. -- And questions.

[she smiles knowingly at Beren and Luthien]

 **Warden of Aglon** : [lifting his chin]

For valour --

 **Ambassador** :

For love. -- And for regret.

 **Ex-Thrall** : [mysterious smile]

To raise a melody above the storm, for even a few bars --

 **Namo** :

And you, mortal, called Beren Barahirion -- you are prepared to let your friends place themselves at hazard yet again for your cause?

 **Beren** : [shrugs]

I haven't got a say in the offer of help. It ain't like it's something I can force them to take back, you know -- other than _asking_ them to. Which I did.

 **Aredhel** : [incredulous laugh]

Now I'm starting to believe these outrageous stories about him -- he sounds almost as arrogant as my cousin, if only Ingold had a hick Sindarin accent instead.

 **Beren** : [innocently, as his hearers (of all sorts) wince]

But you know the funny thing, Sir? People don't do what you want 'em to, always. Not even when it'd be better for them.

 **Namo** : [dry]

So I've noticed.

 **Luthien** : [cutting in before it can get in any worse]

It would be rather churlish of us to turn it down _now_ , wouldn't it?

 **Irmo** :

But --

[his elder sibling raises his hand for silence again, staring hard at Finrod and his cohorts]

 **Namo** : [levelly]

You really are prepared to forfeit even your pardon for your friends' sake?

[looking along their shield-wall]

You're prepared to dare our wrath for them --  _all_ of you?

[chorus]

 **Finrod** : **Aegnor** : **Angrod** : **The Ten & their Allies**:

 

Yes.

[there is a raucous, applauditory whistle from the background -- Tulkas and Nessa have returned and are looking very pleased with themselves.]

 **Nessa** :

You tell 'em!

[They wave cheerfully from the hill to Luthien and Beren. Tulkas is now too sporting a short beard. (There is also a pair of white fawns grazing on the rosebushes now.)]

 **Aule** : [headshake]

Oh no, not you too.

 **Orome** :

Whose side are you on, anyway?

 **Tulkas** :

Our side. _Us_.

 **Nessa** : [helpful]

The good guys.

 **Tulkas** :

That's right.

 **Orome** : [to Nessa, gesturing to his chin]

\-- You let him do that?

 **Nessa** : [shrugs]

We haven't decided if it's staying.

 **Orome** :

You make it sound like a stray animal that followed you home.

 **Nessa** : [looking at her husband]

Hmm . . . that's not such a bad comparison. That's all right, I _like_ cute animals.

 **Orome** :

It's a good thing, too, isn't it?

[his sister throws a grape at him]

 **Beren** :

He was doing that earlier, too.

 **Tulkas** : [snorts, with a dismissive wave of his hand]

Don't mind him. --  _I_ don't.

[confidentially]

\-- He's just sore because I had to save him and Nahar a couple times in the War, so he tries to get his own back in little ways.

[Orome glares at him, but doesn't respond. His sibling throws another grape.]

 **Vaire** : [severe]

You two are not setting the most decorous of examples.

 **Nessa** :

Sorry.

 **Namo** :

As it happens --

 **Vaire** : [still annoyed]

\-- And you've left all this --  _mess_  -- in my house.

 **Nessa** : [rolls eyes]

 _Sorry_.

 **Elenwe** : [looking at the roses consideringly]

'Tis not after mine own preferring, yet hath of itself a beauty free and singular for the untrammeled state of't.

[as they are speaking, another Elven-warrior fades in from the shadows and edges into the array, rather sheepishly, as if hoping not to be noticed, without any luck]

 **Captain** :

Look who's decided to join us --

 **Stranger** : [ducking his head]

Sorry --

 **Youngest Ranger** : [delighted]

Halmir!

 **Stranger** :

I thought better late -- than not at all.

[looks worriedly at the Lady of the Halls]

It's only -- after the business with the sconce, and what was said, and now -- more wargames -- but I couldn't help listening to the story, and -- I'm sorry.

 **Captain** :

This isn't a game, lad.

 **Stranger** :

Yes, Sir. I do realize that.

 **Captain** :

And it isn't _me_ you need to apologize to.

[the newcomer nods again; swallowing hard, he turns to Finrod and kneels, offering his sword-hilt]

 **Stranger** :

I'm sorry, Sire. I wasn't certain it was the right thing . . . and that -- made a good excuse for my resentment towards The Beoring.

[looks apologetically at Beren]

I know it wasn't reasonable, to blame him that his father was too late to save me -- and that it was always too late, I couldn't have made it back to the Tower, regardless of when they arrived.

[to the Youngest Ranger]

Thanks for trying, though

\-- I didn't mean to sound so unappreciative before.

[to their commander]

Please don't curse the rest of us, Sir. Not everyone can find it easy to make the same decisions as you.

[to their King]

I'm here now, at least, your Majesty.

 **Finrod** :

I understand.

[he places his hand over the veteran's as he accepts the renewal of fealty]

\-- Thank you.

[the Lord of the Halls clears his throat]

 **Namo** : [very acerbic]

If anyone could manage to let me finish saying something without interrupting . . . ? _Thank_ you. Now, we know you consider our deliberations to be not merely "endless" but also, "a waste of your time" and --

[Huan looks suddenly alert and starts wagging his tail]

\-- "pointless" as well, but nevertheless we _have_ reached to a decision, after talking to everyone involved and, might I add, listening (often at great and repetitive length) as well, and --

 **Nienna** : [interrupting]

\--  _Have_ you?

[stepping out of the shadows, in her first, mundane guise]

Are you _sure_ about that?

 **Irmo** :

Where have _you_ been, Nia?

 **Nienna** :

Busy.

[her Apprentice looks relieved to the point of collapse at her reappearance]

 **Aule** : [frowning]

Who else is there to ask?

 **Nienna** :

Someone who's been gone for a very long time.

[she pats her knee]

\-- Good boy. Come here.

[Huan whines; Luthien slides down off his back, and he moves forward, waving his tail as the Elf-warriors open the shield-wall to let him through. He drops into almost a "down-stay" in front of Nienna, with all the appearance of a dog who is just too well behaved to start bouncing madly about trying to get a lick in -- but only just, whining and wriggling as his tail thumps the floor.]

It's been a while since you Followed me, hasn't it?

[reaching over and rubbing his ears]

What have you learned, since you were caught by Melkor's monotony, and drawn free by the Call of the Hunt, my friend?

[he licks her hand, trying to shove his muzzle under for more pats. In a tone as of giving permission:]

Speak --

[in response to her words, Huan straightens, but stands with his head still hanging down, jaws parted in canine uncertainty]

 **Finrod** :

He doesn't seem to want to, I'm afraid. We're not entirely sure why.

[the Lord of Dogs looks over his shoulder at the Elf-king's shade, with that almost-human expression of half-perked ear that is as clear as a lifted eyebrow. When he replies, it is in a deep rich baritone, (he could be voiced by Christopher Plummer, (Waterloo, Star Trek: The Undiscovered Country) or equally Denzel Washington (Much Ado About Nothing)]

 **Huan** :

But it's so much clearer as a Dog. Everything is . . . stronger, more stark -- more _real_ , for us -- the joys no less than the sorrows.

[although they have been forewarned, his words leave his Elven listeners all taken aback, with more or less incredulity revealed by their expressions]

 **Finrod** :

But with words -- one can _express_ that joy and sorrow, and so much else besides --

[before he can say anything else, the Hound turns and whines, then paws gently at his feet before leaning his head over his shoulder, keening until the ex-King has hugged his neck and patted him]

Good dog, shh, there's a good boy --

[Huan pulls back, looking at him with head tipped to the side]

 **Huan** :

See? You understood me perfectly well, did you not? Without need of any words between us.

[he huffs a canine sigh]

That is how it was, at the Beginning of it all, and I -- I am yet easier with the same form of communication. To speak with _words_ , breaking down thought and deed into separateness, making thoughts that are together, _different_  -- I do not like it. Too easy to _deceive_ , even self, that way.

[looking towards the dais again]

And it was enough, and more than enough, when I was a pup, and after -- to _be_ , and in full measure; to do well those things that are a Dog's part: to chase what runs, to guard my People, to sing loudly. I never wanted more than that, and leave the choosing of trails to wiser souls than mine. Until the Darkness came, and we did not know what to do, Hound or Master, and joy died in the first Night of my breathing life, and we followed those who did know what should be done -- or what they _willed_ , at least, should be done -- and I did not question, any more than those who were said to be wiser than we four-footed followers made any protest, for the most part.

 **Finarfin** :

Yet did _some_ make challenge, dost not recall, good Sir Hound?

 **Huan** :

Indeed, and I said _for the most_. And so did the most of us follow _you_ , O Friend and Sire of my Friends, and did not stay to heel when our choice of Dooms was given us, but dove to shore or turned tail in the high reaches and their duty, it seemed, was then made clear to them.

[sighs deeply]

And I alone was left to go on, from the bright fields where I was whelped to the strange hills and the dark Wolf-haunted woods of the East, and there I found --

 **Amarie** : [sharp]

Thou spakest naught of Alqualonde.

[the Teler Maid doesn't say anything, but her expression hardens and she watches Huan closely for his answer]

 **Huan** :

What is there left to say, that has not already been said, O Mate of my Friend? I did not knowwhere was the greater wrong, and so did naught. Perhaps I did less wrong in that silence of action than others, who Sang Melkor's tune that Night --

[he looks at the Kinslayers present]

\-- but no less did I merit our Exile, than the rest, though it seemed to me my duty lay where it had always lain, at my dear Master's heel, to go or stay at his command, and protect him in all his battles, and serve him well in peace, whether he know it or not, and so someday to meet my Fate in the ancient lands. It was there I found myself, what I was born to be, bred and trained to do in the dales of Valinor, at long last the true Hunt, the long pursuit of our ancient adversaries, our littermates in the Song who chose the Dark, to raven and tear and rejoice in the rending --

[his voice becomes increasingly a snarl]

\-- and there I chased them and fought them again and again, as was our destiny, acted over our parts rehearsed in the Timeless Halls, down the nights and days of Middle-earth, driving them back from the dwellings of folk, as the darts of Moon and Sun drove them aside in the heavens -- I, the Great Dog, the Wolfbane, the Grey Hunter of the West, Huan Hound of Celegorm.

[sighing]

Those were good days, we were happy then, in the wild woods, and happier still when my People went away from the crowded water, so that there was none who might challenge them, no hackles raised in jealousy where there was territory enough for all. We fought the minions of our Enemy and kept the borders safe, and hunted the swift deer and the heavy boar through the sweet grasses of summer and the clean snows of winter, and all seasons between, and I no more thought on our Doom than any other soul in the Eastmarch. Not until the Night of Smoke, and the hours in which _we_ were the hunted, and no longer the hunters, and the bitter chase westward to a new dwelling.

 **Steward** : [troubled]

We thought you were happy, in Nargothrond.

[Huan's tail wags]

 **Huan** :

I was. I am a dog: there were old friends, that I had not seen for long days, and warm fires, and good food and clean water -- how could I be anything else?

[looking around]

It is not that we are fickle, but that each experience is so strong, that it leaves no room for any other. Of course I was happy, when you all did praise me and admire me and gave me tidbits from the tables, and sometimes even butter, and combed the burrs out of my coat and made much of me. What more could a hound ask for?

 **Ex-Thrall** : [reminiscent smile]

I used to brush you.

 **Warden of Aglon** : [reproachful]

\-- I worked you a collar of scarlet leather and reinforcing plates, to protect you in battle, don't you remember?

[the Hound goes up to him and gives him a quick swipe on the forehead, looking from him to the Ex-Thrall]

 **Huan** :

Of course. I didn't forget any of my dead. But I was born a hound, and our way is to live and joy wherever we are, unless the pain is _present_.

[turning back to face the assembled Powers]

I did not ever doubt that we would some day return home, in victory, nor that my People were wise enough to manage it, no matter how many more times we lost in the seasons that followed. My job was to hunt meat for our food, and the Wargs that would have devoured us, and not to rule. And so I did nothing, when the one who did rule was driven out, for the sake of one whose voice had a familiar echo --

[he looks from Orome to Beren, and back]

\-- though his spirit was a new thing under the Stars, and when my Friend was forced to leave our den, and his loyal pack stayed by him, I was not there. I only wept, as though howls were enough.

 **Finrod** : [earnest]

You weren't mine. _You_ committed no treachery, Huan.

 **Huan** :

Perhaps. But I stood by in idleness, and for that the blood of innocents was shed, again. You were banished, and we stayed where you had given us shelter from the cold and danger you now were forced to hazard. I knew that this was ill -- but it seemed to me no place of mine to judge, when my Master and his littermate had chosen, for never had I presumed to counter them before. Lament the way of the world, but serve -- that is a hound's lot, isn't that so?

[looking over his shoulder at Luthien]

But then . . .  _she_ came into my range, like a star fallen of such greatness that it burns in daylight, that smiths treasure for the making of their fangs of iron, but the cold flame of her did not quench, even in the caves, and it was like the old Days, when my Master's sire brought the Light within doors, and held it still or bore it there, for all to admire. But it was like that too, when hearts grew cold, and we went away and the Lights were locked in the dark, far under Formenos, not free to go out where there are songs and love and warmth, for my People kept her underground and cared nothing for her need, no more than for her cries of pain. No hound could be so cold-hearted, but my Master laughed with his brother, and sang, and rode forth without distress while the Lady wept. And none did speak, among the wise folk, none did seek to hold them nor turn them from their prey, as did my Master's dam when we all denned together.

 **Nerdanel** : [bitter smile]

Nay, what use, when nor I nor any might prevail in bygone Age?

[he gives her the slow, limited wag that is the canine equivalent of a hesitant, troubled smile]

 **Huan** :

At last I understood where the sorrow of the two-legged came from, when they would sigh in spite of the wind and the sky and the smells of the earth, and the lakes to swim and the swiftness of running. What matter any of these, when choice is hard, and all trails end in grief? It was not a knowledge I ever wished to understand, and for the first time in my life I knew what Fear was, for myself. No Wolf was ever more dreadful than the prospect of deciding what to do, where the choice lies only between wrong and wrong.

 **Aegnor** : [uncertain]

But you were always autonomous in Beleriand -- Cel never told you how to do things, everyone left it up to you to decide where to hunt and how to fight, for yourself and as leader of the rest of the hounds.

 **Huan** :

Even in the worst battles, there was no choice placed upon me, no true challenge to my spirit, for all that I was asked to do, was what I willed, in keeping with my place as Hound. To choose between this scent or that, to circle round in a fight or to chase down in straight pursuit -- those aren't _real_ choices, not as the choice between not following on, taking a wrong trail when the spoor is clear, or feigning a limp to stay behind when one is fearful or weary -- all those failings which fell under my authority as pack leader to discern and discipline, and counsel the failing beast -- nor even that task, for me, which asked for more of wisdom and discretion. None of that dragged me -- as now in Nargothrond I was so dragged by the scruff -- to question all that I had taken for solid footing, where my duty's trail lay, and in that asking, to _change_ , and become more than a Good Dog.

 **Finrod** : [keen interest]

To _remember_ what you were, before you took form in the Circles?

[the Hound's ears rise and he tilts his head, panting, in a canine shrug]

 **Huan** :

To remember, to _become_  -- I don't know. We change, entering Ea -- but not so much as that; who we were in the Before abides. I know in the first Singing how easily I was drawn astray, as a pup by the rich scents of spring thaw, from this to that to thence, forgetting all else -- until the dissonance about me hurt so much that all I might do was cry out, and make the discord greater, though I had no ears then to be wrung in their deepest hollows by it. I was not such as Nahar, to know my way, and my calling, from the first, to do one thing well and wisely in my fashion -- still less as the Burning One, to see so far in such clarity that no blast of shadow or tempting allure of bait could shake her; I was but a wandering spirit, though my heart was hungry not for power, of any mastery, but for love -- as I learned at last.

 **Angrod** : [looking at the Lady of Mercy]

I've got to say, old lad, I'm rather surprised that you were one of _hers_ , before you were a warrior for Lord Tavros.

[the Lord of Dogs wags his tail softly]

 **Huan** :

Why? Is that not a Hound's task, as much as to hunt with zeal and fight with fierceness for his People? To comfort with warm fur and wet tongue and sympathetic eye, when they are downhearted, as to cheer with leap and bark and foolish gambol? No dog ever wants to have to choose between friend and friend, or witness his People's sorrow and be unable to help it. It's enough to make one howl, truly.

[alarmed, the Teler Maid hastily straightens and braces the flag between her shoulder and her forearm so she can cover her ears]

No, don't worry -- I will not give way to sorrow again. But how could I lead the pack, when I would not follow the trail myself, but turned away from the scent in fear of what lurked at the end of it? To judge what I must do for myself, in a windy wasteland of uncertainty, where lay Good and where the darkness --  _judge my Master_  -- and then _do_? To fight against my temperament, my own nature, and leave myself behind? It was almost more than I could manage.

[looks at Luthien]

But I could never have kenneled with myself again, if I had refused to give my help. And after, when I returned to my former duty, and the cold halls of stone, where none thanked me or petted me or gave me looks other than of anger -- still I did not regret it, though my Master treated me with less love than his boots or his cloak or any other useful thing, and all others were too snared in their own thorns of misery to care for mine.

[he gives a thin sharp whine again]

 **Luthien** : [stricken]

Oh Huan, I'm so sorry. I didn't realize it was like that for you.

 **Huan** :

That, too, was no fault of yours, my Lady. No more did I unwish my choices after, and though I had regrets, they were not for my deeds, when my Master fell again, and I must leave my People, and find another. The joy of that love nearly healed the other wound -- but I knew it could not last. My Friend was mortal, and my Mistress loved him, and there was a web of Fate around them both, that drew them towards it the faster, and so it fell to me again to act, and to employ all my abilities, both dog and demigod, to avert so far as I was able the death that hunted them through the shadows. In some measure I succeeded, but not enough. Never enough. And so -- we are here.

[his ears droop sadly]

 **Namo** :

We did try to tell you. Though, being a Hound, you hardly have the same share of responsibility as the Elves who led you astray.

 **Huan** : [with a proud lift of his head]

But if I had not crossed the Sea, what would have happened thereafter? Who would have set the Nightingale free, when all the wise two-legged ones hid, shivering as if their coats were wet in autumn, and would not fight for her? Who else else would have served the brave huntsman with tooth and claw, who had no other friends in Middle-earth to stand by him? Who should have slain the Great Wolf, than whom shall be no greater, and tamed the Terrible One in his pride? My task was _there_  -- though perhaps another might have done as well, or wiser. But I was there, and no other.

[he drops abruptly "down" in the manner of a dog emphatically not going anywhere, and gives an ear-rattling headshake]

I would not take back any choice I made -- nothing but my reluctance to decide.

[silence]

 **Orome** :

So you're another one of these who thinks your disobedience was justified by the consequences, eh?

 **Huan** : [looking up from licking his forepaw]

Disobedience -- or obedience to a greater Call than yours?

 **Orome** : [snorting]

 _You're_ giving me redes and riddles? I was there when you were whelped, I gave you your first bath, taught you what your teeth were for, and _weren't_  -- and you're talking to _me_ about wisdom?

 **Beren** : [dry]

Be glad he's not calling you six kinds of stupid.

 **Orome** :

Yeah, but you _were_.

 **Beren** : [shrugs]

Can't argue with that.

 **Orome** :

 _That's_ a first.

 **Beren** : [innocently]

I always tried to be worthy of the Hunter when I was alive.

[Tulkas gives a whoop of laugher, and others have similar reactions, if more restrained.]

 **Nessa** :

He's got you there, Tav'.

[Before things can escalate:]

 **Namo** : [heavy emphasis]

This. Stops. _Now_.

[to Nienna]

How is this relevant?

 **Vaire** : [ _very_ tactfully]

Not that Huan's experience isn't equally valid and as worthy of being recorded as everyone else's, but why would you think it necessary to have the proceedings interrupted _yet again_ , for an account which does not differ substantially from those we've already heard?

 **Nienna** : [shrugging]

I thought it might be of some value, to be reminded that nothing is as simple, and no solution ideal in all respects, as we might wish it to be.

 **Irmo** : [faint, pained smile]

Sister, I don't think _any_ of us will ever forget the last time we tried to help three unhappy people get what each of them most wanted.

 **Nienna** :

There's more to it than that, Irmo. Should we not remember that all of us can err in judgment, and that none of us has perfect foresight, and good deeds have ill effects as much as evil ones the reverse, --  _before_ we start making decisions -- or trying to change another's mind?

[silence]

 **Namo** :

Indeed. -- Thank you for reminding us of that fact.

[the flat, detached tone of their conversation could be equally the remoteness of beings quite unlike ourselves -- or, on the contrary, the extreme deadpan irony of those who share a common private language as siblings often do. The Sorrowful One sits down on the lowest step of the dais, mirroring Elenwe's position, as her brother addresses his next remark to the Hall at large.]

We do hope that the result of all our debating will produce, on the whole, an outcome more positive than negative, and which will be equally acceptable to everyone concerned.

 **Finrod** : [stern]

You declare, my lord Mandos, that you are _not_ , then, about to forcibly part our friends, nor send Beren hence against his will and Luthien's?

 **Namo** :

No.

[glances at Aule's Assistant]

I See how you got that impression, but believe me, that's one precedent we're not about to start breaking now.

[Finrod gives a curt nod, his face still very serious -- but he gestures towards the Falls again, so the wave begins to subside, before folding his arms and waiting for explanations. The Captain sighs and grounds his spear, leaning against it it, and looks over at the Steward]

 **Captain** :

Go ahead and say it. -- Neither of us will be content, until you get it over with.

[grimacing]

 _I_ was overhasty, your reluctance was not unfounded, and our venture unnecessary, as it happened.

 **Steward** :

Was it, indeed? I am not entirely certain on that point.

 **Captain** :

Go on, _say_ it --

 **Steward** : [shrugs]

Very well. -- I told you so.

 **Namo** : [bland]

Finished?

 **Captain** :

Yes, Sir.

[mischievous]

For now, I promise.

[Finarfin puts a hand to his temple, trying not to smile]

 **Steward** :

Make the most of it, Holy Ones -- it won't last long, I assure you.

 **Namo** :

What we --

 **Assistant** : [sputtering indignantly]

But -- but, milord, you're not going to punish them?

[the Doomsman gives him a quizzical Look]

 **Namo** :

For what?

 **Assistant** : [outraged]

For insulting -- er, for insult to your great dignity, my Lord. For _rebelling_!

 **Namo** :

I don't think you understand the nature of my work. Sorting out every little dispute and hasty word spoken in an unrecollected moment is _not_ part of my public function -- for which I am extremely grateful. It's boring enough having to do it one-on-one in counselling sessions.

 **Assistant** :

But what about their rebellion?

 **Namo** :

What rebellion?

 **Eol** : [to Aredhel]

What did I say? -- Well?

 **Assistant** :

! ? !

 **Namo** : [shrugs]

There were misunderstandings. Some immoderate things were said in the heat of a long debate.

[taking a sip of tea]

It happens. It's going to continue to happen, as long as sentient beings continue to discuss things. Do you really think it's more significant to the Fate of the World than restraining and countering the effects and aftereffects of Melkor's ongoing power-grab?

 **Assistant** :

But the, the things they _said_  -- the insolence, the impertinence, the _threats_  -- the irreverence of their assumptions --

 **Namo** : [bland]

I do remember things you yourself have said in counsels, on occasion. -- All of them.

 **Assistant** : [stiffly]

I have always shown the utmost respect to my seniors and superiors, milord --

 **Namo** : [very dry]

Yes, I know. You _might_ want to reflect on your own role in this little drama.

 **Orome** : [to Aule's aide, sounding like this is a longstanding gripe]

You know what your problem is? _Your_ problem is, you've got no _field_ _experience_  -- you've never taken a hit, you've never lost a fight, you don't know what's at stake. You artisan types all think that gadgets and tricks are what wins wars --

[Aule looks at the ceiling in a give-me-patience way]

\-- just like _some_ _people_ think it all comes down to brute force -- but it takes more than weapons, or numbers, or even courage.

[grim smile]

You have to _choose_ your battles, know when to press your advantage, when to pull back, and when to stand to the bitter end -- and there's only one way to learn that.

 **Captain** :

By losing some of 'em.

[he matches stares with his former patron, the two of them in perfect understanding]

 **Orome** :

Yeah.

[with a wicked smile]

\-- Good job.

[aside, shoving away tears again]

Stupid brave kids . . .

 **Assistant** : [wailing]

But _I_ was on the side of the Law --

 **Vaire** : [all business]

Once you realized there was a conflict, _why_ didn't you check back with us and head off all of this --  _melodrama_? Why did you have to push _back_ , when you could so easily have resolved the tensions before it became this _knot_ you then presented us to unravel?

[withering for a moment under the negative attention, the Maia of Aule points dramatically to Nienna's student]

 **Assistant** :

But _he_ was here, abetting them all -- or at least not stopping them! Why isn't he getting reprimanded instead of me?

[the assembled Powers turn their attention to the disguised Maia, who lifts his hands in demurral]

 **Apprentice** :

But I didn't know _how_. -- Or if I even ought. And no one was about for me to ask, either.

[standing very straight and resolute]

So I made a judgment call. If I did more harm than good, by not interfering, then I ought to be reprimanded, and I'll yield to the wisdom of those older and more experienced than I. But I don't think I did, gentles.

[he looks inquiringly towards his Master, who smiles but doesn't say anything]

 **Assistant** :

What have you got to be so arrogant about? _You're_ the one being disciplined for erratic behaviour and dangerous tendencies, while I am a trusted and responsible servant of --

 **Irmo** : [sounding very stern, for him]

Neither zeal nor competence is _any_ virtue, if discretion and good-will are lacking, Curumo.

 **Assistant** :

But Sir --

 **Aule** : [warningly]

Enough. We'll discuss this _later_.

[the Lord of Mandos snaps his fingers and looks at his sister]

 **Namo** :

Nia. One thing I've been meaning to tell you -- and this just settles it. You've _got_ to take charge of these people. I can't keep running interference between Finrod and his hearthguard, and my lady. It isn't fair to Vaire -- or to me. From now on, I want you to be responsible for them.

 **Nienna** :

Oh.

[pause]

That's a great responsibility.

 **Namo** :

I know. You want to trade? The rest of mine, instead?

 **Nienna** :

No, thank you.

[sounding a little daunted]

What sort of responsibility do you mean?

 **Namo** :

Just that: they'll answer to you, and you for them, hereafter. I'm done with it -- there are too many others with claims upon my time, for me to spend so much dealing with the results of their . . . ideas. They're your lookout from now on.

[the Lady of Mercy looks pensive]

Intimidated by the prospect?

 **Nienna** : [shaking her head]

I just wanted to be clear.

[to the Nargothronders]

Is that acceptable? -- Are you going to make me regret taking your part?

 **Finrod** : [serious]

We don't _plan_ to, my Lady.

 **Nienna** :

That's all I can ask for.

 **Eol** : [cynical aside]

As if _that_ were any sort of inconvenience, let alone punishment --

 **Apprentice** : [ironic]

If you only knew.

 **Elenwe** : [smiling]

Aye, shall run them ragged, little doubt.

 **Aredhel** : [with an expression that leaves little doubt of her opinion of her sister-in-law]

What use would _she_ have for a bunch of fighters?

[the Youngest Ranger meanwhile is looking at Nienna with a mixture of pure admiration and thoughtful speculation]

 **Beren** : [to Luthien]

See, they're being pretty reasonable, especially when you think about the way people been behaving back home. We just had to get their attention --

 **Namo** :

Ahem. _If_ I might have a moment of your _wife's_ attention, please?

[Beren shuts up, with an amused expression, exchanging a glance with Finrod, who half-smiles, though he's still looking pretty daunting and scarily focussed.]

 **Luthien** :

All right. I'm listening.

 **Namo** :

After careful consideration, it's become clear to us all --

[raising an eyebrow]

\-- that the _anomalous_ character of your nature requires a . . . unique approach. None of the usual conditions apply; therefore the normal solutions are not applicable. You've lived as an Elf, for most of your existence, but that doesn't change the fact that you're equally Maia by birth, and you have, in demonstrable fact, begun to express that part of your personality in response to the challenges you have faced. As Melian's daughter, you have a right to live as Ainur, no less than as Eldar. The implications of this fact may -- or may not -- provide an acceptable solution to your dilemma.

 **Irmo** : [aside]

And _ours_.

 **Namo** :

\--  _And_ ours.

 **Luthien** : [taut]

 _What_ solution?

 **Namo** :

 _Solutions_. Which one you choose is up to you, though --

[glancing around at his colleagues and relatives]

\-- there's a strong general opinion as to which one you _should_ choose.

 **Luthien** :

What are my choices?

 **Namo** :

The first, and simplest option, is that you become one of us, and live here, in Valinor, as is your right.

[his hearers share surprised, uncertain glances]

 **Luthien** :

What's the catch?

 **Vaire** : [frowning]

Catch?

 **Apprentice** : [eager to be of help]

Not taken game, Ma'am, but an expression from Over There. It refers to the triggering device on a form of stored-energy mechanism called a trap, used to take game in absentia, you might say, to save time and effort on the part of hunters both mortal and Eldar, when recreational hunting is impractical --

[interrupting simultaneously, talking over each other]

 **Beren** :

Well, that depends what kind of a trap you're talking about --

 **Finrod** :

No, no, that isn't it -- the catch is what holds the trap _shut_ , so by your example it would refer to the device which _releases_ rather than impedes; the expression actually refers to a colloquialism for a door-latch, something which shuts in --

 **Aule** : [exasperated]

\-- But Ingold, those are the same thing -- in concept and form they derive from --

 **Finrod** : [cutting him off]

But linguistically --

[as Luthien clutches her temples, knotting her fingers in her hair]

 **Huan** :

[loud bark]

[chagrinned, the debaters break off]

 **Luthien** :

I mean, what's the _problem_ with it, and why might I wish to choose something else instead?

 **Namo** :

The _consequence_ is that you must become Ainur, if you so choose, _fully_ , and no longer remain in your inherently-unstable mode of being. With that comes the corollary that your past life will no longer be part of you, in the same way, when you have changed. You will not be Eldar any longer, but a god, and your earthly experiences cannot withstand that transformation -- there is no going back.

 **Luthien** :

What are you saying? You're saying something that I'm not getting --

[shaking her head in frustration]

What about Beren? What about _us_?

 **Namo** :

You will not be the same person who loves him -- or whom he loved. He will have no reason to remain here, nor you to hold him back.

 **Luthien** : [raising her voice drastically]

Why would you think that's going to be acceptable to me? You haven't heard anything I've said, have you? How could I be happy here if he's not?

 **Aule** :

You won't remember him --

 **Luthien** : [cutting him off]

What?!? You're going to make me _forget_ him?!?

[before the Valar can respond, their friends snap to attention, rallying about with a speed and alertness that gives the lie to apparent relaxation, the Teler Maid makes one of her horrible scowls at the dais, resulting in some confused return glances, and the hair goes up on Huan's neck as he starts snarling under his breath]

 **Namo** : [very patiently]

No one is going to _make_ anyone do anything.

[looking pointedly at Finrod until the latter gestures his cohort to "stand down" and generally go to an "at ease" stance again]

 **Irmo** :

Your . . .  _persona_ , for want of a better word, the . . . operative part of your spirit, as I'm sure you're well aware, is intimately affected by and contingent upon your physical self -- even when your physical self is no longer present, or . . .

[giving an apologetic glance towards the living Elves]

. . . even _extant_ , as in Dreaming or . . . death.

 **Aule** : [matter-of-fact]

Like two halves of a die, or mould: one implies the existence of the other, and requires it, even if the other half is lost or broken.

 **Irmo** :

I'd hardly put it that way, really. So mechanical, when we're talking about the most organic of unities --

 **Aule** : [exaggerated weariness]

You really make the most arbitrary division between things, my friend, and truly I'm afraid it cripples your Work, and Este's, insisting on regarding inorganic and organic as _categories_ on a level with matter and energy --

[this could clearly go on a long time if not stopped]

 **Vaire** : [loudly]

I have a _much_ better analogy, for our present purposes.

[her consort gives her a grateful look]

\-- Luthien, dear, think of the difference between mending or restoring a particular tapestry, stitch by stitch -- and undoing all the weft and then unharnessing the warp as well, winding the threads up and now, ready to start a new project -- nothing forces you to follow the same pattern now, because nothing is left to show it -- only the same raw elements are there as before.

[pause]

 **Luthien** : [morbidly curious despite herself]

What would I _be_ , then?

 **Aule** : [shrugging]

Whatever you wish. Most of us have our favorites, or those which are most useful in the course of our daily Work, but you might take a form like to your present one, or not. You could be anything under the Sun --

 **Apprentice** : [wistful]

\-- an Eagle -- or other avian --

[hastily shuts up, as the Smith gives him a Look at the interruption]

 **Aule** : [to Luthien]

\-- there's no limit beyond your imagination. Some of us -- 

[he glances wryly at the fountain]

\-- prefer not to be locked into any one form, alternatively, and you could if you so desired remain in a state of pure energy instead --

 **Nessa** : [leadingly]

But it's _fun_ being people.

 **Tulkas** :

Now, shh, you've got to be fair, girl --

 **Nessa** : [miffed]

I am. Look at us, we're _all_ being Children right now.

[Huan makes a short objecting yelp]

Except for the ones who aren't, sorry Huan.

[Aule clears his throat quellingly and keeps going valiantly despite interruptions]

 **Aule** :

It would in all probability be far easier and less confusing for you than being rehoused, and having to relearn all your prior abilities and senses, with the complication of double memories -- as well as, I grant you, being less work for _us_.

[Nessa goes to flick another grape, this time at her sister-in-law's sister's partner, but something goes wrong and it vanishes into a puff of mist or smoke along the way; she looks around suspiciously, but everyone is (apparently) preoccupied in the ongoing drama and she cannot spot the prankster. Nienna raises her eyebrows but says nothing.]

 **Luthien** :

You think I'm going to be all right with that? Taking all my past life and _myself_ away from me?

 **Namo** : [breaking in before she can really get going]

What makes you think it's any of our doing?

[she stares at him, not sure what to say]

 _You_ have been the one who has left behind everything that was your life, from the moment that you made a conscious, reasoned decision to go into danger and the outside world to help a friend, breaking with your family's policy of retrenchment and defense, and then took deliberate steps to overcome every obstacle in your way --

 **Apprentice** : [aside]

\-- and what obstacles!

 **Namo** :

\-- regardless of how many there were, and how many times you could have said, legitimately, that you had tried, to justify giving up, and how each one put you further at odds with and removal from your own people. We haven't seen anything like this in Ages. -- Even Fingolfin's boy was only doing what came naturally to him by temperament and long habit, when he went adventuring at last to save his friend, though that does not take away from the gallantry of it. Your effor --

 **Nessa** : [interrupting, hugging her consort]

It was just like when _he_ came dashing in to save us, out of Nowhere, when things were looking really desperate, and we thought it was all going to be broken up before it got started -- and I was just swept away in an instant before I had any idea who it was -- and crashed right through Melkor and his crew like a bolt of lightning, the way you kept coming to the rescue --

 **Tulkas** : [brushing off the praise]

Oh no, it was easy, no conflicts or nothing -- I didn't have to think about it at all.

 **Orome** :

Good thing -- 

[he shuts up at Namo's Look]

 **Luthien** : [through her teeth, in the low-voiced emphasis of not quite crying]

And your idea of a reward is to _take_ _him_ _away_ _from_ _me_ , and change me into something else that won't care and won't hurt because of it? I _don't_ _think_ so.

[the Doomsman sighs, and beckons her forward]

 **Namo** :

Luthien. Come here.

[after a moment, looking very combat-mode, she crosses the line, with reluctance -- and Beren, dragged along by the arm in a death-grip with her, to stand in between the ghostly ranks and the thrones, next to Huan. No objection is made to her choice of cooperation.]

Listen -- not just to me, but to yourself.

[he waits until her expression indicates that she's actually paying attention and not about to start yelling again]

With your song you brought tears to my eyes -- something which my relatives can tell you is a less-than-infrequent occurrence --

[Nienna and Irmo smile a little, bittersweet, and Vaire puts an affectionate hand on his shoulder]

\-- and have caused me to spend I don't know how much time trying to solve your problems for you. To the point of dragging the sovereigns of all Arda into the discussion, in hopes that we might be able to find you some resolution.

[he bows his head a moment, sighing, shaking his head a little as he goes on]

Do you have the _slightest_ _idea_ , how you've disrupted the framework of the universe, young lady? You've brought the Powers of the world to a standstill, and you really have no notion what you've done. Can you look at me and say, truthfully, that you are no more than the Elf-maiden you were born, in the vales of Middle-earth, when your presence shakes the very Circles about us all? Who _are_ you, Luthien Tinuviel?

[long silence -- she tries to answer him, and can't, several times, looking more and more daunted and wide-eyed with dismay. Finally she lifts her chin and says thinly, but with defiance:]

 **Luthien** :

Someone who doesn't want to be changed into a stranger.

 **Namo** : [gently]

You are the one who has changed yourself. Our job is to help you actualize that, no more. What you _cannot_ do is remain here as a ghost forever. You don't need healing, and you've nothing to learn; you're not planning or wishing revenge against any of your kin who have injured you, and you don't want to be _dead_ , either. You simply don't want the _consequence_ of being _alive_ _as_ _you_ _were_ , which is the pain of loss. This choice gives you freedom from that. You can have life, and freedom, and the safety to do and be whatever you wish -- everything that our people have in Aman, and more besides, in the knowledge that the Man you love is not suffering because of his love for you.

 **Luthien** :

Everything -- except for the one thing I want.

[laughing bitterly, she gulps back her tears and demands:]

What is my _other_ choice?

 **Namo** :

To accept the Gift of Men.

[she blinks in stunned incomprehension -- nearly everyone else is too shocked for words also]

 **Finrod** : [aside, astounded]

How . . . elegantly simple. I didn't think of that.

 **Luthien** : [disbelieving]

I can go with him? We can leave together now?

 **Namo** :

No.

[pausing briefly to get her attention]

You get the whole works. Mortality. To live on earth with him, for a while, and then to die and leave the Circles of the World forever.

[silence]

 **Luthien** :

So what's the catch?

 **Vaire** :

Child, did you _hear_ what he said?

 **Luthien** :

Yes, you're going to give me what I want -- what I've been asking for.

 **Irmo** :

But are those the same thing?

 **Luthien** :

Why wouldn't they be?

 **Nienna** :

Why, indeed?

[pause]

 **Luthien** : [in a smaller, defensive voice]

I understand what you're asking. -- Only I wish I didn't.

[she stands with her arms wrapped around her herself tightly. As all those who have heard her telling of their song now weigh in, one after the other, their tones should make it clear that living or dead, they are speaking as much to themselves as to Luthien]

 **Elenwe** : [going from dark and meaningful to light ironic]

Well ken ye how that I did choose, and should the same path tread again, were't so given me -- saving only other footing.

 **Amarie** : [with a smouldering Look at her own true-love]

Nor duty nor dereliction presenteth obstacle before _thy_ will in this, Daughter of Twilight.

 **Finarfin** : [pained smile]

 _None_ , sayst thou? Were the Lady mine own daughter, alas --

[shaking his head]

 **Angrod** : [gently]

\-- She wouldn't listen to you either. But to a better end than we, in either sense.

[he smiles apologetically at his father, who accepts the peace-offering in kind]

 **Aegnor** : [somber intensity]

Luthien -- don't make _my_ mistake.

 **Captain** :

\-- Or waste King Felagund's gesture; to say nothing of ours.

 **Steward** :

 _Don't_ jest now, for Pity's sake -- with your pardon on my presumption, milady --

[bowing his head to Nienna]

 **Ranger** :

He wasn't, Sir -- this time.

[to Luthien]

\-- Please, your Highness, you can't leave Beren _now_.

 **First Guard** : [confident]

Of course she can't. No more than we.

 **Teler Maid** : [earnest]

You were not beneath _any_ in his regard.

 **Nerdanel** :

As much to declare, he did hold _naught_ of higher estimation in's valuing than thee.

 **Warden of Aglon** : [frowning fiercely]

To come so far -- and to yield in the teeth of victory -- unthinkable!

 **Aredhel** : [scoffing]

He's but a Man, and they offer _you_ Aman!

[biting her lip, aside]

\-- and yet -- if our rulers were to decide this instant I'd been punished enough for them, and set me free of this place, alone --

 **Eol** : [sly]

\-- You'd be here demanding to be taken back again before sundown. I _know_ you.

[she strikes at him with her arm but he catches her hand and kisses it; she does not pull away afterwards, though they both engage in a highly-competetive and painful-looking grip as they hold hands]

 **Fingolfin** : [grim]

Yet there is much at risk, as well as to lose, no less than gain; and the hazard to you both, your distinctions of blood and age, must well be weighed before a choice from which there shall be no turning back.

 **Ex-Thrall** : [raw, uncompromising]

 _I_ chose security.

 **Second Royal Guard** :

We didn't, ever.

 **Youngest Ranger** :

 _Years_ don't make friendship faster, no more than kinship makes truer.

[smiles around at his friends, as calm and confident as any of his High-Elven bretheren (if not more so) now]

 **Warrior** : [rueful]

Or Ages wiser, unfortunately!

 **Third Guard** : [meaningful]

I remember thinking safety was to be found here, once.

 **Stranger** : [shyly making the joke]

\-- Valinor here, or _here_?

[his old comrades nod yes to both]

 **Ambassador** : [sadly]

Selfishness would have me urge you return _home_ , though I should not live to see it, for your lady mother's sake, and good Elu's, for so long as they might have you -- but you are lost to us, my Princess, I think, no matter how you shall choose.

[beset, Luthien looks imploringly at her elder cousin, who does not let her down]

 **Finrod** : [wry]

Cousin, there are many, many perfectly Good reasons for turning aside from your own desires --

[as his nearest and dearest stare at him, as if unaware of their keen focus]

\-- some better, some worse, it's true --

[switching from a light detatched tone to a very darkly-earnest one]

\-- but doing so purely to spare other people guilt and discomfort is not _any_ of them. You must not make this choice to please anyone: not us, not your parents, not the very gods . . . not even Beren. Choose in truth, for the right reason, or you'll regret it for all Time.

[silence]

 **Fourth Guard** :

\-- Beren, aren't you going to say something?

 **Aule's Assistant** : [cynical]

Why would he need to? One can guess how he'd argue, were he given leave to speak.

 **Soldier** : [seriously]

But he loves her. _I_ daren't.

 **Apprentice** : [pensive, troubled]

I have to admit I don't know _what_ to say -- I know too much about the Other Shore to want any friend back in that situation, and yet . . . what's important, what's to be taken for granted, isn't apparent to me any more. But -- if I trusted my own wisdom, I'd say -- take it and run.

[the Lord of Dogs shakes his head until his ears rattle]

 **Huan** : [dismissive]

Between love's duty, and pleasure in ease and safety? A hound's choice is always clear.

[meanwhile Beren is not attending but staring intently at Nienna, who is regarding him in turn with an expression of mild, pleasant interest]

 **Beren** : [quietly]

I met you once in a very dark place, Lady.

[her polite look changes to a slow, mysterious smile at his recognition of her in this guise]

 **Nienna** : [meaningfully]

 _Many_ times.

[Beren nods. He turns to Luthien, reaches his hand out to her as if to draw her back -- then turns it open, upward, as he smiles at her with brimming eyes]

 **Beren** :

Nightingales shouldn't be caged.

[she looks at him, and cannot respond]

Whatever you say, goes for me.

[swallowing hard, Luthien turns towards the dais again and addresses the Powers. (Note: in this sequence, which is essentially a soliloquy, the light is focused on her (on stage, it would be a discreet, filtered spot) to the dimming of everyone else while she speaks.)]

 **Luthien** :

You all seem to think I should fear mortality, fear the unknown, fear danger -- that I should long for more of what I've always known, and more so: the world unchanging, as far as it can be such, in our poor Marred time, and myself unchanging as well -- can you not understand? _That_ isn't what I'm scared of.

[holding out her hands, then bringing them together as if enclosing something]

To be held in Time like a wasp caught in amber, alone, for ever, surrounded by perfection, treasured as a rarity for my beauty -- but never seeing the one I love, never _doing_ , never to be _free_  -- that terrifies me more than the thought of death or torture or any weariness and slow hardship over days and years --

[she flings her arms wide]

Not even the Dark is as frightful as that . . . not the Shadow of Morgoth's kingdom in the North stretching over Beleriand, but the Shadow that's everywhere in Ea, even in my own heart -- the temptation to harm another, for his own good, and change myself into someone who cannot pity, -- for pity's own sake, or else my fear hiding behind a deceiver's mask of mercy: that fearing loss, fearing pain, I should grasp and take and lock the one I love fast into a form that I desire, hold and bind unchanging, and freeze my heart to stone, to ice, that his anguish and weariness might not melt me into freeing him --

[with a bemused, ironic smile]

\-- what _good_ is power, if it cannot give happiness, -- or freedom?

[passionately earnest]

No, I don't _want_ to suffer, to ever feel such agony as I did at losing Beren, that hunger, the lonely heartache that no one can understand who hasn't lived it -- but what I'm offered, here, this bliss of Aman where no pain or risk or loss will ever happen to me -- how could I take that? It's no different, can't you see? It's the same thing as it would have been, if I had wielded my magic to force some earthly immortality on him -- to heal him again and again, never to die beneath the Moon, just as if I were to demand that he be rehoused here, a thousand times, while I never grew old: only in a way it's worse --

[incongruously matter-of-fact, our Luthien from Nargothrond again]

\-- though of course it isn't, because if I let you send him from here, he wouldn't be tortured --

[intense again]

\-- but for me it would be. I would be giving up the power to love, to feel, to care along with the pain, becoming like Melkor himself, imprisoned in my own heart, afraid of loss, and losing _everything_.

[shaking her head]

That's no temptation.

[she turns and looks at her fellow Elves instead]

 _You_ understand, you who have lost, or thrown away, and now regret -- and you are united in judgment, that I ought need no judgment to decide, or little -- that honour and desire both point the way with no uncertainty or doubt. How can I tell you that it isn't that simple, choosing not only rightly but for the right reason, when it certainly looks like it?

[gesturing widely]

How much of what I wish, what I demand, do I want simply because I _have_ _wanted_ it, and been denied? They're right to ask me that, wise to question me when I would rather not question myself. There comes a point when one resists only because one has been resisted, and defiance alone becomes all its needed purpose. Have I come to _that_?

[sighing]

The only way to answer that -- is yet more questions. I'm good at asking others to face the truth -- so how do I stand up to my own regard? We've done little but battle now, for our time together, spent as much time it seems fighting each other as the Enemy, or more, very likely. What is it that binds us, when all's said and done, besides pride? Or not knowing what else to do? But that isn't enough, when the fight's over: one can't build a life on defying the disapproval of others, that's no footing to stand upon.

[with a somber glance at Aredhel and Eol]

Love that's no more than _possession_ , than the will to keep what's mine, because it's mine -- what's that but hunger, truly? Is it no more than a beast's desire for prey, that binds me to him, like a wildcat snarling over her kill, when some other predator is by? Or a jackdaw snatching off some bright strand of beads hung on a branch by one bathing, stealing and keeping for myself what I've no right to? If there's no more to it than that, it would be right for me, and best, to give him up, freely, to freedom, and content myself with what I am, always . . . and never face the cold, sharp truth: how much of it is merely _fear_ , hidden under pious duty and noble renunciation --

[she looks meaningfully at Amarie]

\-- fear that a life where love's but grasping desperation is what I'd find, if I chose the other path, and no matter how brief its span, the cold of it should be killing, more bitter than the air of Angband, with every heartbeat a reproach, every breath tainted with regret --

[slowly, almost reluctantly turning to look at Beren finally]

It comes to you, in the end, to you and me alone, as it was at the first -- and we, we are different people, you and I, than loved each other in that half-forgotten Spring. The leaves that were green then have fallen and died, carried away by Esgalduin to become unknown loam all down from Neldoreth to Brethil, and his waters are not the same either: new rains have fallen, snows have melted, and the tides of change swept unending, even over Doriath. And us too. You've hurt me deeply -- kept a great secret from me --

[glancing at Aule, who looks away, downcast, before resuming her solemn fixed regard of Beren]

\-- even if it was meant for my good, not from your pride or any wish to rival me, and if any of my words and deeds to you have matched yours to me, then I'm glad for my own pain, for you've passed a hell of a time, going by my own experience. At least we've got _that_ in common. I thought I could trust you, after Minas Tirith, and yet you fooled me and fled without my suspecting a trick, and _still_ you wouldn't learn, still you let your pride and feelings of Doom herd you to your death like a stag chased by wolves. And now, what's to stop you from making some similar choice, _again_ , always with the best of intentions? How can I trust you, Beren, after all the change that your battles have worked on you, when I hardly know you now?

[looks down, shaking her head]

In the end, that isn't the real question, is it? To trust you, or not? Rather, do I still trust _myself_  -- for it's my own judgment of you, not any proof you could try to give me, that I must rely on. Not daydreams, not foolish hopes that some chance will protect me from harm despite myself, and you, but that my Sight is true, my Vision of your heart the reality, however dimmed it has become in the mirks and fires of the World.

[lifts her head, staring off into the distance]

To _love_ , more than to _fear_  -- that's the secret, that's all -- so easy to say! and so hard, so unutterably hard to _live_.

[looking over her shoulder to Beren, profoundly meaningful tone]

\-- Wait for me.

 **Beren** :

Always.

 **Luthien** : [faint smile]

Not that long.

[looking up at the Judge of the Dead]

I know my own mind.

 **Namo** : [dispassionate]

You understand that this is the real thing -- you will return to the world you left, and there are no guarantees that your lives will be safe, or happy, or long, or that anything will go easier on you than it has before, once you leave our realm, and our ability to protect you?

[before either of the lovers can answer]

 **Finrod** :

There were _guarantees_? Guarantees were made, and I somehow missed them?

 **Namo** : [wearily]

\-- Finrod --

 **Finrod** : [going on as if he didn't hear]

Edrahil, do you recall any guarantees that slipped my notice? I can't imagine I was ever _that_ preoccupied.

 **Steward** : [shaking his head]

\-- Only the ones we are all _most_ familiar with, about living to regret it and dying horribly overseas. -- Unless, perhaps, there were guarantees made to Middle-earth of which I have never been informed.

 **Youngest Ranger** :

Not that I ever heard of, sir. -- Unless the Lady Melian . . . ?

 **Luthien** :

Mom never said anything like that.

 **Finrod** :

I didn't think so -- I _thought_ I'd remember. My lord, what guarantees are you speaking of? I'd be interested in --

 **Namo** :

\-- Finrod, _please_!

[glares at him. Finrod shrugs, as his father and uncle share looks of bemused sympathy. To Luthien and Beren:]

We mean that --  _as_ my colleagues have tried to make clear -- the exceptions we are making will take you out of our jurisdiction and place you back into the war-zone you have just left. We won't be able to assist you, once you're back in Middle-earth, beyond the ordinary means at our disposal.

 **Vaire** : [grim emphasis]

And even if no disaster happens, no matter the odds -- you will not have very long together. Thirty, forty, _perhaps_ _fifty_ , winters, and _then_ _no_ _more_ , permanently -- that's what you're taking, in exchange for what you're giving up.

 **Eol** :

If that. -- It would be just like them to offer you this "solution" and then -- once you'd so happily accepted and given yourself into their control, to send you back into some such disaster, so that your bargain was essentially worthless, and you pushed along without any further recourse or claim upon them, my young cousin.

[the other Elves are much more indignant at his insinuation than the Powers, though Nienna sighs and shakes her head]

[simultaneous]

 **Beren** : [solemn]

Oh, _they_ don't want me back here any time soon --

 **Orome** : [caustic]

Trust me, he's the _last_ person we want to see --

[they break off and Look at each other askance, one Hunter grinining wickedly, the older trying very hard not to]

\-- Punk.

 **Aule** : [ignoring Eol's slander, as do the rest of his colleagues]

Luthien, don't you realize that if you take this second chance, you will lose this world forever?

 **Luthien** :

I thought we'd already established that any "forever" that doesn't include Beren in it might as well be Angband, as far as I'm concerned.

 **Irmo** :

But have you not thought about the future? It is not only your own risk and doom that troubles us, but his, as it should trouble you: what will happen, how will you respond, if he should grow sick, or be injured, or old age strike him down in advance of you, and you be forced to care for him without even hope of his recovery?

[those immortal and Immortal, currently embodied or not, cannot help but look at Beren at these words -- the mortal shade is not fazed by any amount of attention, however, now.]

 **Luthien** : [giving the Lord of Lorien the Evil Eyebrow]

You mean like when he was in a coma for weeks? Or the last time he died?

[silence]

 **Aule** :

But Luthien, you also shall grow old -- and who can say, _how_ the weight of days will fall upon you, taking on a burden that no Elf ever has before, the _severing_ of your self from this worlds-realm which is part of mortality even before you leave it -- whether you will remain unchanged until the time comes to depart these Circles, or become in all things as one of the Secondborn? -- And if the latter should be the case, will your consort still value you the same? If even the affections of the Eldar can tarnish and fray --

[with a sad look at Nerdanel and the rest of House Finwe]

\-- do you not fear that his _love_ will prove as mortal as the rest -- and shorter-lived -- if you should grow frail and grey, no longer silver-voiced nor graceful, if your powers to enchant do not wisthstand the change, and make all your memories, and your generosity, and love itself, a cause of depression and hatred for the one who caused it? Men are fickle, Luthien, and human constancy unreliable, even if they cannot fully help it: there's ample documentary evidence in Vaire's spools.

 **Nessa** : [to Tulkas, but embarrassingly loud]

Fickle? _Beren_? Are they talking about the same person, or what?

 **Luthien** : [brightly]

You mean like when I was a bat-demon? Nothing in the world could be uglier than I was when I was Thuringwethil. -- Or weaker. And no one ever cherished me more than my husband did, on that journey while we were transformed.

 **Beren** : [aside]

The saddest thing was, you could tell she'd been beautiful once . . . but never happy. Never content.

 **Tulkas** : [whispering discreetly -- or trying to at least]

Does anyone know who she was Before?

[Nessa shakes her head with an unusually serious expression]

 **Vaire** :

I _think_ she was one of Varda's, but it was too early in the Music -- we never got to know her properly before she went over, there's no Record to scroll back to, and now she just lurks about in remote corners and _clicks_ at anyone who tries to talk to her.

 **Nessa** :

Give her time.

 **Vaire** : [a bit testy]

Well, we have to, don't we? It isn't as if there's an alternative.

 **Irmo** : [hurriedly, trying to head off another digression]

But at least you knew that it was only temporary --

 **Luthien** : [shakes head]

No. We thought that was it, that we were never getting out alive. We had no illusions that what we were trying to do was rational or possible, whatever Huan said to cheer us up.

[to Beren]

\-- I thought you made a very handsome Wolf, though.

[he ducks his head, embarrassed]

Beren isn't _superficial_.

[Aegnor turns away with a stricken look]

 **Captain** : [undertone]

She doesn't mean it that way, sir.

 **Aegnor** :

So what? It's still true.

 **Captain** : [uncompromising]

\-- Part. _Not_ all. -- Let the past remain so, my lord. The present is for doing, what's done for remembering. Don't mix them up. Or you'll have more to regret.

[before anyone can say anything else, a bright point of light appears in midair overhead, expanding in size and intensity to a blinding radius whose boundaries are a hungry, outward-reaching corona. A voice comes from it, female, furious, and with the overtones of a cutting-torch at full blast (could be voiced by classic firebrand actress Maureen O'Hara:]

 **Arien** :

\-- Where _is_ everyone? No one at mission control knows _what's_ going on or _where_ the Chief is -- everybody's _underground_ , how am I supposed to reach _there_? What's going _on_ , I ask you!?

[as the assembled company, regardless of ethnicity or embodiment, flinches collectively, the corona's flares calm down somewhat]

Oh. _There_ you are, Sir. -- Are you getting this?

 **Aule** :

We're receiving you loud and clear, Narya -- a little _too_ clearly, I'm afraid.

 **Arien** :

Sorry, Sir -- how's that?

[the radiance dims slightly, leaving a blazing circle with a brighter figure silhouetted inside, like a view of molten metal inside a smeltry, flickering and vaguely feminine, with eyes like glowing sparks -- and angry ones]

 **Aule** :

What's the matter?

 **Arien** : [abruptly]

You've _got_ to do something to stop him from drifting into my flight paths. That idiot _eclipsed_ me again! If I hadn't jinked Voidward like _that_  --

[snaps her fingers]

\-- I don't know what would have happened, but it wouldn't have been pretty. He bounced off the air-ilmen surface layer pretty hard but I don't think he's learned a thing from it this time _either_.

 **Aule** :

Is the ship okay?

 **Arien** :

 _Anar's_ fine. You'd better check out Isil, though. I moved as fast as I could but it was a close one. I've already shouted at him, but you know how he is, he doesn't listen, he just says "Sorry" and does it again the next time. I tell you, I've about _had_ it, you don't know how tempted I am, if it _wasn't_ the only Moon we have I'd _let_ him run into me next time and explain about it himself. I'm off Upstairs to report, but I want you to _do_ something -- anything, I don't care _what_  --

 **Aule** : [soothingly]

All right, all right -- calm down, Narya, I'll call him in and we'll have a serious conversation when he gets back.

 **Arien** :

Not that he's going to listen to _you_ either --

[she gives an exaggerated sigh and vanishes]

 **Beren** : [almost inarticulate]

That -- that -- was that ranting person --  _Her_???

 **Namo** : [looking into the depths of his teacup]

Only partially manifest, but yes, that's who you're thinking of.

 **Beren** : [looking at Luthien]

Okay, I know why your mom said Morgoth was scared of Arien now.

[glances towards the Thrones]

And it doesn't sound like I'd be winning any contest for most boneheaded, either, not with the Archer around. Stubborn, sure, but not stupid.

 **Teler Maid** : [puzzled]

Surely you have seen her, for you know that is the captain of the Sun?

 **Beren** :

Um -- never that close. I can't believe Isil still gets in her way.

 **Aule** :

We do have other concerns than your problems, if you hadn't realized.

[the mortal ghost shrugs]

 **Beren** :

Yeah, but _we_ don't, right now.

[as they stare at him]

Look, I'm sorry for being rude --

 **Irmo** : [aside to his sister, rueful smile]

Can you believe he was able to say that?

 **Beren** :

\-- but are you gonna let Tinuviel make up her mind, or not? 'Cause if you aren't then it isn't fair to give her a choice, if you didn't really mean it, and if you're not --

[shrugging]

\-- we've got places to be.

[he whistles shortly to Huan, (who sits up with gleaming eyes and anticipatory wagging,) and gives Luthien a mischievous wink, making her laugh despite everything, as he nods towards the distance]

 **Namo** : [curious]

Seriously, Barahirion -- do you really think this plan of yours has a chance of succeeding?

[pause]

 **Beren** :

Dunno, Sir. But whatever happens --

[with a jaunty grin]

\-- they'll be makin' some _grand_ songs about us, I'm thinking.

[dead silence. Even his best friends are appalled at what he just said, and who he's echoing. The Doomsman, however, just looks at him expressionlessly over his teacup, for several long seconds -- and then flings back his head in a loud guffaw. Everyone stares in astonishment, living, dead, Elf, god, or mortal, as the solemn Lord of the Dead gives in to laughter. When he finally regains control:]

 **Namo** : [shaking his head]

You two. In one day she's moved me to tears, and you've made me laugh -- things which have never yet happened in all of Time since the Beginning.

[sighing again]

Well. -- Luthien Tinuviel. You've made up your mind? You're _determined_ to choose mortality?

 **Luthien** : [quiet voice]

\-- No.

[lifting her head proudly, meeting his stare]

I choose --  _eternity_.

[reaching out her hand to take Beren's arm]

I will not let him go, where I cannot follow.

[silence -- broken by loud cheers, whistles, and clapping from Tulkas and Nessa, who are alternately applauding as at a sporting contest and hugging/shaking each other excitedly (and making her deer bounce about the hill in playful alarm)]

 **Nessa** :

I told you, I _told_ you! I told you so, I win!

 **Tulkas** :

Yes, yes, beautiful -- so did I, you know. -- What do I win?

 **Nessa** : [shruggin]

What do _you_ want? I know what _I'm_ winning.

 **Irmo** :

They really have gotten into this Middle-earth stuff, haven't they?

 **Orome** :

Eh. _Tell_ me about it.

 **Tulkas** :

No, you go first -- you bet first, and I bet second, so that means you won first, and I won second, right?

 **Steward** : [baffled]

But -- that -- that is _not_ how it works. You can't _both_ hazard on the same outcome.

 **Tulkas** : [blankly]

Why not?

 **Steward** : [agitated]

And one is _supposed_ to determine the object of the wager _before_ the bet is ended, or else it is not fairly made. Otherwise the participants do not know what they are in for, until it is too late.

 **Nessa** : [glancing sidelong at her spouse, snuggling]

Oh, we _always_ know _that_. -- Hey!

[waving her hand sharply for attention]

\-- congratulations on figuring it out. You've got a ways to go, but --

[grinning at the Teler Maid]

\-- she'll teach you to dance yet.

[with a little snort]

 _Took_ you long enough, didn't it?

 **Tulkas** :

So what? All that matters is getting there in time.

[loudly]

Hoy! _Beren_!

[as the mortal shade looks at him (jumping a little at the shout)]

Ain't that right? -- We Latecomers have to stick together.

[he raises his drinking-horn to them both, winking]

 **Luthien** : [impatiently]

So can we go now?

 **Namo** :

No.

 **Luthien** :

But you said --

 **Vaire** :

Now we have figure out how we're going to manage it.

 **Aule** :

We know it's _possible_ , or we wouldn't have offered you the choice. But no one has ever attempted this before.

 **Irmo** :

You really don't want us to make any mistakes, do you?

 **Namo** : [bland aside, looking into the depths of his cup]

You mean "more mistakes," surely.

[most of the Noldor have the grace to look a bit embarrassed]

 **Apprentice** : [trying to cover, diplomatically]

Besides, what's the rush? Not as though you had any irons on the fire to be watched under one roof, right?

 **Aredhel** :

 _What_?

 **Apprentice** :

Did I muddle a metaphor again?

 **Angrod** :

Several.

 **Irmo** :

It's partly a matter of figuring out the differences between rehousing Elves, and rehousing Men, and partly a matter of power -- timing is also a factor, in making sure that we have all optimum cosmic forces Working together for us.

 **Orome** :

You don't think we want you around any longer than necessary? Who knows what you'll think up next.

 **Luthien** :

Well, I suppose that's better than nothing.

[Beren, eyebrows raised, takes hold of her shoulder and turns her to face him, leaning his forehead against hers]

 **Beren** :

No, no -- Tinuviel.

 **Luthien** :

\--  _What_?

 **Beren** : [eyes filled with mirth]

" _Thank_ _you_."

[she glares at him for a moment, before reluctantly smiling, very wry, and turning back to the dais.]

 **Luthien** : [sulkily amused at herself]

Thanks.

[pause -- she lowers her eyes demurely and then looks up at the Doomsman and his fellow Powers with a smile of sincere gratitude and understanding]

\-- A lot.

 **Assistant** : [grumpy aside]

Don't look so pleased with yourself, even if you did get away with your bluff. It's _inappropriate_.

 **Finrod** :

We weren't bluffing.

 **Assistant** :

! ! !

[gestures towards them in "can you believe this?" appeal to his superiors]

 **Finrod** : [smiling]

Merely reasonably certain that the Wise of Arda would find their way to doing the right thing and make such extreme measures quite unnecessary.

 **Orome** :

Condescending as ever, I see.

 **Finrod** : [affronted]

That was a compliment. _When_ have I been condescending?

 **Aule** :

When _haven't_ you, lad?

 **Namo** :

Oh, let's see. -- What about when you told me you were _sorry_ _our_ _feelings_ _had_ _been_ _hurt_ by the rebellion?

 **Finrod** :

I wasn't --  _How_ was that being condescending?

 **Vaire** : [heatedly]

Oh? Should I go pull up the threads and show you?

 **Namo** : [staccato emphasis]

Reducing the whole of our response to you people's accusations concerning _prisons_ , _slaves_ , _pets_ and the insinuation that we robbed you of your territory in order to replace you with the -- ahem! --  _more_ _docile_ mortal species, to a matter of "hurt feelings" -- ?

 **Finrod** : [genuinely baffled]

I merely meant that I finally understood how you must have felt when we rejected your gifts and service with sarcasm and resentment.

[pause]

I'm sorry you misunderstood me.

[the Valar look at each other; Nienna covers her mouth with her hand]

 **Ambassador** : [half-aside]

He is after all Noldor, gentles, or fractionally so, and one must make allowances. _We_ always did.

[Elu Thingol's three nephews all wince a little, though there is a good deal of amusement from their friends and relatives]

 **Finrod** : [rallying]

However, my Lord, as it happens, I _do_ have a matter to take up with you. -- Why did you not inform us of the drastic changes to our homeland, if we were intended to return thence in the near future? That seems a lamentable oversight, though some would no doubt ascribe it to unworthy vindictiveness (but I'm not one of them) and I do wonder that you said nothing. You _might_ have mentioned something about it earlier.

 **Namo** :

I did.

 **Finrod** : [politely adamant]

No, I'm sure you did not, Sir, I'd remember it if you had.

 **Namo** :

Correction. I tried. -- Don't you remember interrupting me to inform me that of course things were different, after all you'd deduced shifts in language even before you'd encountered them, and did I think you were that ignorant, really? before resuming your explanation of why Melkor's former court favorite is still going to be a Dragon even when the Universe is put to rights, according to the system you've delineated for us, and how the perfection of the hexatonic chord indicated a transcendent quality in those capable of hearing it which supported your views on the eternity of spirits?

[sloshing his teacup meditatively around]

Not to mention that your _retinue_ inevitably cut me off with complicated explanations about why they weren't responsible for some other act of mayhem that I hadn't even brought up, yet, before vanishing.

[the Ten look slightly embarrassed; Finrod rueful]

 **Finrod** :

I'd _like_ to say I don't . . . but I'm afraid I can't.

[self-amused smile and shrug]

\-- Sorry.

[Luthien clears her throat]

 **Luthien** :

Are you _ever_ going to get started?

[Beren shakes his head, trying to keep a straight face]

 **Namo** :

Presently.

 **Aule** : [sighing]

Patience is a virtue, as I'm sure you are well aware, Luthien.

 **Irmo** : [small laugh]

Not one that runs in her family, though. I remember an assistant of mine who couldn't wait until the Children arrived but had to go off and see the Elves for herself, even though the Enemy forces had barely been put down and it could hardly be called _safe_ over there yet.

 **Luthien** :

So? What are you all waiting for?

 **Namo** :

The arrival of certain of our colleagues whose experience and Art will be particularly helpful, and who should be arriving about --

[Yavanna and Vana (in their mundane guises) stroll through the hall door, arm in arm]

\-- now.

[Vana breaks away from her sister and runs to her husband, leaping up and clinging to his neck, swinging off before sliding under his arm, leaning against him with her own around his waist. The Hunter's sardonic expression vanishes and is replaced by one of fond delight and admiration. Yavanna follows more sedately, looking around the room with a bland expression]

 **Yavanna** :

What happened to all the furniture? -- Oh, but I _like_ what you've done with the floor, Vaire.

[Nessa smirks as the Weaver rolls her eyes, suppressing a smile. The Earth-queen looks over the assembled company with friendly interest -- and winks outrageously at Beren. To Namo:]

I understood from your message that you need _our_ humble assistance? That you've a problem that no amount of pure logic or technology or good will alone can fix?

[her mild tone fools nobody]

 **Namo** : [just as bland]

That's correct.

[smiling sleekly, Yavanna comes to stand next to the Lord of the Earth, who gives her a worried, hopeful Look]

 **Aule** : [apprehensive]

How are you doing?

 **Yavanna** : [airily]

Oh, I went to the coast and eroded cliffs for a while and then Uinen and I got together and had a good cry, and then I went for a long walk. -- Oh, and look at what I found on the beach --

[she takes out a pocketful of smooth stones]

They feel like amber, but they look like white jade. I thought maybe you'd know.

 **Aule** :

It's definitely petrified -- it isn't jade, but you're right, it doesn't really seem like amber either. I wonder what it is . . .

[hesitantly]

\-- I could make you something with them, if you'd like -- ?

 **Yavanna** :

Good, I was hoping you'd say that.

[rubs it on her sleeve and brushes it against his hair]

See? It charges up like amber, but it's completely opaque. I was thinking gold, not silver, and I don't know if it should be carved or not.

 **Aule** : [very placating]

I think it _could_ be, but I'm not sure if it wouldn't look better to leave it as it is -- there's a very nice natural polish to it . . .

[Finrod notices what they are looking at and goes over]

 **Finrod** :

Can I see? -- Ha, look at that, it's winter-amber. It's very rare, because it needs low temperatures to cloud up like that, but if it's too cold then the sap doesn't flow at all. It only happens with sudden fronts coming in -- it can't freeze straightway, either, or the crystals don't set properly. I tried making it once, but it didn't come out right.

[simultaneously]

 **Aule** :

How?

 **Yavanna** :

Why not?

 **Finrod** :

It was all the same, all the way through, and it just looked _dull_. Even though it looks like it's all the same colour now, it's actually about a hundred different shades, at least that I could measure, only I didn't realize that until I'd made some. You see, it seems totally random, but I'm almost certain that it isn't at all, but more complicated than anything we've ever done. I started mapping it out and the results looked a lot like cloud formations, which suggests some kind of fluid process to me, but I didn't have time to keep up with it . . .

[His family and friends watch him explaining what, given enough time and attention, could become fractal geometry.]

 **Angrod** : [shaking his head]

Look at that, would you. There he is, lecturing the Lord and Lady of the Earth on how Arda works. He doesn't even seem to notice how _wrong_ that is.

 **Nerdanel** : [softly]

And no more do they, hast not marked? -- Belike should we have paid more heed unto _them_ , the whiles less unto our own notions. We shall have honored them in the ways _we_ deemed most fitting -- and _he_ standeth to and doth argue even as to ask and yet museth on what's passed and doth return and argue full measure more. And whilst all of us stand in great amaze before such manifest disrespect -- he receiveth that which hath requested. If any be wrong -- I think it be not _him_.

 **Aegnor** :

He's completely crazy,you know.

 **Elenwe** :

Belike that be'st prerequisite.

 **Amarie** : [keenly attentive]

For which?

Elenwe:

For to be a demiurge. -- Wherefore they get along so well . . .

 **Namo** : [loudly]

Well, now that we're all here, we shouldn't dally.

[aside]

Otherwise we'll keep hearing about it from somebody.

 **Warrior** :

Excuse me, Holy Ones.

[the Powers wait for him to speak]

Don't you think you might see your way to restoring Beren's hand? Surely that isn't too much to ask, for what he's done?

[pause -- the Valar look at each other sadly, as the mortal's friends share apprehensive but hopeful glances]

 **Aule** :

I fear it is not likely.

 **Finrod** :

Why not? Why should it be harder for a mortal, than for us?

 **Vaire** :

It isn't a matter of power. We can only work with what we're given.

 **Irmo** :

Your friend is strong of will and holds the image of himself in memory so clearly that to reknit from that pattern will be far easier than for many another who yet reside within these Halls, whose memory is not healed. But by the same token that pattern is fixed as it was before he died, both marred and healed. We cannot change that, unless he himself can.

[Yavanna meanwhile says nothing, but she shares a long Look with her Champion]

 **Warrior** : [crestfallen]

I'm sorry, Beren, to raise your hopes. You were right before.

 **Beren** : [gently]

That's okay.

[raising an eyebrow, with that defiant, jaunty grin]

Just have to be _twice_ as good, is all.

[the Hunter chuckles dryly; Vana smirks and blows a kiss at him]

 **Luthien** : [challenging, like someone driving a hard bargain]

We _will_ remember ourselves, won't we?

 **Irmo** :

Of course. You're being rehoused, not reborn. There may be some temporal dislocation -- almost certainly -- but though intense at first, it should be of short duration.

 **Luthien** : [looking worried for the first time]

It won't hurt him, will it?

[her bearing is very protective towards her consort]

 **Namo** :

No more than your first enfleshment.

 **Luthien** :

Oh. That's all right then. We all managed to get through birth, after all.

 **Beren** : [bemused]

You all really remember that far back, huh.

 **Fourth Guard** :

Being born. -- Not conceived; that was the jest.

 **Youngest Ranger** : [deadpan]

Speak for yourself.

[the Warden of Aglon looks very much askance at their cheerful banter, not to mention bewildered, as much as at the Powers' indulgence]

 **Finrod** : [sternly, putting a hand on Beren's maimed wrist]

And he _will_ be healed, otherwise, when you send him home? He will not suffer anything further from the injuries which killed him?

[the Lady of Spring looks suddenly fierce, like an angry goldfinch]

 **Vana** : [very offended]

Of course! And not -- we Make things properly. Don't you _dare_ say we'd do a shoddy job putting them back together!

 **Nessa** : [flips another grape at her sister-in-law]

Calm down, girl, he's only worried for his friends.

 **Irmo** : [reassuring tone]

And with so many of us working together, dissonance will be damped to the utmost minimum.

 **Luthien** : [somewhat mollified]

Well. I just don't want anything more happening to him, whether it's my fault or not.

 **Vaire** :

Nor do we.

 **Beren** : [offhand]

I trust you to be careful with us. You're doin' okay so far.

 **Aule** : [aside]

I'm not sure which of the lot of them is most patronizing.

 **Vana** : [playing with the grape as if it were merely clay, drawing it out into a rope]

He's _teasing_ us, can't you tell?

 **Yavanna** : [leadingly]

There are _other_ aspects of renewal that are not unlike birth, as well.

[she gives Beren a knowing look, and he starts to grin and look embarrassed, trying hard not to]

 **Luthien** : [curious]

What?

 **Yavanna** : [arch]

Oh -- the freshness of dew, the first touch of warming daylight, the soft stirring of the wind's breath on stretching limb, playing on hair and skin --

 **Beren** : [losing both battles]

She means no clothes.

 **Luthien** :

Oh? --  _Oh_.

[trying equally unsuccessfully not to smile at his discomfiture]

Oh, poor you.

[giving his arm a little shake]

You don't need to feel awkward: Beleg and his team cut you out of your gambeson to perform field-surgery, remember. And Mom's assistants helped us lay you out. No one's going to think you're being deliberately disrespectful, or stare at you for being made different from us.

 **Beren** : [closing his eyes]

Reminding me that most of the court of Menegroth has seen more than enough of me already doesn't exactly make me feel better.

 **Luthien** : [shrugging]

Well, then, we can just pretend it's a swimming-party.

 **Beren** : [solemnly]

You go right ahead and do that.

 **Luthien** : [sighing]

I'm not sure why you're so worked up about it. -- Personally I think it will be very _nice_ to see you not half-starved or beaten to a pulp or bleeding to death for once. Since everyone says human memories aren't as clear nor permanent as ours, _I'm_ going to make the most of it and enjoy every opportunity.

[he breaks down & can't help laughing]

 **Beren** : [embarrassed plea]

 _Stop_ it.

[ducking his head against her shoulder]

 **Luthien** :

But it's _good_ to see you smile. I've _missed_ you.

 **Captain** :

"We only embarrass you for your own good." -- I like that.

 **Teler Maid** :

But why -- ah, but 'twas said, his folk are possessed of an uncanny shyness.

[she looks at the mortal curiously]

 **Ex-Thrall** : [dispassionately]

There is also a different meaning, in the Marred lands, in the language of War, whereby _undress_ signifies _unhousing_  -- the power to take from you all that is you, and leave you without protection or shelter, without going so far as to take away your life, and thus your power to labour in the Seen realm for the one who has defeated you.

[the Valinorean Eldar are dismayed at the concept, but not completely shocked, by this point]

Moreover it can be repeated many times, such involuntary disvesture, as corporeal destruction -- fortunately -- can't. Between severing and lasting shame -- I do not find much to choose. Much has changed in the usage of our Sundered speech.

 **Teler Maid** : [shivers]

Oh.

[though saddened, neither of them is now incapacitated by the issues of violence]

\-- Sorry, Lord Beren.

 **Steward** : [steering the topic to safer depths]

Moreover, the climate and weather are vastly harsher and far more _uncertain_ on the other side, no less, so their customs differ from practical causes.

 **Third Guard** :

Poor Beren -- it's a good thing they're going home to Doriath, not staying in Valinor. He'd spend half the time being too embarrassed to speak to anyone.

 **Beren** : [sighing in mock-exasperation]

No, it's okay, I already figured that Westernesse was more of a clothes-or-bodies-optional place. I'm not a _complete_ hick. I know there's different customs in different realms -- I've _seen_ some of 'em. And you know, I just don't think whether you wear one tunic or two or none is quite on the same level, as serving _people_ for your main course.

[disconcerted silence from living, dead, and Immortal]

 **Namo** : [raising his mug in a slight toast]

Good point.

 **Beren** : [to Luthien, thoughtful frown]

I don't think you've maybe thought about it all the way, though. How's it gonna look, after everything else? I mean, each time we show up, it's with a little bit less. _You_ get to do the explaining this time, 'cause this is getting old: "I had a country but I lost it -- , I had a Silmaril, and another hand, but I lost those" -- now we don't even have the rags on our backs, and you're mortal. This'll be _fun_.

[Luthien starts to look a bit chagrinned]

 **Luthien** :

It won't -- be like that . . .

 **Beren** : [manic humour]

I mean, yeah, on an _objective_ level, clothes aren't on the same rung as a country, but in terms of what's obvious at a glance, nobody seeing us when you brought me home the first time would know that I lost my realm, sure they wouldn't say _outstanding_ _success_ but it's not like you can tell I had a lot of property once and the same thing for the Silmaril. I could have _always_ been a loser instead of a really spectacular failure, for all they could see.

 **Luthien** : [getting very embarrassed now]

Oh, _stop_ it.

 **Beren** : [lifting his right arm]

Even this wasn't obvious at first. Showing up mother-naked'll be kind of hard to disguise, though. I don't think anybody's gonna miss _that_.

 **Luthien** : [through her teeth, trying not to smile]

 _Beren_  --

 **Beren** : [shaking his head]

"Hi, it's us again, do you happen to have another spare tunic I can borrow permanently for starters?" -- I'm not even wanting to _think_ about what he's gonna say this time.

 **Nerdanel** : [aside]

Nay, shalt have no words, I vow, for very tears.

 **Beren** :

All I'm saying is, _you_ get to come up with the story this time, 'cause walking up to your parents wearing nothing but daylight -- I am _not_ going to be able to say anything at all appropriate.

 **Luthien** :

Yes, but are you going to be able to _not_ say anything _in_ appropriate?

 **Beren** : [raising his eyebrows]

To your dad? The way things have been going -- you'll probably have to forcibly prevent me.

 **Luthien** :

Then I'd better practice, hadn't I.

[she gives him a silencing kiss, to the amusement of their friends and the raucous applause of the Dancer and her Husband.]

 **Elenwe** : [to Luthien]

In all thy praise of this thy true love thou didst not show how mirthful and lightsome he, no less than witty.

 **Beren** : [dryly]

I'd be surprised if she remembered, the way I've been acting.

[straightfaced]

I'm Beren Barahirion, by the way --

[bowing towards the Vanyar shade]

\-- I don't think we got introduced in all the chaos.

 **Elenwe** :

I hight Elenwe, that had Turgon Fingolfinion to husband, in happier hour.

 **Beren** :

Oh. Hey -- you're the Lost Queen of the Lost City!

 **Elenwe** : [bewildered]

Nay, I ne'er did reign in any land saving only mine own hall.

 **Beren** :

But you would've been, if you had.

 **Elenwe** :

. . .

[she nods a little uncertainly; the Ten share grins]

 **Eol** : [to Aredhel]

And of course the High Elves failed and continue to fail to introduce myself _or_ you, now that you've lowered yourself to my level, you notice.

 **Aredhel** :

I'm _not_ unaware of slights, thank you.

[Fingolfin sighs]

 **Ambassador** : [aside]

No, we are -- all of us -- merely unwilling to admit the connection.

 **Beren** : [looking between them to Luthien and House Finwe]

Let's see -- family resemblance, family resemblance, slightly crazed air of pending violence -- yup, you must be my lady's cousins from Nan Elmoth. I heard about you, you might have heard about me. I'm Beren.

[the Princes grin; Fingolfin clears his throat and tries to look elsewhere (that is, as if _he_ was elsewhere.)]

 **Aredhel** :

Impertinent whelp.

 **Eol** :

Just ignore him, -- he'll go away soon enough.

 **Vana** : [eagerly to her sister]

You know, if we followed my suggestion, it would solve that problem too --

 **Yavanna** : [quellingly]

No, it really wouldn't --

 **Beren** : [giving the Ever-Young a Look both amused and wary]

 _What_ suggestion?

 **Namo** :

You don't want to know.

 **Orome** : [snorts]

Oh, like that ever works!

 **Luthien** :

Know _what_?

 **Vana** : [blithely]

 _I_ thought we could reuse your original bones, instead of starting from scratch. That would save us a lot of work from the start, and your clothes would still be around you.

 **Yavanna** : [mild exasperation]

Sweetheart, _no_. You only think about _beginnings_ , but I have to think about _everything_. By this time their garments won't be in much better shape, and any residual organics will probably be consumed in the reconstituting energy, regardless. There's more to earthly life than _growth_ , even if you don't like dealing with those aspects.

 **Vana** : [pouting]

You needn't talk down to me. You're not _that_ much older than I am. -- And I still don't see why it wouldn't be better, at least for making it _easier_.

[she switches the now-leafy vine in her hands petulantly]

 **Yavanna** : [patient]

Because lots of beings, not only large carnivores but also your mice and even smaller life-forms, make use of skeletal materials. The amount of energy saved by recycling in this instance won't be as significant as you think.

 **Aule** :

Not to mention the necessity of moving large volumes of inert displaced fill to open their -- what's that word? barrow?

[glances at Finrod, who nods affirmatively]

\--  _barrow_ , and more than likely canceling out altogether any savings over rebuilding and transferring in the open, Vana.

 **Beren** : [grimacing]

Okay, you were right, I really didn't need to think about all that.

 **Namo** :

Told you.

[the Ever-Young looks disappointed, frowning down at the grape-leaf garland taking shape as she continues working with the organic material]

 **Yavanna** : [trying to console her]

It's not a _bad_ idea, but it's better for _symbolic_ reasons -- and to forestall any confusion or challenges regarding identity.

[the living Eldar are not completely thrilled with the turn the discussion has taken, either, particularly Amarie, who sways a little, automatically reaches out her hand to the nearest shoulder to steady herself, and quite fails to connect with the Royal Guard in front of her; with a start she pulls herself together, taking several deep breaths, and tries to look dignified and unaffected. Nienna leans across and taps the Doomsman on the knee; he nods]

 **Namo** : [rising]

Let's go finish this properly, in a place where we can work without quite so much interruption.

[to Vaire]

Dear, while you're all working out the physical processes, I'm going to make another quick sweep for our stray.

[she nods, patting his shoulder, and he vanishes. With a wry smile she dismisses the mug left behind on the arm of the Throne -- then glares dauntingly at the Elven shades.]

 **Vaire** : [ominous, with a hint of power]

 _Stay_ _away_ from the Loom while I'm gone. --  _Far_ away.

[snorts]

That goes for _you_ too. -- And you.

[vanishes]

 **Aegnor** : [dubious, meaning his eldest brother]

You weren't trying to take it apart, were you?

[simultaneous]

 **Luthien** :

Just _looking_ at it --

 **Finrod** :

Not take it _apart_  --

[they break off, with guilty grins, as Beren looks at the ceiling, and the Princes shake their heads, giving their elder relatives apologetic looks]

 **Assistant** : [to his boss]

Sir, you will be needing my help, of course?

 **Aule** :

No, thank you, I think not, this time.

[aside to his wife]

I admit I didn't expect this outcome -- it rather surprises me.

 **Yavanna** : [raising an eyebrow]

Surprised that _Melian's_ daughter should give up safety and peace and paradise, for a life of adventure, risk, and the one she loves? -- Why on earth?

[he smiles acknowledgment and carefully, courteously takes her hand and kisses it]

 **Tulkas** :

Hey! Do you need us for this?

 **Nessa** :

What he said.

 **Namo** :

Well, let's see -- do you have any experience that would be relevant to the problem of rehousing humans?

[raising his eyebrows, the Wrestler shakes his head, as does Nessa]

 **Irmo** :

Will you get bored halfway through we've even begun, the way you usually do when people are talking about healing -- or anything that isn't sports or war or parties?

[Tulkas gives a shrug, admitting the probability]

 **Aule** :

Then no, I don't think we need to have you fidgeting in the Mahanaxar, really.

 **Orome** : [patronizing]

\-- When we need someone or something hit, we'll let you know, don't worry.

[they vanish. The Smith's Assistant sits down on the far edge of the dais, looking cross and resentful, his arms folded. Nessa and her spouse nudge each other and chortle in glee]

 **Tulkas** :

We got out of that one, didn't we?

 **Nessa** : [earnestly]

\-- Not that we don't want to help you, but we're not very good at technical things, we're better at making things _happen_ , so you wouldn't want us involved, really.

 **Beren** :

I thought you already did.

 **Nessa** :

Well, that too.

[frowns]

\-- How did _you_ know?

 **Beren** : [nonchalant]

I kind of got that impression from stuff people have been saying to me. -- Especially the stuff the Lady of Spring said about her sisters, and the Earth-queen about us being your type of folks.

 **Tulkas** :

Dead giveaway, huh?

[his wife elbows him hard]

 **Nessa** :

Your jokes are _awful_.

 **Tulkas** :

What joke?

 **Nessa** : [suspicious]

You weren't making a pun with "dead"?

 **Tulkas** :

No! I don't think that's a pun, anyway.

 **Nessa** : [putting her forehead against his]

Yes it is --

 **Tulkas** :

No it --

[their round of contradiction fades into a different sort of diversion, leaving the divine lovers quite oblivious to anything beyond their liplock, to the amusement of everyone else]

 **Finrod** : [sighing]

Well, that was a bit anticlimactic.

[he takes off his helmet, tucking it in the crook of his arm, and runs a hand over his hair]

 **Amarie** : [aghast]

Thou art _disappoint_ it came not upon contention?

 **Finrod** :

Disappointed? No -- it's more just that it's so rare that anything unexpected happens around here.

 **Steward** : [dry]

\-- Unless you're starting it --

 **Amarie** : [even more dryly]

Surely thou dost ken how hard it shall be to carry off yon "pitiful and wanting" business when thou standest more daunting-fine than Feanor himself in that thine armour, for all thou art but a shade --

 **Finrod** : [conscience-struck]

I'm sorry, I quite forgot --

[dismisses mail back to civvies. Pause -- with a sidelong look:]

\--  _Dashing_ , eh?

 **Amarie** : [serenely]

I ken not whereof thou speakst. Thou art full well aware how I am utter pacific and full opposed to all manner of violence and every martial thing. Wherefore might I _never_ be swayed by aught so outward-shallow as a shining armour, far less the least simular phantasm of the same.

[Finrod grins, trying not to]

Nor might I conceive for what -- for it passeth _all_ understanding -- thoud'st find _flattering_ such compare unto the most notorious lunatic our race, nor merely thy family, hath e'er produced.

 **Finrod** :

You mean to say I'm _not_ ranked first yet? Amazing -- the way people have been talking I'd never have guessed.

[the disguised Maia turns to Nienna]

 **Apprentice** :

You aren't disappointed with me, Master, are you?

 **Nienna** :

Have I said anything to cause you to think so?

[he looks relieved]

 **Finrod** :

Why _were_ you coming back? Had you something useful to report?

 **Apprentice** :

That --

[nods towards the dais]

\-- solution to Lady Luthien's dilemma. If I'd been quicker I could have headed off all this confusion.

 **Finrod** : [curious]

Why weren't you?

 **Apprentice** :

All those walls and stairs and so forth, between. One can't just fly through them.

 **Finrod** : [apparent whimsy]

Can't one?

 **Apprentice** :

No. Not without violating the laws of nature.

 **Finrod** :

Ah. One does have an obligation to avoid unnecessary tampering with the universe, I suppose.

 **Apprentice** :

Exactly.

 **Finrod** : [struck by a sudden thought]

Speaking of obligations --

[turning to the Ten and assorted allies]

We ought to do this properly, to the end.

[he manifests a heavy armlet of twisted metal braids and beckons his siblings closer]

My faithful lords and regents of the Northern Provinces -- I thank you for your loyal service to Our cause.

[he places the ring upon Angrod's wrist and embraces him before presenting Aegnor with a similar honour; as he continues to give out honours to his following, the camera pulls away to Nienna, who rises and approaches the Healer's ghost, who is standing awkwardly and a bit lost in the cheerful company, on its fringes]

 **Nienna** : [in a confidential manner]

I've got a mission for you, if you're up to it. I don't think anyone else can handle it. -- There's someone I'd like you to listen to.

 **Ex-Thrall** : [looks very uncertain]

Who, Lady? -- And why me?

 **Nienna** :

She used to be an angry young demigoddess, and now she's a bitter, disillusioned old ghost. I'm hoping that she'll be able to _identify_ with you, rather than feeling inferior and resentful as she does with us, and open up a little, at least.

 **Ex-Thrall** : [realization hits]

A demon. -- A _vampire_.

[disgust and indignation creep into her expression]

 **Nienna** : [quiet emphasis]

A lost soul.

[the Healer looks at her for a moment and then her look of righteous pride is replaced by daunted uncertainty as she nods]

 **Ex-Thrall** :

But I don't know what I'll be able to do . . .

 **Nienna** : [shrugs]

None of us does.

[puts her hand on the Elf-woman's shoulder; they both vanish, melting into the shadows again]

 **Huan** :

[pitiful whines]

[bored again, the Teler Maid is teasing him by dipping the flag lower and lower over his head, tempting him to snap at it, but being a Good Dog he knows he mustn't, but his ears are definitely saying otherwise. Noticing this, the Steward gives a quick, definitive headshake and she stops at once, looking guilty. He doesn't say anything or take any further notice, though. After a moment she turns the staff sideways and starts rolling up the banner neatly and without any difficulty -- it's a lot smaller than even the smallest sail, after all. Huan meanwhile creeps up, wagging his tail hesitantly, offering to be friends, if he's forgiven -- which reminds her that she's still angry at him, but her righteous indignation has been undercut by forgetting and playing with him. She tries to frown, but is having a hard time of it, and ducks the question by taking the furled standard over to her no-longer-ex who checks the bindings and lets it disappear.]

 **Eol** : [ironic]

And we see once again what really matters to the Noldor, and how cheap their nobility and valour.

 **Captain** : [snorting]

Yes, of course, we only do it for the shiny jewelry.

[but the comment wasn't really directed at them. Fingolfin only shakes his head, but Aredhel looks furious.]

 **Eol** :

If it isn't bad enough that they were willing to commit murder and treason over real treasures, we now find out they're willing to commit crimes for _pretend_ trinkets.

[Aredhel cannot pretend to be unaffected any more, but the Captain responds before she does]

 **Captain** :

Worse than crows and magpies, really.

 **Finrod** : [pleasantly, with an iron edge]

Come now, this is a friendly family gathering among family and friends. And so it shall remain.

 **Aredhel** : [ignoring him, to Eol]

Who was it who got us both killed over a stupid sword, hm?

 **Captain** :

Well, if it was something _he_ made, that's different. It's only useless beauty that isn't worth killing for, you see.

 **Finrod** : [mild]

You know, Commander, I _could_ require you to wear _all_ your battle honours. This is also a semi-formal occasion, after all.

[the Captain's eyes widen and he checks the sarcasm at once.]

 **Beren** : [aside]

Got a lot of 'em, huh, Sir?

 **Captain** :

A few.

 **Ranger** : [admiring his own new ring]

There was a lot of speculation as to whether or not they'd outweigh his hauberk, all together. Right, Halmir?

[the newcomer shade nods, still a little diffident]

 **Beren** :

A few. Huh.

[as Finrod offers a prize to the Teler Maid, she gives him a narrow Look]

 **Teler Maid** :

Promise you, it shall not change into some queer thing that startles me?

[he shakes his head, smiling, and adds to her collection of wristlets]

 **Steward** : [aside to Beren]

If you ever should really wish to embarrass him, in just retribution -- ask what they were _for_.

 **Captain** :

Just standing around like this, I assure you; Himself keeps handing them out, when the fancy strikes him.

 **Finarfin** :

In _such_ wise and fashion, declarest thou?

[he smiles knowingly]

 **Beren** :

My uncle had a couple like that. I heard stories.

 **Eol** : [as the Teler Ranger steps forward for his reward]

I don't expect anything better from the Lords of the West, who early proved themselves incapable of resisting any bright lure, even that of _hearsay_ only. But it is rather sad when one of the Free Children forgets himself so far as to become no better, and to crave the gifts of the invader so much as to forsake all sense and decency. There's more than one kind of slavery, I see.

[the Sindarin Warrior gives him a taut glare, but dutifully says nothing to escalate matters]

 **Finrod** : [ice]

I'll thank you not to insult my people, cousin.

 **Eol** :

So the truth is now an insult?

 **Finrod** :

What truth?

 **Eol** :

Why, that your arrogance dragged a hapless villager into yet another risk and hazard for no better reason than that _you willed it_ , and were unwilling to try anything but to forcibly impose your will upon even the gods -- without regard for his own wishes, let alone consideration for his safety?

[the Youngest Ranger looks up at the ceiling in disbelief]

 **Finrod** :

If he had any objection, would he not have said so, even as others did?

 **Eol** :

Of course not -- the poor boy is too overawed by your glamour to say anything.

 **Finrod** : [very dry]

Any _awe_ that manages to survive three staggering defeats, witnessed close at hand, calls for awe itself, I'd say. It's hard to maintain any semblance of High-Elven dignity, let alone kingly grandeur, when one's covered in mud to one's ears and too injured to walk unassisted, let alone defend one's self, or being despoiled by Enemy minions while unsuccessfully disguised as one of said minions, -- or being mocked and humiliated and stripped of one's authority by one's own family before one's entire people, believe me.

[to the Youngest Ranger]

Lieutenant? _Would_ you have dissented, had I asked you?

 **Youngest Ranger** :

Well, your Majesty.

[he looks uncertain and troubled, and Eol looks satisfied. Finrod gestures encouragingly for him to continue]

With regards to the Pattern of your Work -- I did wonder that you weren't meaning to make use of that vein of quartz there.

[points]

It seemed as though it would have made it easier, a bit.

 **Finrod** :

The problem with that is that there's an inclined seam nearby, and the resulting overburden would very likely have caused the masses above to slide down and fill in the aperture I was trying to open.

 **Youngest Ranger** : [solemnly]

I thought that might be the case, Sire, that you had a good reason for it. Seeing that you've been building caves since before I was alive and all.

 **Finrod** :

Nothing else? No other objections?

 **Youngest Ranger** :

I'm afraid I haven't any, my lord. Not yet, at least.

 **Finrod** : [straightfaced]

If you think of any, please do let me know.

 **Youngest Ranger** :

Certainly, Sire.

 **Finrod** :

I knew I could rely on you.

 **Youngest Ranger** :

I should hope so, Your Majesty.

 **Finrod** :

 _Thank_ you.

[Eol snorts in contempt at their by-play, unaware of the context, as Finrod clasps the arm-ring on the Sindarin Warrior, who meets his King's gaze without, or in spite of, the embarrassment born of the remembrance of their shared ordeal, before turning to the Lord Warden. The former Kinslayer objects:]

 **Warden of Aglon** :

But I'm not your follower.

 **Finrod** :

Hm. Fooled me, there.

[gentle earnest]

My family has not done well by you, though I don't claim _that_ fault as well as others not my own -- but I'd mend it, so far as might, in our shadow realm. Since you have been abandoned by your proper lords, you may claim my lordship, and I'll gladly own up to it. We but play at matters, in these halls, but I speak seriously in this. If you'd rather not -- still, I thank you for your assistance, and would make it plain to all how much I value it.

[the Lord Warden does not resist as he slips the bracelet on, but his expression is troubled]

 **Warden of Aglon** : [soberly]

There's ill-will between myself and one of your folk, Sire.

[all of the Ten look dubious at this, but it is at the Teler Maid that he looks now]

If I am to place myself under your protection, in spirit, if nothing else, then such a state cannot endure. I ask the lady's forgiveness for my previous discourtesy.

[he bows; the Sea-elf looks quite disgruntled]

 **Teler Maid** : [to Finrod, resentfully]

Must I pardon him?

 **Finrod** :

No.

[cajoling]

\-- Will you nevertheless?

[pause]

 **Teler Maid** :

Not here.

[she walks away somberly and sits down at the waterside, her elbows on her knees, her chin in her hands, frowning hard. (Note: although subsided to former levels, the water of the Falls is still glowing throughout, the flames having been incorporated into the Working by yet another artist...)]

 **Warden of Aglon** : [uncertainly]

Ought I go speak to her there?

[Finrod only gives him a Look, and turns up his hands, either in uncertainty or dismay]

 **Steward** : [dispassionate]

That depends on whether you wish to be forgiven, or merely to content yourself that you made the effort.

 **Warden of Aglon** :

How coldly you dismiss my offer!

 **Steward** :

Do you _prefer_ my temper flared up past quenching?

[the Warden presses an unconscious hand to his midriff, grimacing]

 **Warden of Aglon** :

No.

[he walks the short distance to the Falls, squaring his shoulders to an unpleasant duty. Huan trails along after him, crestfallen. Standing stiffly before her -- and looming over where she is seated on the stones at his feet, not occurring to him to stoop to her level -- he addresses her very formally:]

Please -- I know my behaviour has been without excuse. I don't expect you to understand, but, at least -- if you can -- understand that I regret having hit you, and would undo both blows, if time might be unwound.

 **Teler Maid** : [wrinkling her forehead]

You ask pardon of me for striking me -- but _not_ for your part in my death.

[silence]

 **Warden of Aglon** : [softly]

I'm sorry that I cannot say that -- yet. And I am sorry . . . that my deeds must cause you to look at me with fear and disgust, sorry, because I am not worthy of your respect. But I cannot reject that -- that killing, yet. I have spent far too long justifying it to myself. If I throw all that away, like so much rust -- will there be anything left of me?

[she looks at him with a very wry expression, as if she'd just bitten accidentally into a persimmon, and snorts a little in exasperation]

 **Teler Maid** :

You want me to forgive you -- and so do you the same.

[she looks suddenly and sharply at Huan]

I have been wronged, yet ye'd have me show ye mercy.

[to Aglon]

You are proud and wish not to be held in derision, even by one like me.

[to Huan]

You are one of the younger gods but had rather be a simple beast.

[pause]

I think -- I wonder, shall ye still wish my pardon, if it ask some hard sign of ye in turn?

 **Huan** :

[head-tilt]

 **Warden of Aglon** :

Sign?

 **Teler Maid** :

What, are you afraid of _me_? I am not kind-hearted -- but I am not wanton-cruel.

[points to the floor by the water's edge]

Kneel down there and let you wait for me to finish.

[slowly, very bewildered, he does so. She knots her fingers through her braids in thought.]

 **Warden of Aglon** : [apprehensive]

How hard a sign shall it be for me to make?

[the girl from Alqualonde leaps to her feet and stomps over to stand in front of him, looking down her nose at him]

 **Teler Maid** : [tartly]

Why, as hard as being shoved aside like a sack of ballast, as hard as being treated like a dumb post before one's friends. -- do you not trust my mercy?

 **Warden of Aglon** : [wretched]

Go on and strike me -- I deserve it, I admit --

 **Teler Maid** : [fiddling with her bracelets, nervously if you know her]

 _Hit_ you? You did partake in working my death, and will not concede me that. Thus -- I think that any thing less than slaying you outright, shall count as mercy.

[she puts her hand on her little eating-knife, toying with the hilt]

 **Warden of Aglon** : [uncertain]

You are too gentle a maid for such violent thoughts or cruel blows.

[he does not get up, but he is looking very daunted as he kneels in front of her]

 **Teler Maid** : [coy]

But I need not _myself_.

[turns to the Hound]

Huan! Hound are you? Then let you be a hound indeed and do as I say without thought of your wisdom.

[pointing]

Harry him.

 **Huan** : **Warden of Aglon** :

? ! ?

 **Teler Maid** : [shouting]

Harry him, I say to you! He is no better than the wicked beasts you did hunt afar, and I would have you bite him. Set upon him and tear him like the hungry flames, no less!

[the rest of those present are looking on with varying degrees of shock and horror, (though none more than the Lord Warden, kneeling there in frozen dread) but the Elf-maid ignores them all]

 **Huan** :

[loud distressed barking]

[the racket makes Nessa's deer spring up in alarm -- she manages to grab one of them, but the other bolts away before she can fling herself on it, vanishing out the door in a flash of white. With an exasperated exclamation she shoves the caught fawn at Tulkas who scruffs it one-handed like a puppy, and goes sprinting off after the other one]

 **Teler Maid** : [angry-sounding]

What are you to question, when given command? Did you not wish me to approve you? Then do as I say, else be a bad dog!

[the Hound contradicts her still more noisily, tossing his head up with each denial, a growl creeping into his voice]

 **Huan** :

[fierce objecting barks]

 **Teler Maid** :

 _Good_ dog! Good dog!!!

[she has to shout several times before getting through. Huan stares at her, panting; she points to the radiant surface]

Get you into the water, then.

[ears flapping, the Lord of Dogs dashes straight for the basin of the fountain -- and not coincidentally, the Warden of Aglon, who has been placed directly between. He careens full-tilt into the hapless Feanorian, carrying him over into the spill-pool with a tremendous splash. The Sea-elf watches with delight as they flounder about, clapping her hands in glee, while the rest of their audience is overcome with relief. Huan heaves himself up to the bank, shaking himself, grinning and wagging his tail; as the Lord Warden crawls slowly onto the rocks, bedraggled, at her feet]

Do you know what it is to be small and helpless and your strength and wit nothing to avail you, now?

[he looks up at her from hands and knees, mutely wild-eyed, like someone who has no idea what is happening to him or is about to, and nods a little.]

I could have told him as well to hold you 'neath till you dreamt of drowning, as much as to tear you even as the Wolves he did hunt. But he _would_ not, because he knows _better_. And _I_ would not because _I_ know better.

[she is very smug]

So now you have seen what mercy is, for I have shown you it. Does it hurt you greatly?

 **Warden of Aglon** : [whispering]

A -- a little.

 **Teler Maid** :

Are you sorry you did ask me then?

[he shakes his head]

\-- Good.

[with careless abandon she propels herself with an arching dive into the water (while Huan barks loudly and echoingly bouncing along the rocks,) and resurfaces to pull herself out of the shallow end like a seal, dashing over to fling her arms around the Steward, oblivious or unconcerned with the daunted Looks she is getting from most of the Eldar present. (Huan trails her, hunkered but hopeful.)]

\-- Were you frightened for me?

[her true-love nods once]

And I. -- Are you proud of me, then?

[he nods again]

So too am I.

[noticing]

\-- Oh. You are all damp now.

 **Steward** :

And you likewise. Do you remember our first meeting?

[her expression changes to half-apprehension, half mischievous delight]

 _Someone_ hid upon a cornice of the house, and had a wineskin filled with water -- coldest water -- and spilled it over someone sitting in the garden --

 **Teler Maid** :

I _thought_ it was Lord Turgon, seeing but the hair, and not his face --

 **Steward** :

And spoilt a page of verse that was but newly-done, and the ink not yet fast --

 **Teler Maid** :

And you were _very_ angry --

 **Steward** :

And accepted your apology with a very bad grace. -- The poem was wretched.

 **Teler Maid** : [sadly]

But the illuminations had been pretty, until I spoilt them.

 **Steward** : [shrugs]

Others have done better. But your eyes were brighter than any foil of gold or electrum, or gemstone color, and I could not put them from my mind, nor capture them in paint, or verse, and from that hour on, I fought the truth like a hunted fish.

[she smiles at his deliberate teasing phrase]

I am done with fighting. -- If it please you, would you fetch my harp from the ledge there?

 **Teler Maid** : [blinks]

You would scarce let me glance on it, far less touch its strings, before.

 **Steward** :

It is a much sturdier one, than the one which left this shore.

[her sidelong glance shows she takes all his meanings -- before she can go, however, Huan turns and canters over, picking it up in his mouth carefully and brings it up to them, bowing down and looking up at them with I'm-such-a-good-dog expression. The Sea-elf takes it from him, giving him a knowing Look, and then kisses him on the nose before passing the harp to its inventor -- who instead raises his hands]

I thought you might wish to try learning it.

 **Teler Maid** : [wryly]

You do not longer fear I will better you in your own chosen Art, then?

 **Steward** :

No. Every teacher should hope that his student will surpass him, and go where he cannot. -- Another truth I learned, in the mortal realm.

[he sits down on the lowest step, drawing her down next to him, and begins positioning her hands on the strings; it should be obvious that an awful lot of closeness is required in this method of teaching, as he murmurs explanations in her ear with each quiet chord. . . As Finrod resumes the recognition ceremonies with a very sober expression, Huan goes to lean on an old friend -- but the Apprentice, instead of contending vainly with a wet dog, discreetly indicates the sullen figure of Aule's Assistant, sitting grouchily on a corner of the dais, as someone needing a bit of canine consolation -- with predictable results]

 **Assistant** :

Gah! Stupid beast! Get away!

[Huan's ears are penitent -- but his tail isn't. Tulkas gets up, leaving the now-calm deer and ambles over to the Falls, whistling Huan to heel. He stands over the Lord Warden, who is still sitting where the Sea-Elf left him, looking thoroughly bewildered]

 **Tulkas** :

Leave your wits in the water, kid?

 **Warden of Aglon** :

I -- I thought she was going to demand that I grovel, in public, and abase myself before her friends, and -- and _mine_ ; and then --

[with a shaken look at the Hound]

I thought --

[he shivers involuntarily]

But all that happened . . .

[slowly as if struggling to make sense of it]

. . . was humiliation and nothing worse. I -- I didn't get what I deserved -- at all.

 **Tulkas** : [patiently]

That's what this mercy stuff is all about, see? Now, if she'd asked _me_ to take care of you -- well, just be glad she didn't. I wouldn't have a problem with punching you into next year, and it wouldn't do _me_ any harm. -- But if you feel like you were let off too easy, just say the word --

 **Warden of Aglon** : [quickly]

Um -- no, that's quite all right, Sir. I'd much rather just be humiliated.

 **Tulkas** :

But _were_ you, eh?

 **Warden of Aglon** :

? ? ?

 **Tulkas** :

You know. What _I_ saw was, you were just dunked in the water. Whether you choose to be humiliated by it or not, that's your look-out.

[he chugs down a drink from the mead-horn]

 **Warden of Aglon** :

But -- would it be a punishment, if -- I didn't?

 **Tulkas** : [giving him a shrewd look over the mouth of the vessel]

What makes you think it was supposed to be punishment?

 **Warden of Aglon** :

Ah . . .

 **Tulkas** :

 _Punishment_ would be if I kicked you through next week, not getting a bit damp. Looks to me like she gave you a good scare, put the fear of Somebody Bigger into you, and then played a practical joke -- on you both.

[as the former Warden of Aglon thinks about this, frowning, the Wrestler calls Huan close and begins tussling with his head, grabbing his jaws and shaking his head until his ears flap and his tail whips like a pendulum]

 **Warden of Aglon** :

But it seems so . . .  _silly_. And undignified. I _killed_ people.

 **Tulkas** :

And now you want a solemn ordeal, to fit your crime --  _or_ to fit your self-importance, eh?

[with a sly Look]

Bet you don't know, either -- and I bet I do. _Melkor_ hates looking a fool, too. The thing about being surprised and surprising -- jokes and all that, horseplay, what you call "undignified" -- if you're able to do it, you're not thinkin' about yourself from the outside all the time.

[gesturing expansively with the mead-horn while he scratches Huan's ears with his other hand]

Not standing still worrying about if you're going to look funny to somebody else who might not even be _thinking_ about you, is.

[as he is expounding, Nessa appears silently behind him, with a delighted, worrying grin on her face. She is holding the stray fawn in her arms, but sets it down so she can sneak up on her husband . . .]

Not trying to control everything _around_ you so nothing ever happens to trip you up or make you jump and spoil your precious dignity with a --

 **Nessa** : [digging him suddenly in the ribs]

Boo!

 **Tulkas** :

! ! !

[he grabs her to try to stop her from tickling him, without dropping his drink, and it turns into an unbalanced, messy romp that ends with them both rolling off the edge of the pool into the water: Nessa gives a loud shriek, abruptly cut off in a splash as they go under. Huan bounces up and down beside, barking, while the Warden looks utterly bemused.]

 **Eol** : [sighing]

A pity so few of us can be blessed with such agreeable consort.

 **Aredhel** :

You should talk!

 **Eol** :

As I did. You're given to stating the _signally_ evident, my love.

 **Aredhel** :

You _know_ what I meant. You're so impossible.

 **Eol** :

No -- I merely attempt the impossible, which is to say -- loving you.

 **Aredhel** :

Oh?

[maliciously triumphant]

If that's the case -- why do you dream secretly of being rescued by me?

[he stares at her aghast -- she has gone very much too far, and knows it, but doesn't care. Then he recovers, in his damn-all, dare-all way:]

 **Eol** :

 _If_ you will bring yourself to recollect the facts of the matter -- my demi-divine cousin's injunction was to us both. Therefore the question is equally applicable to you, my lady: why is _your_ dream one of searching for me, and finding me, with grandiose visions of being my savior?

 **Ared hel** :

If you weren't always pushing me away, and leaving me for your own concerns, and being so _aloof_ , then I wouldn't _have_ to content myself with dreams.

 **Eol** :

I rest my case. You are indeed, impossible to love, and you know it full well; otherwise you would not hold it so that only one caught and helpless, and _grateful_ , could welcome your company.

[they are neither embarrassed, nor aware of everyone else's embarrassment at this point]

 **Aredhel** : [fierce]

You twist everything around, as usual. I _hate_ you.

 **Eol** : [airily]

What strange things you Noldor have done with our language, to make "hate" mean its opposite.

 **Aredhel** :

So what does it say about _you_ , that your greatest longing is for someone to come to you _freely_ , without any spells or traps or lures? _Who_ doesn't have any self-esteem or confidence of his own worth?

 **First Guard** : [aside]

I prefer it when they're trying to kill each other.

 **Soldier** : [shaking his head]

How can they have been married so long, and not get it?

 **Eol** :

And with you for a consort, is it at all surprising?

[the Noldor Princess glares at him, too angry even for blows]

 **Aredhel** : [low savage tone]

Don't you come near me again! I mean it this time.

[she storms off towards the exit; he calls after her:]

 **Eol** :

But for how long?

[she doesn't stop, turn around or even look back. Awkward silence. Abruptly the Dark Elf clenches his fists and gives a frustrated exclamation, then glares around at all of his relatives-by-marriage. Savagely:]

Don't say _anything_.

[angrily he hurries after her]

 **Luthien** : [disbelieving]

If ever two people needed to be turned into _rocks_ , like those strange tales from Brethil, so that they'd only get away from each other and themselves for a while . . .

 **Beren** : [equally bewildered]

They never even _think_ about their kid, do they?

 **Fingolfin** :

Only as a piece in their game.

[sighs]

I fear I must conclude that I have a duty in this business, to at least attempt to bring some peace in our House where I might.

[glances at Luthien]

I realize now that my disapproval of 'Feiniel's choice does not much matter, no more than were I to refuse to recognize that I am dead. So, that being so, it falls upon me to extend that recognition to her consort, and thus perhaps to deprive him of some fuel for his temper and meat for his galling words. -- Regardless of how I loathe the fellow. Perhaps, as well, it might set Ar-Feiniel a better example, and thus on _two_ fronts bring reconciliation closer.

 **Aegnor** :

I'm afraid it's rather a lost cause, uncle.

 **Fingolfin** :

Well. I do know something of those, also.

[to his younger sibling, with an earnest, pleading expression]

Think kindly on me, I pray you, Finarfin, and blame me as little as you might, bearing the task I have thrust upon your unwilling shoulders -- and yet, though the Fate which brought us to this respective pass has been a Dark one, and much in the chronicle of former Days should be unwritten, had I the power -- still I think, of all the chances that have fallen out of that division, that you should wear our father's crown is best. For a High King must possess not only bravery in all contests, but wisdom too, and the virtue of generous dispassion that rules both in judgment, and our folk -- for all our folly -- deserve a true-hearted lord.

[he bows, and goes resolutely after his child and her spouse. As the Lord Warden and Huan drift up to the group, the former looking rather pitiful, the latter cheerful as only a thoroughly wet and/or muddy dog can be:]

 **Finarfin** :

Did I in truth hear . . . ?

[he looks off at the doorway in amazement, and back at his remaining relatives]

 **Nerdanel** :

Aye, good my brother, thine elder did verily praise thee for thy wisdom as thy courageous.

 **Elenwe** :

Nay, look thou not thus amazéd, gentle Finarfin, for my father in love hath most greatly changed since ye and I were acquainted with thy brother in our lives. His heart is broken of the wars, and what Ice did but harden, Fire hath melted most complete. Of former pride, I deem there be none -- else, such as doth remain were transmuted all into pride for others.

[earnest]

He loveth thee as thou wert his elder -- his most admiréd elder -- no more the younger nor the weaker. Be thou glad for him, even as dost mourn, good mine uncle.

[to Finrod]

Ingold, I take my leave of thee -- thou needest naught of me longer, I think.

 **Finrod** : [penitent]

Elenwe, thank you. I'm sorry to have drawn you into all this chaos --

 **Elenwe** :

Wherefore? Not so, I. But greatly wearied of contention.

[she looks around at the company, living and dead]

Friends, I'll haply meet with ye again, in bright day under the Sun, an it be not here. Save ye --

[facing Luthien and Beren]

I do thank thee for thy Song, kinswoman, and bless thy days untold. Secondborn lord --

[smiling at Beren]

\-- thy coming doth waken e'en some hope in my breast that all our folly hath not been in vain, nor all good deed eat up in Darkness yet. Fare thee well.

[she courtesies towards them both and vanishes]

 **Angrod** : [disappointed]

I expected something more in the way of family feeling from her, really.

 **Finrod** : [shaking his head]

You don't know how badly the Crossing affected her. She's told me a little, on the rare occasions when she's been willing to see me: it turns out that after the Darkening she could no longer Hear anything of the Song --

[Amarie looks suddenly startled]

\-- as if she were suddenly deaf, and doubted that it was ever there, or only the consequence of the Trees, and so it no longer seemed to matter what she did, to stay in Aman or follow the mocking, greedy crowd, so long as she was helping the people she loved. And she couldn't even do that, on the Ice. To be Vanyar, and cut off from the World-Music -- it's been a very long Work to build that retreat of hers, stem by stem and paving-stone by paving-stone, as the one small certainty she can believe in, something that was both good and real. I regretted very much having to ask her to leave it, even for a short while.

 **Apprentice** :

But you did it anyway.

 **Finrod** : [flatly]

Yes. That's my job -- part of it at least, to wield those I love as tools for making or defense. And I'm sick to death of it. Even when it isn't in vain.

[to the remaining High King of the Noldor]

Believe me, Father, I'm _tired_ of being King -- I don't _want_ this job any more.

 **Finarfin** :

Yet Elenwe did answer thy behest, nor reproachéd thee that it perchance wast needless, nor any of these beside, the which doth make me to hold thou art belike better at such task than givest self credit thereto.

 **Finrod** : [shrugging]

I could have done worse, yes, I'll grant as much.

 **Captain** : [aside]

Oh, not another of these moods!

 **Nerdanel** : [not impressed with Finrod's melancholy]

Aye, certes, nephew. So too we all.

 **Finarfin** : [half-smile]

Nay, then I'll not ask thee this, to take up my burden of rule from me -- but an thou will't, my wiseling, when thou art returned among us, I'd entreat thee lend to me thy counsel, betimes, when cares of state weigh heavy upon my thought.

 **Finrod** :

Please don't tease me, Father. I'm not up to it at present.

 **Finarfin** :

Wherefore should I mock thee, or thou hold it so?

 **Finrod** : [brittle laugh]

You're going to ask _me_ for advice, on ruling, here in Aman? You've been King longer than I have, and done a better job of it -- at least, no one's kicked you out yet, and I can't say as much. All my judgments have been in error, it would seem.

[this occasions exasperated sighs, Looks, headshakes, and a disdainful sneeze from his siblings, friends, cousin, and Huan]

 **Finarfin** :

Well then, I'll gladly learn of thy mistaking. Yet I deem thou hast experience of greater strife, as conflict, and aye peaceable resolve the whiles, than I or e'er shall, belike -- nay more, perchance such matters as seem most intractable-rough to me, to thy Sight be less insoluble, by compare, and shouldst thou walk a little to hear me disburden my cares, 'twould lighten my spirit -- aye, and go some way to ease thy fair mother's heart, for she doth hold that I do fret overly upon the least matters, yet dare not to look over any, for fear I'll not espy some greater grief while yet in seed, to be more easily removed than rooted forth hereafter.

[pause]

 **Finrod** :

You're not -- you're not joking.

[blinking hard]

I -- Of course, Father. I'll be glad to hear your concerns, and -- offer advice, if you really think it might be useful.

 **Beren** : [distracted aside, glancing at the fountain]

When are they going to come up for air?

 **Fourth Guard** :

They're gods, Beren, they don't _need_ to.

[the Ten smirk at their friend's discomfiture as he fights a grin]

 **Finrod** : [cheerful again]

Of course, that will have to wait upon Amarie's will, but I'm sure she won't mind.

[he smiles playfully at his consort]

 **Amarie** :

Nay, for what mattereth now Amarie her wishes?

 **Finrod** :

Well, you'll have first claim on my time, naturally -- though being all under one roof will make it easier to divvy it up between you and my parents and other kin.

 **Amarie** : [shaking her head with a disbelieving smile]

Still thou dost presume, Ingold, and wilt thou ne'er yet learn?

[she sighs deeply]

I did support thee in this venture, for duty's own sake, and thou dost treat as all else that lieth betwixt us were undone, else ne'er did transpire, for that. Such reliant step thou setteth on my good-will! -- that hast so lately chid me for the _lack_ of't --

 **Finrod** : [taken aback]

What do you mean? I thought you were _with_ me, now.

 **Amarie** :

Aye. So didst.

 **Finrod** :

I don't understand what you're saying.

 **Amarie** : [still patiently]

When thou dost, _then_ seek me.

[she walks towards the hill, without looking back, and ascends it, as if fascinated by the roses to the exclusion of everything else]

 **Finrod** :

But I _don't_. What was I _supposed_ to say, I ask you?

[Amarie doesn't answer or even look at him]

 **Nerdanel** :

Belike a word of thankfulness? For I did hear me nary a one.

 **Angrod** : [turning the armlet about his wrist, noncommittally]

You didn't even give her a ring.

 **Finrod** : [frowning at his brother]

What, I should treat her as though she's a _vassal_ of mine, as if she's just keeping up her end of the bargain, thanks so very much for showing up, good job there?!?

 **Captain** : [looking at the ceiling]

Oh no. Unexpected allies who show up to the rescue out of the blue, above and beyond where there isn't strictly speaking any duty (at least given your repeated remarks to the effect that she is _not_ bound) -- not even worth _mentioning_  --

 **Steward** :

\-- Particularly when the last specific things one said were insults, indirect and otherwise.

 **Finrod** :

But I thought I was paying her a compliment, by simply relying on her, not acting _surprised_ that I could trust her. Now it seems as though she's willfully misunderstanding everything I say!

 **Aegnor** :

For someone who's supposed to be the world's greatest interpreter, sometimes you do a bloody poor job at _communication_ , Ingold.

[the ex-King of Nargothrond looks around helplessly at his closest supporters and friends]

 **Finrod** :

What do I do? I _can't_ _fix_ this.

[he is on the edge of tears and shouting]

The more I try, the worse I break it --

 **Beren** : [gripping his arm]

All right. All right. Calm down.

[he looks at Amarie standing calmly on the hill, feeding rose-leaves to a fawn.]

Ah, just one question, is that ordinary everyday clothing for Elves here, or is that as fancy and all as it looks? I mean, it's plain, but I can't _guess_ how long it would take to spin and weave something that looks like it's made out of clouds.

 **Luthien** : [rueful aside]

Partly it depends on whether or not you _rest_ at all.

 **Beren** :

And the jewelry . . . doesn't look like much, but it looks like it's not _supposed_ to look like much, if you understand what I'm saying.

 **Finrod** :

No. For Vanyar -- that's overdressed, or was when I lived here. Festival attire. What --

 **Beren** :

So she comes to see you dressed like it's a party -- that says she wants to impress you -- she cares how you think of her, or else she'd just show up anyhow, since she had time to get ready. At least, that's how it would be for us. I don't know really -- I don't know so much about Elves.

 **Finrod** : [half smile]

Beren, when you're alive, are you going to start thinking before you speak, or does it not trouble you at all?

 **Beren** :

What? What did I say --

[Finrod looks at Luthien, pointedly]

 **Beren** :

. . .

 **Luthien** : [explanatory, coming to his defense]

 _None_ of us know that much about Aman, except what we've heard from others.

 **Finrod** : [flings up his hands]

But it doesn't matter if she started out with such intent, now that I've wrecked it by my stupidity.

 **Luthien** : [patiently]

You _haven't_ wrecked it. This is _nothing_. Wait until you've said that someone might as well never have woken up if all he's going to do is sit there like a stump and not talk and not do anything and not even _try_ to get better, it doesn't seem to have made any difference --

[she smiles apologetically at Beren]

 **Beren** :

And then go away and agonize over every possible way she could've meant that and how much so.

[takes her hand and squeezes it with an equally rueful smile]

 **Finrod** : [faintly]

I'm out of my depth.

 **Ambassador** :

Sire, you kept peace between six clans of the Eldar, three of mortal Men, and both Great Houses of the Dwarves, for how many years? Would you claim that excuse to my lord your uncle?

[Finrod, looking cornered, turns to Beren]

 **Finrod** :

Beor. _Help_.

 **Beren** :

Look, I would say -- be weak. Only not.

 **Finrod** :

Oh, now _you're_ being cryptic!

 **Beren** :

No, no, it makes sense. You're hurt, you're afraid, you're scared you'll wreck it, you're scared she really hates you after all, and you're confused. So don't pretend you're not.

[Luthien nods earnestly]

Oh -- ask your da, too.

[the ex-King turns and looks at the living King of the Noldor, who has been looking on with the silence of one not simply older but wiser now as well]

 **Finrod** :

Father, how -- how did you convince Mother to take you back into her good graces, after -- you returned?

 **Finarfin** : [raising an eyebrow]

Thou dost entreat _my_ aiding, my son?

[his eldest simply nods; he smiles ruefully]

I did recollect me of our first meetings, as that I did learn withal her native tongue, that I might comprehend her as she mine own thought, and thus in all our privy dealings, I did bespeak her ever yet i'the Teleri, that she might recall perchance that earliest brightening of our love, nor yet doubt that I but minded me ever of the same. Yet --

[warningly]

\-- be thou nay overcertain, for what hath prevailed in one heart shall not sway another, as 'twere no variance twixt Elf and Elf. Nor thou and I, nor she and she, be in all wise the same. Assuredly I'd have thee succeed, for this hath been most great discomfort in our House, that thy lady, that hath this long time past oft dwelt with us that her family no more reproach her for her faithkeeping unto thee, now cometh no more, for this dissension.

[silence]

 **Finrod** :

This just keeps getting worse. Amarie was staying with you to avoid being hassled for my sake, and now -- what _has_ Mother been saying to her? About us?

 **Finarfin** : [wry grimace]

Nay, ask thou not -- nor thou nor I would to hear it, trust thou my word.

 **Angrod** : [sympathetic]

And you're caught in the middle again, aren't you?

 **Aegnor** : [elbowing Finrod]

Sounds like someone else has succeeded in causing chaos without even trying, eh, brother?

[the late King sighs, nodding gloomily]

 **Finrod** :

But returning to my difficulty -- she _did_ forgive you, you said, when you spoke to her in Teler?

 **Finarfin** :

Aye, in time.

 **Angrod** :

How _much_ time?

 **Finarfin** : [shrugs]

Some half-dozen of these new Years, less one, ere Earwen did turn to me in aught that was not of our duties regnant, when that we were not in view and service of Tirion's populace.

 **Aegnor** : [aghast]

Mother wouldn't speak to you for five years?! Grinding Ice!

 **Finrod** :

I can't wait that long. -- I'll go stark mad.

 **Second Guard** : [consolingly]

It's better than a yen, Sire.

[this doesn't help]

 **Finarfin** : [reassuring]

Tempers, as coals, do cool with passing time; but howsoe'er thou dost, thou _must_ bespeak her.

[his eldest nods, looking daunted, and half-turns to go -- then checks, frowning uncertainly]

 **Finrod** :

I had not ever thought to conduct my wooing before a multitude.

[unfortunately nobody shows any signs of disappearing]

 **Beren** :

But that's good, too -- it means you're making up for publicly humiliating her before. Not trying to hide it from anybody.

 **Finrod** :

And if she spurns me?

[his foremost counsellor looks up from the music lesson, which seems mostly to be an excuse to sit very close with his arm around a certain person]

 **Steward** :

That is the risk, yes. Are you so proud, my lord, that you will lose all rather than risk losing face -- or, if I might put it in other words: are you more arrogant even than I?

[silence]

 **Finrod** :

Luthien.

[his expression is very strained as he turns to her]

What do you See in me?

[she looks at him solemnly -- he flinches a little under her scrutiny, but does not resist]

 **Luthien** : [sad smile]

You don't need me to tell you that truth. At first I thought it was all weighted one way, but watching you two, together -- she _can't_ forgive you, because you don't think you deserve to be pardoned -- only not the way it's usually. If you really thought so, you wouldn't apologize with an excuse every time, but you really don't think you did anything that needs to be forgiven, and everything about you says so.

 **Finrod** : [obstinate]

But I was right.

 **Luthien** :

But _you_ _did_ wrong.

[he doesn't say anything]

\-- Do you think it was _Good_ to hurt her so, little cousin? Duty notwithstanding, was _that_ right?

[Finrod bows his head, wincing]

Unless you can say it without justifying yourself again, there's no point in saying you're sorry another time. "I'm sorry you felt offended and misunderstood me" isn't the same thing at all.

[tenderly]

I know you don't like to think of yourself being as proud as the rest of your family, but it is a -- a _nobler_ sort of arrogance, to care about not having _done_ badly, rather than looking bad.

 **Finrod** : [roughly]

But they're partly the same thing.

[she nods. Heartfelt:]

 _Damn_.

[he closes his eyes, taking a deep, ragged breath, and then straightens]

Time for me to break my spear, kneel, and sue for peace. I don't _want_ to.

[he pulls himself together and lifts his head, grim-jawed as if going into combat]

 **Luthien** : [looking at Amarie]

\-- Oh, and she's frightened.

 **Finrod** :

Why would she be afraid of _me_?

 **Beren** :

Maybe 'cause you're a ghost?

 **Finrod** : [patient]

Beren, I'm sure no rational adult in Aman is troubled by such Old World beliefs.

[missing the Looks shared by his living elders, and the Ten]

Things are different back home than they are back --

[checks, realizing, is verbally stuck for an instant.]

\-- Things are _different_ in Middle-earth.

 **Youngest Ranger** : [emphatic and slightly indignant, to the world at large]

See? It's _not_ just me. _Every_ _single_ _one_ _of_ _us_ does it.

[as attention shifts to him for the moment he keeps ranting at the rest of the Ten]

You've _all_ called Beleriand _home_ as many times as here, and you don't even hear yourselves doing it! Even the King! I wish I _had_ made a bet on it, because I'd've cleaned every one of you out! It isn't _me_.

[realizing he's been nearly shouting, very embarrassed]

Erm . . . Sorry. -- That was out of line, Sire.

 **Finrod** : [a little stunned]

No, that's -- quite all right, Lieutenant. At some point -- we might wish to consider why we -- avoid noticing that lapse, but -- that can be deferred. -- Where was I?

 **Teler Maid** :

Nigh to be interrupted, by me. To say that you are so changed from what you were, a king and a warrior and a terrible sorcerer, that you are a stranger to her, and needs must show her that this also is one whom she might care for.

[after a moment Finrod sighs heavily, nods, and turns towards his consort -- then looks over his shoulder at his friends]

 **Finrod** :

You're all quite, _quite_ in error, concerning who is afraid and who isn't, here.

[he climbs up the little slope and stands next to her, bracing himself, but before he can manage to speak Amarie opens conversation:]

 **Amarie** : [casually, running her hands over a spray of branches]

I did hear the Lady of the Gracious Tilth declare on a day, how that such blooms i'the lands our elders forsook do grow sharp, set with many close-pointed needles that do fence each stem most roundly, that th'intemperate beasts of hoof and wing and paw, that do strive beyond moderation in the Shadowed Lands, might not despoil all, that some shall yet endure for growing.

[gazing at him]

\-- Hast beheld such, in thy travel?

 **Finrod** :

Aye, 'tis thus -- yet no less fair be they, for all their weaponing, nay more -- some do aver that such small risk of danger as is hid, doth add thereto the choiceness of the rose its buds, that art both fair and strong, arrayed so bravely as they be.

[she raises an eyebrow, giving him a sidelong Look]

 **Amarie** :

So. -- Hath the rose of far Beleriand so sweet a fragrance, or more or less, than of this our sheltered realm?

[pause]

 **Finrod** :

I cannot say. For me . . . these hold none, saving that remembrance supplies -- supplieth, and that, perchance, beguileth me. For spirit alone might not taste, as flesh alone shall not perceive the tasting, lacking spirit, and so there's but imagining, and fancy betimes dimmeth, betimes maketh brighter, as reflection. Or, belike, 'tis consequent upon upon the bodily lack no less, so that naught of form shall impress upon the shifting thought, to hold memory upon the ground of earth. -- Even as my words, that do flit far past the purpose of my will.

[this gets a smile, if a melancholy one]

 **Amarie** : [sighing]

Let not thou temper thy speech unto mine own -- for hast truly spoken: Time hath changéd all, nor might be undone.

[aside]

\-- Yet that thou shouldst strive thereto, doth touch my heart most profound. -- What wouldst declare, my lord?

 **Finrod** :

Amarie -- I don't know what to say. I keep making things worse, every time. I'm not sure what else to do, except to ask you to trust me, that I wish you well, and that I had not said many of the things I did say to you -- but that others are true, only your anger to me makes them appear the worst, and I cannot make you think me true.

[he holds out his hand helplessly]

What's burnt cannot be mended. I know that. But --

[looking at her steadily, blinking back tears]

\-- if the blaze was not beyond all natural power, then the land does grow anew, forest and field, when the rains return.

[she raises an eyebrow, not giving anything away]

 **Amarie** : [lightly]

Thou'd have me cast aside my . . . _bloody_ _sword_ _of_ _hate_ , mine _icy_ _shield_ , then, and let thee free -- to trample my heart, an thou wish it, else otherwise?

[he winces, but nods; she makes a throwing-away gesture with her empty hands]

So. 'Tis done. The Pass standeth guardless, the Gates unbarred -- what wouldst thou of me?

 **Finrod** :

Pardon. And welcome. And leave to be at your side without reproach -- _past_ reproach, at least, obviously if I do anything offensive hereafer I'd expect you to tell me about it, and I'm talking too much again --

[he stops abruptly and kneels down on the grass at her feet]

Whatever you will to give me, my lady, I will take. -- Gladly.

[pause]

 **Amarie** :

My pardon, thou hast.

 **Finrod** : [rising to his feet]

I'm afraid I cannot offer you much else besides apology: I'm no longer a king, and everything I had, is lost to me. Whatever shall be mine, in days to come, will be another's gift -- even the heart I offer you, and the roof, though royal, only by my father's kindness.

 **Amarie** : [quiet intensity]

It was not a King I did love, nor yet a King his son.

[the Teler Maid looks very smug at this]

 **Finrod** : [hesitant]

Whom did you love, then?

[she looks away, sighing]

 **Amarie** : [nostalgic]

One who came riding upon the hills in the Hours of Gold, who sang aye more sweetly than e'er did bird or water, whose mirth was sweeter yet, whose joy gave me greater joy -- aye, I'll proclaim it so! -- than e'en the Lady Tree, the Tree of Gold, her light upon the blowing earth: one that was wise, nor of lore and cunning only, but in heart's truth and love no less. -- But he's dead, in a far country.

[she picks one of the roses, looking at it consideringly]

 **Finrod** :

Could you love him again, if he returned?

 **Amarie** : [still distant]

Belike -- but then, he's dead and rotten now, and cold his bones lie yonder.

 **Finrod** :

But not forever.

 **Amarie** : [turning to face him, very serious]

Yet still, Doom hath touched thee, and how shall I look upon thee, living, and think not of't? Shall not death be ever yet about thee?

 **Finrod** : [rubbing his chin, thoughtfully]

I suppose it's only natural you'd have some such feelings, not having encountered the thing itself, but really --

[she raises an eyebrow at him combatively]

 **Amarie** : [cutting him off]

Wherefore presumest so?

[pause]

 **Finrod** : [sinking realization]

You -- were also at Alqualonde with our mother and Turgon's. -- Helping.

 **Amarie** :

\-- To bury the dead, aye, as to find, and part dead from quick. 'Tis so.

 **Finrod** : [very quiet]

I'm sorry.

[growing comprehension]

\-- That's why you're not merely objecting to the home defense forces, but banging on the doors of Taniquetil and shouting at people.

 **Amarie** : [offended]

What, didst hold me too dainty-fine for such rough work, or but that mine ill-considered singleness of thought did send me unwitting counter to the multitude?

 **Finrod** :

I'm afraid so. I have a hard time thinking of you and the ugliness of violence together.

 **Amarie** : [brooding]

'Tis not _such_ doth chill my blood.

 **Finrod** : [still more realization dawning]

You could have set me down far more harshly, many times in the past hour, when we spoke of war, or Swanhaven, or -- you could have mocked me with your knowledge of death, and silenced me. But you didn't.

 **Amarie** : [rueful smile]

I do not wish thee ill -- only for to beat thee about the head, betimes.

 **Finrod** :

Thank you for that mercy.

 **Amarie** :

Make me no thanks that hath not heard the rest.

[she holds up the flower in her palm: in this environment it is already disintegrating, the petals wilted and falling from the center now that it has been cut off from its source]

Thou wert _devoured_ , as time devoureth this poor rose, as a caughten fish, as plank in blaze: how, then, shalt that passing dissolution be not as much of thee, as all else that resideth in thy mind's recalling, when thou art flesh again? Nor how might one, beholding thee, not hold the same -- 'tis not he, himself, for _he_ is gone, and this but counterfeit of him?

 **Finrod** : [anxious reassurance]

I was not, in point of fact, _eaten_ \-- only mauled, if that helps at all.

[Amarie doesn't say anything, at all; his acquaintances cringe, with headshakes and groans, too late and unnoticed]

 **Beren** : [wincing]

Ye gods, man!

 **Angrod** : [fatalistic]

He should have appointed a viceroy.

 **Steward** :

That has its limits: in the end one must speak alone.

[sharing a Look with the Teler Maid]

 **Amarie** : [grimly]

Thou hath missed the mark of't -- _thou_ _art_ _unhoused_ , howso 'twas, thy flesh in ruins, nor mought a second raiment change that ever.

[Nerdanel closes her eyes, and some of their hearers also begin to realize the nature of the real problem here]

 **Finrod** :

But you must have encountered _some_ people at least who have been rehoused, if you've been living at my parents' home these years.

 **Amarie** :

Aye, yet . . .

[she pauses, biting her lip, but still meets his gaze despite discomfiture]

I never thought to lie with any of such others.

[pause]

 **Finrod** :

Ah.

[he stands perfectly still, expressionless]

 **Amarie** : [pleading]

I had thought -- to grow accustomed to such notion, with passing of years --

 **Finrod** : [preemptory]

 _That_ won't change anything. It will still be as true then as it will tomorrow.

 **Amarie** :

\-- But let me make effort of't --

 **Finrod** : [fierce, humorless grin]

Do you _want_ to make me as mad as they proclaim me in Tirion? How do you think it would _be_ , for me, not knowing if your smiles and caresses were the truth, or but illusions, hiding your horror at my undeath, as if I were some monster of our Enemy's making, more vile than his phantom lures -- that every time I touched you, 'twas but a corpse's cold embrace in your thought?

[his voice is shaking]

That's _worse_ than your wrath, worse than very death, for there's _nothing_ I can do to change it, no more than did deserve it.

[he turns away, his face a mask of anguish, mastering tears with great effort]

We _are_ Cursed, and all who meet us, cursed with us --

[her own expression filled with longing and misery, Amarie reaches out her hand towards him, as if to stroke his hair, but draws back in the instant of doing so -- but not quick enough: he spins around, putting his own hand up to ear and cheek]

 **Finrod** :

Was that _you_?

 **Amarie** : [shocked]

Howso . . . ?

[her right hand is clenched at her breast, defensively]

 **Finrod** :

You did. -- You _touched_ me.

 **Amarie** : [disbelieving]

How moughten feel, where's naught of flesh to sense -- ?

 **Finrod** : [shaking his head]

How might I not? For is it not our souls that intertwine, clad in these earthly garments, as arm presses arm through the barrier of a sleeve, not the tunic of itself embracing? Or indeed, rather which _infuse_ , as light within a stone, filling all facets of its solid shape? And how might not my soul sense yours, that is my life, that is the unbroken mirror in whose bright surface I am but reflection, having no being of mine own apart from you, a ghost in spite of flesh all those Exiled years, severed from your self? If these dwellings are but image of our inward being, as the template on which our new bodies shall be reformed, then the margins of your spirit which impinged on mine, in the same space and instant as your flesh, did so perceive mine, being so attuned itself, and that direct impress was what we each did startle at.

[shrugs]

 _There's_ a theory, if you will. And here's another -- that where one touch was felt, in truth, another also shall be perceived no less.

[his tone is unconcerned, but wistful under the brittle lightness]

If it does not trouble you to touch me, thus, lacking any flesh at all, perhaps then, might it not as well follow, that some hereafter might not be entirely disagreeable? I think it might be possible, at least, to make a trial effort.

[wry]

Of course, I _could_ be wrong, in which case we'll look a proper pair of fools. But I'm not afraid of that, if you aren't.

 **Amarie** :

Nay, of folly's _seeming_ ne'er shall be.

[he moves towards her, lifting his hand as if to brush her cheek -- and she retreats a step. He freezes]

 **Finrod** :

It's true then -- you are afraid of _me_.

[silence]

 **Amarie** : [breathless]

Aye.

[her face is pale, eyes wide]

 **Teler Maid** : [troubled]

I am glad now that I did die, if that I had not, should have made me so towards ye --

[she looks from her true-love to his comrades and back]

At least, if I had power to choose, that I might not have been unhoused, but for that would think you dreadful and turn from you as the unquiet dead -- I would not change what's past.

[they are equally disturbed by this turn, though the Captain's grim humour is reflexive]

 **Captain** :

Well, the _unquiet_ part's true --

 **Amarie** : [earnest]

'Tis not that I _would_ turn from thee --

 **Finrod** : [ruthless]

Perhaps you hold I have _changed_ in the lands beyond, grown harsh in their harshness, forgotten all gentility? Perhaps indeed, you recall old fearful tales, half disbelieved, but half-remembered, from the dangerous days in the distant East, and the wild roadless journey of the March? I assure you, they are quite true. There are those of our kind who when slain, for madness, or dread, or angry vengeance unfulfilled, do indeed seek to take what is not theirs by right, and dispossess the unwary and the weaker -- the substance of those stories, of changeling children, old friends, lovers grown strange and unfamiliar, though all their features be the same.

 **Finarfin** : [shocked]

Thou hast seen!?

[Finrod gives him a nod, but doesn't turn from Amarie]

 **Finrod** :

Seen, though thankfully seldom -- seen, and sent them hence -- or rather, _hither_ . . . even when the kin of those whose house was stolen still pleaded otherwise, preferring the illusion of a loved one's life to the cold truth.

 **Nerdanel** :

 _Wherefore_ . . . ? If they would not have vengeance . . . why not let them live?

 **Finrod** :

And what of _justice_?

[pause]

And what of _mercy_ , for those who'll come after? For who has stolen a life _once_ , and found it pleasant, if not the doing then the reward, shall surely rob again. I banished one who had taken six lives to guard its own -- for the Houseless no longer remembered whether he, or she, was born male or female -- five dwellings, and the sixth murdered and made seemingly an accident, when the older sister knew her little brother did not return from play, though none else suspected. Six! By one spirit, and with each the deed grew easier -- and the taken lives less valued, and heedless risk embraced for pleasure -- until all the village knew, and feared to speak, fearing to be the next.

 **Finarfin** : [aside]

And yet there are many that have slain more, that live still, for all thy justice.

 **Finrod** : [sharply]

I have slain _none_ of our own people -- Firstborn or Secondborn or Fosterling -- with my own hand. -- Nor is dispossessing one of the Undead _killing_ , though the body perishes after. But I have sent to death in battle many, and not merely by error -- and I have dealt harsh justice of banishment in the Marred Lands to living and houseless alike. Make no mistake of me.

[pause; to Amarie]

\-- So, then, is that what you fear? That I might lure you to destruction with a kiss, stealing _you_ from yourself in ravening hunger for warmth and color and taste and substance, and the morning sunrise over the ocean that I have never seen, and the stones of Tirion that I have never forgotten, and birdsong and bellsong that are not mere memories -- and every bodily thing that is bereft me by my choosing -- and take your flesh and fling you hence naked into the cold and the dark even as the ghosts I have driven forth?

[his father flinches, but does not look at him with any less affection; Amarie stares at him with huge eyes]

 **Amarie** : [softly]

I deny it not: there is some such about it.

 **Finrod** : [same iron tone]

Then let us end these games at once, and call it quits, my lady. For if you truly believe that _I_ should _ever_ do such a thing to any soul -- then never, _never_ should you wed me.

[her lips quiver, but she does not look away from his gaze]

 **Finarfin** : [anguished]

 _Son_ \--

[but Finrod does not pay attention to him]

 **Finrod** : [gently, to Amarie alone]

Do you not know that you might brush me aside like the mist of a morning, and disperse me with a careless wave of your hand? -- Or else hold me fast, that I should stand for all time, until you might release me from your clasp -- for _you_ are real, and whole, and I have no presence, set against thee, unless you most graciously do allow.

[intense]

I know that I have hurt, and _would_ never to do so again -- but know, too, that I shall, being who I am, and sorrow for it ere it's done. And yet such faults I'll seek to mend, knowing I shall fail ever, but for your sake. I have no power to touch you, save you do grant it -- I cannot hold you back from leaving me, if you go from here, but must wait until such hour as you return, who are mine own Arien, that I must love despite disdain and mine own follies, like the random Moon -- and give me life once more.

 **Amarie** : [fighting tears]

Thou art weaving a spell to steal my heart again.

[he shakes his head]

 **Finrod** :

Of truth only.

 **Amarie** : [whispering]

And what is stronger than _truth_?

[she reaches out, her hand shaking, and presses her palm against his cheek. They both start and recoil in an instant, staring at each other:]

 **Finrod** : [hoarse]

 _Fire_ \--

 **Amarie** : [dismayed]

\-- And thou, _ice_ \--

 **Finrod** :

\-- and music as of trumpets --

 **Amarie** :

\-- _Aye_ \--

[she is crying now]

\-- Did I hurt thee?

[he shakes his head again]

I have, I ken it well. -- When I sent thee into darkness alone and withouten mercy for mine anger -- and again, when I sent thee word forbidding thee my light, knowing thou wouldst obey, and guessing well thou'd stay in shadow all the whiles. I have used thee cruelly.

[before he can deny it]

\-- I meant to make thee suffer so long as I have waited --

 **Finrod** : [shaking his head]

\-- And yet you laid but a tithe of that on me in charge. Say not that Amarie is cruel -- or say that I am so as well.

[he reaches out to her shoulder, and she shudders, and he flinches back, looking away. She catches his hand, however, before he can pull completely back, and draws him towards her.]

 **Amarie** : [pleading]

Thy touch is cold, and flesh cannot help but shiver, when the wind bloweth northerly.

[she holds out her other hand, open, and after a moment he gives her his, expressionless]

 **Amarie** :

And art thou truly held?

 **Finrod** :

Aye -- for otherwise I must deem myself shadow, and how can I, when you hold me fast? No more might I refuse to believe _you_ real --

 **Amarie** :

Then let's put thy theorem to the test --

[she leans forward and kisses him: he remains statue-still meanwhile]

 **Amarie** : [sounding a little disappointed]

Have they changed such custom in the Old World as well?

 **Finrod** :

I feared to give offense.

 **Amarie** :

Offense? -- else affright?

 **Finrod** :

That as well.

 **Amarie** :

Callst thou me _coward_ , then? Come, try my courage, my lord --

[she kisses him again, Finrod meeting her halfway (at least) this time -- she is flushed when they break off at last.]

 **Amarie** :

Strange, that so cold a touch should such a blaze ignite -- !

[she gives him a shrewd look]

Thou art affrighted.

[he does not deny it]

Where's that old vaunting confidence of thine?

 **Finrod** : [low voice, looking directly at her]

Across the Sea, upon an island in a river there, under earth and stone.

 **Amarie** : [not flinching or looking away]

And will it return, when thy bones be wrought anew?

 **Finrod** :

I fear it may.

 **Amarie** :

Good -- timorousness becometh thee ill. But I'll reef thee hard, an thou makest overmuch to windward, for now hast my heart for cargo, and I'll not let thee break it again, that twice hast stolen it away.

 **Finrod** :

Say not "thief," for it was hard-won.

 **Amarie** :

And what wilt thou do with it, now thou hast won? Keep it coffered safe in treasury?

 **Finrod** :

Nay -- I'll make a setting, and bear it about with me that all may marvel at it, and I'll cry, "Behold! Amarie does love me!" and seeing the light of your heart shining over Aman's verdure, they'll deem the Sun has risen out of her hours for the bright generosity of your soul.

 **Amarie** : [shaking her head]

\-- Oh wretch, to make me laugh at such a time! -- And what wilt thou give me in return for it?

 **Finrod** :

Nothing . . . for it is yours already. Did you not mark it when I returned your ring?

[she slowly takes out a thin gold band from inside her sash and looks at it]

 **Amarie** :

Now I mark it -- 'twas most cunningly done.

 **Finrod** :

I see you've kept it well these years.

 **Amarie** :

And shall keep it still -- but this _ring_ I'll give thee again, when thou hast flesh to wear it, and to fashion thyself another to give to me.

 **Finrod** :

Nay, no other -- it shall be _the_ _same_ , it wants but that which I also lack --

[holds out the semblance of a shining circlet]

They could not take the memory of my love from me.

[making as if to put it on her finger]

 **Amarie** : [raising her hand to stop him]

Is't not illusory?

 **Finrod** :

Is the _tengwa_ an illusion, or but that which stands as placeholder for the thing itself?

[he opens his fingers -- the ring vanishes, and he traces a symbol in the air, which glows as if made of white-hot metal]

Is not "ore" as real, or illusory, as the meaning we give it? Whether it be sign of seeing, or of voice, that stands for heart's dearer heart --

[he scoops up the light and closes his hand around it, then upturns it to reveal the ring again]

 **Amarie** : [hoarse]

\-- And canst thou give me that slight trinket, _here_?

 **Finrod** :

Believe you, then, that it is real?

[long, long stare between them -- they both know what exactly he's asking]

 **Amarie** :

 _Aye_.

[she lets him slip it on her finger, and turns her hand to look at the band of light]

 **Amarie** :

I cannot tell, if 'tis meant to be of silver or of gold.

 **Finrod** :

When we change it, 'twill be gold.

 **Amarie** :

Thou'lt return with us? -- When this set is played through?

 **Finrod** :

When my work is done here, I'll home with ye.

 **Amarie** :

Which home?

 **Finrod** :

Whichever you best please. To my parents' hall in Tirion, or thine in Valmar -- if you think they'll not beat me from the door like a prowling thief.

[pause]

 **Amarie** :

Nay, they'll scarce mark thee to reproach thee, in their haste to hurl recriminations 'gainst mine own self.

 **Finrod** : [incredulous but troubled]

Your parents are still angry with you?

 **Amarie** : [resigned]

Not _yet_ , -- aye but yet e'en so, for 'tis ever and again renewed, and in deed hath builded high upon that first foundation of their discontent.

 **Finrod** :

Because of your protest activities?

[she makes a dismissive gesture, and sits down abruptly on the grass, folding her arms forlornly around her knees; he sinks down cautiously next to her, waiting for her answer.]

 **Amarie** : [glum]

That's but the last, and aye the least.

 **Finrod** : [warily]

What -- else -- have you been doing, while we've been abroad?

[she sighs, as the rest of their friends and family gather around on the floor and hillside to hear her]

 **Amarie** : [matter-of-fact]

I did go unto the venture of Alqualonde, there to give succour and such labour as might haply be required.

 **Finrod** :

Surely they weren't upset with you for _that_?

 **Amarie** :

Most assuredly not so, 'twas held no less of esteem than for all others that did likewise help to make complete the City of its needs; yet, I trust thou kennest well such work it never shall be done.

[Finrod gives a rueful smile]

And therein lieth the gall.

 **Finrod** :

I'm sorry, I'm probably being really obtuse, but I don't understand.

 **Finarfin** : [half-smile]

Thy lady would convey that since that work hath yet not ended, nor hath she gone forth from there, or from our halls in Tirion, to high Valmar's streets save upon the visit, and 'tis even for that changéd state that her kin are much disappoint -- though for the moster part I think have given off their 'plaint.

 **Amarie** : [ironic]

Thou wert not at table, I fear, at yon latest sojourn in their halls.

[to Luthien]

Now dost comprehend in full the poison sweetness of thy words' bitter jest? Mine elders be less wroth than aggrieved, and all my kin -- yet that is little less gloomsome than the other.

 **Finrod** : [completely confused]

You never went home? _Why_?

[before she can answer]

You're not one for building, or masonry, or carpentry, or -- what _help_ could you be, once the injured were cared for and the rough work of clearing out debris was finished -- ?

[closing his eyes]

Someone hit me for that abysmal display of Noldor arrogance and wrong-headedness.

 **Amarie** : [playful]

And thou willt, my lord --

[she lays her palm across his cheek, not in a slap but a soft caress, and he starts convulsively but does not pull away, keeping his eyes closed as he leans against her hand]

 **Finrod** :

\-- Most glorious and fiery-souled -- !

 **Amarie** : [wistful]

I think thy spirit hath less of the grave-cold on't, in truth --

 **Finrod** : [drunkenly]

One finger's tip would summon me if I were less sensible and colder than these stones -- for it is not the _house_ that gives warmth, but the flame within it, though without walls to hold and guard it, that heat is swiftly stolen by the night. _I_ am those coals, that you have breathed upon, to burn anew -- I am the darkened land, but sleeping, waiting for Anar's rising that now wakes lilies with her touch -- I am --

 **Amarie** : [quelling]

\-- a mad Elf, forsooth, that shall ne'er hear the answer to his questioning, dost thou not cease from lauds but a moment.

[reluctantly he pulls away from her touch, smiling at them both]

 **Finrod** :

Indeed, I would like to hear it -- if you will of your mercy consider the question as it were asked in a manner less ill-mannered, as it should have been.

 **Amarie** : [shaking her head, amused]

'Tis only thus: I found many things there that I had not dreamt of, beside grim death and broken flesh and bitterest hurtings of the heart, that wound themselves against my heart, as the wayward sea-ferns do twine upon the pier, and did hold me fast there. I saw houses, as ne'er had seen before, and roofs, and the rounding curvet of the wavelet's foam, and _ships_ \--

 **Finrod** :

But you've seen boats before --

[pause]

I am really going to have to work hard at not talking over people, aren't I. -- I don't suppose I can convince you to hit me again, to aid remembering?

 **Amarie** : [shaking her head]

Thou ranting fond fool -- I had not cared so for such things, beyond merest usefulness, that they be serviceable as fair, but of all the deeper matters of craft and comprehending, little care had I -- so much thou kennst well, my lord, for surely thou hast not forgot how thou wert disappoint, that I but gave thee tolerance when thou wouldst speak of thine inventions, though --

[she smiles sadly over at the Steward]

\-- such uninterest made me not a whit less jealous, that thou shouldst seek other companioning, that shared thy desires for worldly wisdom. Yet in Alqualonde I learned me of such loves -- for 'tis strange, but in mending of things wrecked, I found me curious of the manner of their making, that had not drawn me when they were whole as wrought.

[sighs again]

So, now, indeed they do say that I am turned Noldor, in Valmar, eke that I do forget mine own self, aye, that I am _dimmed_ , and do forget the purer Musics, for being all consuméd up in stuff and trifles.

 **Finrod** :

Oh.

[pause. Somewhat worried:]

What are you _making_?

[aside]

It can't be _weapons_ , too -- ?!

 **Amarie** : [deprecating shrug]

Ships, and sails, and sundry necessaries that do befit them.

[the Teler Maid stares at her in amazement]

 **Finrod** : [politely]

Oh. That's nice.

[aside]

But I don't really see why it's such a matter of noteworthiness -- though I suppose it's different if one's born Vanyar.

 **Finarfin** : [meaningful]

Tell him, daughter, of the vessels aeronautical.

[Amarie looks away, embarrassed, waving her hand]

 **Finrod** :

Aeronautical? -- You mean -- flying?

 **Amarie** : [deprecating, a little exasperated]

They do not _fly_ , good my lords.

 **Finarfin** :

Then my eyes do fail me, I fear -- for I did behold daylight under's keel, I did vouchsafe.

 **Amarie** :

Not far, at the least. Nor much of height.

 **Finrod** :

This is a joke, right?

[he looks at them]

You're making _flying_ _ships_?

[Amarie looks diffident; his father nods, with a slight smile]

\-- How?

 **Amarie** :

Thy grandsire did give to me a wharf, set aside for mine own especial work, when that I did finish mine apprenticing, that I might carry out my designs and put them to hard test, with those my company of friends that are most glad unto the striving.

[sad, but calm]

No longer are there made any such vessels of greatness nor so fair as were in the first days, for their makers were slain, and must relearn their skill from such as once were student of their mastery, and joy is less, to set such heart's grace into the working, for ever's thought that it be ruined after, that once was ta'en. -- Yet we do make anew.

 **Nerdanel** : [approving]

Aye, and things most fairly strange, that never did ride wind nor wave in bygone Day.

 **Finrod** : [slowly]

You're telling me that while I was gone, my true-love became a shipwright and inventor of things barely dreamt of? Like -- ships that _fly_.

 **Amarie** : [shrugs]

'Twas no great _invention_ , after I did see Isil ascend upon the Night. 'Twas but that I did dream me of other vessels lofting, and how bird's wings be like to sails, so that it seemed me how a ship might rise from off the surface of the Sea.

 **Finrod** :

You're a genius.

 **Amarie** : [shaking her head]

'Tis yet but a dream, aye, belike shalt e'er be nay but so -- Sealark XII hath made but a furlong and a little more, nor shall she, until that I do find some means to fashion sails of greater lightness that shall not tear.

 **Finrod** :

You're a _genius_.

[his expression is bemused and a bit forlorn]

 **Angrod** : [curious]

Are you _jealous_? -- Ingold?

 **Finrod** :

N -- Yes. -- What happened to the first eleven?

 **Amarie** : [dismissive]

Sundry fates.

 **Finrod** :

Fates -- that doesn't sound promising.

 **Amarie** :

The last as latest but for one, I did unmake for to remake, metamorphosizing each into the latter.

[her tone is too innocent]

 **Finrod** :

What about the other ones? -- What about the sundry?

 **Finarfin** : [dryly]

Aye.

 **Amarie** :

They -- flew not.

 **Nerdanel** :

And perished, and did sink. Or so did I hear tell.

[overlapping]

 **Finrod** :

But not with you?

 **Aegnor** :

You weren't _on_ them, surely?

 **Amarie** :

Nay.

[reluctant admission]

\-- Not as they slipped beneath.

 **Angrod** :

But you were when they . . . fell out of the sky?

 **Finarfin** :

Thy grandsire, lads, did recount me how his heart did fail him, when the sixth did turn as upon a wheel, and thy lady must dive will-she, nill-she, to the waves' welcome, and must eke perforce swim far from out beneath, where the web and wrack did lie outspread upon the waters like fair Uinen's tresses.

 **Amarie** : [defensive]

 _Then_ I had not countered the sails' weight for their greater increase with sufficiency of keel. It hath not befallen since.

[silence]

 **Aegnor** :

Brother, I take back every last word I've ever said, about you being the craziest soul in Valinor.

 **Finrod** : [blankly]

I withdraw any word I might have uttered concerning or implying any lack of courage, boldness or temerity. -- Amarie, are you quite mad? Why do you persist in it? Why don't you _stop_ if they keep hurtling into the sea?

 **Amarie** : [starry-eyed]

For the glory of't, that might ride upon the vaunting winds as wild horses tamed to mine own thought, for there's naught like to it in all Aman --

[ruefully realistic]

\-- until the silks doth rip and spill me on the green like to careless rider, and all to be fished out that might, and hie us home to the yards once more.

 **Angrod** :

Couldn't you just ask the gods to fix it so that they would _stay_ up, instead? -- Like Isil?

 **Amarie** : [offended]

Nay, where's the Art in that? Belike, but I had liefer learn of myself, else fail, of mine own skill, than be granted such as favour, like toy unto child that hath not skill of knife nor needle -- !

[sighing, as the Noldor nod in understanding]

Yet I do come to fear that none might comprehend full well the winds' riding save that hath done so, a-wing.

[to Luthien, forlornly]

I envy thee thy time misspent in vampire form, beyond all power to tell't.

[to Finrod, earnest]

Fear not for me, I am _most_ particular of care in all mine endeavor. They be light, and little as kites, nor do I bring them nigh the rocks, but only to the calmest deeps. 'Tis only the winds have been unseasonably changeful of late, these past years twain, that hath cost us much of spar as line, nor only for my little gossamer-seeds, but so to our greater vessels, so that mine own great ship wherefrom I loose the lesser, and many more besides, have been compelled to rest in harbour, and repair.

 **Beren** : [awkwardly]

Er . . . that's _my_ fault.

[stares from all of them]

No, _really_ \-- it was.

 **Finrod** : [enormous sigh]

Beren --

 **Beren** :

Yavanna said so.

[silence]

Well, okay, I -- well -- not like I _did_ it -- I didn't mean to get killed or be the target of the world's largest manhunt and I didn't know she'd be upset about it or that the heavy storms and the early winter the year before were anything but luck.

[silence]

I mean, it felt like an extremely _mixed_ blessing at the time -- yeah, the torrential downpours sure cut down on the forest fires, but I still couldn't get much sleep with all the flash floods and the hurricane winds . . .

[he trails off, flustered]

 **Finrod** :

I think I can safely speak for us all when I say that we would be very much obliged if you didn't occasion any more such weather patterns in the immediate or rather more distant future.

[they look at each other for a long, meaningful moment]

 **Beren** : [wry]

Okay.

 **Finrod** :

\-- Flying ships.

[he sighs; Amarie looks at him in concern]

 **Amarie** :

Thou art envious.

[he shakes his head, gazing at her with rueful amusement]

 **Finrod** :

My love has made a flying ship -- a little baby flying ship, but a flying ship nonetheless -- ! And there are things in the world that I never dreamed of, and shall be, and so much that I have yet to learn! And I am not sure where to begin, and I feel rather as though I have been tricked.

[laughing at himself]

I thought I came home to a place drear and narrow, where I should have no place save some small pittance made for me in pity, and it galled my spirit -- and now I find that it is changed, in ways both terrible and splendid, and I do not know what my place shall be in it, -- save that it shall be among those I love.

[he lets himself fall backwards onto the grass, stretching out his arms with an exuberant grin]

 **Finarfin** :

Aye, that is truth!

 **Finrod** : [folding his arms behind his head, smiling at Amarie]

And you will helm your caravel, and I'll sit upon your deck and play for you and sing, and there'll be naught but music about us, of wind and wave and the birds' cries, and we'll have perfect peace and laziness the whole day long and the starry night --

 **Captain** : [aside]

Until they sail around a headland and he shouts, "Oh, what a perfect place for a castle! Let's stop and put one there! -- And there!"

 **Finrod** : [snorting]

It didn't happen like _that_.

 **Angrod** : [looking at the vaulting]

Near enough.

 **Luthien** :

Your sister said it did.

 **Ambassador** :

Aye, and Lord Cirdan, too.

 **Finrod** : [ignoring them]

And you'll teach me how to steer your wingéd ships, and perhaps we'll find some way to sing a stronger fabric for their sails --

 **Amarie** : [warningly]

Belike thou'lt find it most troublous, nor care for such unquiet voyaging, nor uncertain speed, for even do they not lift above, my larks do dart most swiftly o'er the foam, and many of my folk like it but little.

 **Finrod** :

I suppose I might, at that.

 **Amarie** : [mournful]

But most like thou'lt take to it like a bird to the wind and better me, I fear.

 **Finrod** :

Probably. -- Will you forgive me for it?

 **Amarie** : [sidelong Look]

Aye, and in advance of thine offense, if thou'lt but pay me forfeit of it --

 **Finrod** :

Of what matter shall this forfeit be?

 **Amarie** :

Of no matter at all -- but of thy fancy . . . and remembrance . . . and desire.

[he starts to sit up]

Hold: be thou still, and yield me my due --

[she kneels and leans over him, trapping him between her arms, and bends to kiss him, not perfunctorily. Their companions are amused as much as pleased by their reconciled state; but a look of dawning uncertainty begins to creep over the face of Nienna's Apprentice.]

 **Amarie** : [sitting back]

Dost doubt me now?

 **Finrod** :

Never. -- Shall I not further pay, against such offense as I shall surely make?

 **Amarie** : [a bit unsteadily]

Nay, I've had my forfeit, I'll not rob thee --

 **Finrod** :

Plunder me, love, and I'll hold myself rich to be so dearly robbed -- !

[she does not wait for further encouraging]

 **Apprentice** : [dismayed aside]

Can they _do_ that?

[his teacher appears behind him (or was she there all along?) stepping forward through the darkness like a fine curtain]

 **Nienna** :

Please don't try to be cryptic, you haven't the knack for it yet.

[as he recovers from his start]

Obviously they _can_ , so I assume that isn't what you're asking.

 **Apprentice** :

But how _can_ they do that?

 **Nienna** : [shrugging]

I've really no idea. You could ask them.

 **Apprentice** :

But he's discorporate! And _she_ isn't!

 **Nienna** :

I do think they're quite aware of those respective facts, don't you?

 **Apprentice** : [grimacing]

But he's _dead_! It's just . . .

[he trails off, his teacher just looks at him]

 **Nienna** :

Was not this harmony in accord with our aims?

 **Apprentice** :

Well, yes, but -- _in_ _here_? It -- it seems so _disrespectful_!

 **Nienna** :

Of whom, exactly?

[pause]

I'll tell you what -- why don't you go and explain it to my brother and see what he says. I'm sure he'll be overjoyed at being interrupted in the middle of his spook-hunt and _delighted_ to have one more complaint to handle.

 **Apprentice** :

Er . . .

 **Nienna** :

Or you could find Vaire and see if she rates public displays of affection between incarnates and discorporates on the same level as unauthorized structural renovations and what she wants to say about it.

 **Apprentice** :

. . .

 **Nienna** : [growing enthusiasm]

I think that's an excellent idea, actually. Why don't you go and ask them _both_?

 **Apprentice** :

Please, m'lady, no -- I'd rather do the thing with the candles again.

 **Nienna** :

But it wouldn't mean anything to you this time. This would be a _new_ challenge.

 **Apprentice** :

But I already know that you're trying to make me realize that some situations really aren't worth getting upset over and that one should meddle carefully or not at all and that the consequences of trying to fix something may be worse than the original mess and so I wouldn't actually be learning anything.

 **Nienna** : [mild]

Hm. You're being far too clever for me.

 **Apprentice** : [crestfallen]

Master, I'm sorry -- I didn't mean to sound arrogant and snide, I just couldn't help it.

 **Nienna** :

You're getting bored, I can tell. Why don't you go and find some other trouble to solve, then?

 **Apprentice** :

Really?

 **Nienna** : [shrugs]

If you're up to the challenge.

 **Apprentice** :

But of course!

[he leaves, gleeful, and she sighs and shakes her head, hiding a smile, before turning to approach the solitary Maia sitting resentfully on the dais. Amarie straightens, putting a hand up to her hair, which is all disordered and falling down on one side.]

 **Amarie** :

Where's yon comb? Whence this undoing?

[frowns at her husband, who sits up and rests his chin on his hand, smiling at her innocently]

 _Thou_.

 **Finrod** :

I'm only a shade. How could I take out your hair-clip, particularly without your noticing it?

 **Amarie** : [snorting]

Didst but now pledge to shift a thousand-weight else more of stone, then _assuredly_ might lift but a pin. As for marking it or no --

[she tries unsuccessfully to scowl at him]

\-- _dost_ not ken?

[running her hand lightly through his hair -- he shivers, closing his eyes. Adamant]

My _comb_ , my lord.

[sighing, Finrod points to a nearby tuft of grass; she siezes it and begins pinning back the loose side -- but when her head is turned away, he reaches up and brushes the other comb, which falls out. Luthien starts giggling helplessly, as Amarie turns and glares at her ghostly consort, who only smiles as she gives up the attempt in disgust.]

 **Angrod** : [mock seriousness]

Amarie, are you _sure_ about this? He's twenty times worse now that he's got no life-and-death responsibilities.

 **Beren** :

Yeah, but not crazier than me.

 **Amarie** : [wisely]

Ah well, then well-matched shall be we twain.

 **Finrod** : [shaking his forefinger in emphasis]

Note, note, note ye well -- _I_ did not say she was crazy, I've _never_ said that --

 **Nerdanel** : [sighing, smiling]

Hath a one broached some casque of wine etherial, that ye all are come jauncing as foals of a mid-Summer?

 **Nessa** : [appearing on the hillside above them]

No, but it sounds like an _excellent_ idea.

[she and the Wrestler are dry, but somehow indefineably more disheveled than before]

\-- Where's Measse, love?

 **Tulkas** : [shrugs]

I dunno -- she was wild for some hunt your brother was organzing, and I wasn't paying attention when they said what they were going after.

 **Nessa** :

We'll just have to fend for ourselves, then --

[a wide calyx-like cup appears in her open hand, just as a tremendous blaze as of lightning rips through the Hall -- three tall, shining, warlike figures appear in its glare (Note: their armour and weapons can be utterly fantastic, in fact, the more elaborate and unrealistic the better). One of them is female, all of them rather terrifying. (Classic adventure stars John Justin, June Duprez ( _The Thief of Baghdad_ , 1940) and Anthony Bushell ( _The Scarlet Pimpernel_ , 1934, _Dark Journey_ , 1937) could play these Maiar.)]

Oh, there you are, how convenient --

[interrupting, oblivious, all talking at once in commanding tones]

 **Alatar** :

Why isn't anyone _answering_?

 **Measse** :

We've been calling and calling for _Ages_ \--

 **Pallando** : [disgusted]

 _Not_ Ages, don't exaggerate --

 **Alatar** : [looking around]

Where's Lord Namo and Himself?

 **Pallando** : [indignant]

Are you having a _party_ while there's a rogue elemental on the loose?!?

 **Measse** : [even more indignant]

\-- _Without_ us!?!

[silence]

 **Tulkas** :

\-- Don't know -- Really? -- Ring of Doom -- Yes -- Want to join us? -- Got any more questions? I'll answer 'em.

 **Nessa** : [admiring]

You're _good_.

 **Beren** : [to the Nargothronders, deadpan]

More friends of yours? 'Cause otherwise I think we're in trouble.

 **Tulkas** : [disdainful]

Huh. Bunch of lightweights, all gussied up in shells like turtles. Don't know nothin' about _real_ fighting.

[the three Immortal warriors roll their eyes at this familiar strain, and somehow seem a little dimmer and diminished after his words]

 **Nessa** : [waving]

Measse, could you be a dear and run home for us, and fetch --

 **Measse** : [urgent]

I'm sorry but we've _got_ to go find them and tell them we've finally found him --

[with another flash they disappear, leaving behind a moment of stunned silence]

 **Beren** :

Wow.

[snorts]

I _guess_ I'm glad they're on our side.

 **Luthien** : [bemused]

Maybe Mom emigrated looking for peace and quiet, you think?

 **Ambassador** :

It seems a distinct possibility, strange though it is to say it.

 **Nessa** :

I'm surprised they didn't just _ride_ in here.

 **Tulkas** :

Nah, Vaire'd pitch a fit. Hey, who's making bad puns now? "Be a dear and run home?" Huh?

 **Nessa** : [exaggerated sigh]

Love, you don't understand what a pun _is_ , do you?

[she takes a sip from the wine-cup -- which upon inspection is of the "mastos" design, a round vessel similar to a calyx but with no base, which therefore cannot be set down, once filled, until emptied -- and passes it to the nearest Elf (it does not matter if shade or living.)]

 **Steward** :

I fear I do not think that any of the Ainur do, my Lady.

 **Tulkas** :

You're probably right. You keep changing all the rules around, how do you _expect_ anyone to understand that language game?

[helping himself to some of the grapes]

Like all those letter-whatsits that Feanor made: pretty, but why can't people just remember stuff? That'd be easier than remembering _other_ things to help you remember stuff, right? -- Here, have some mead, we'll just all make do 'til my cup-bearer gets back.

[he too offers his drinking-horn to their "guests" -- but is intercepted by a naughty Huan lunging between to sample the contents]

Hey!

[the focus shifts to to the shadowy corner of the dais where Nienna is listening to Aule's aide with a very concerned expression as the other Ainu goes on and on (and on) about the unfairness of his life:]

 **Assistant** : [injured dignity]

I tried -- no one can say I didn't, or that I could have tried any harder --

 **Nienna** :

But what were you trying to _do_ , exactly?

 **Assistant** : [not listening to her question]

I don't expect to be given preferential treatment, but I _do_ expect fairness. And it is not fair by any standard or definition, that that _clown_ who's been assigned to you for correction, milady, should be able to bumble his way along, making no efforts whatsoever to bring about order or discipline but rather the reverse and not even be reprimanded for negligence, while I, for trying to do what is right and nothing else, am reproached for following directions! -- It isn't just.

[segue from Nienna listening patiently to his indignant soliloquy to focus on the Steward, listening attentively but not happily as his true-love tries to convince him of something, their hands laced on the upper frame of the harp they hold between them]

 **Teler Maid** : [earnest Look]

But it might well be that _they_ have changed no less than you, and will welcome you now that you are come back in pardon and honour.

 **Steward** : [grimly]

I had rather live in a driftwood hut on some distant salt-marsh, and _you_ had rather I live in a hut on some such strand, than dwell again in the halls of my family, whether they pardon me or not. For there is _nothing_ I have done that has answered any of their expectations, nor will they understand, no matter how much you nor I nor any seek to explain to them, what it is that my life's Work has been.

[looks away]

You do not wish to see me in such perpetual ill-temper, trust me. _Visit_ them, yes. My father will feed you and my mother adorn you with delight, and they will seek to paint your image in those fine gifts and gowns, and praise your piping and reproach me that I never brought you to visit them, instead of the contemptuous scions of House Feanor, and I shall be able to endure it a season, perhaps, but how long _you_ will be able to stand seeing me set down, and compelled as child and guest and failure not to answer, I dare not guess. I must live elsewhere -- anywhere else.

 **Teler Maid** :

But what will you _do_ , when we are Outside?

 **Steward** : [tautly]

Not live at my parents' homes.

[pause]

I do not know. But my place is _not_ in Enedir's workshop.

 **Teler Maid** : [forlorn]

Are we quarreling already?

[pause]

 **Steward** :

No. Only disagreeing. Friends do that, upon occasion.

 **Teler Maid** :

\-- Friends.

[her smile returns]

 **Captain** :

You know what _I_ think we should do.

 **Steward** : [blandly]

Oh yes. I know.

 **Teler Maid** :

What is it?

 **Captain** :

We find us some horses and convince them to come along, and we start travelling, not just in the parts where everyone lives, and -- we see what there is to see.

 **Teler Maid** :

And where do we sleep?

 **Captain** :

Wherever we stop.

 **Teler Maid** :

What if it rains?

 **Captain** : [shrugging]

I suppose we can make tents, though it seems unnecessary baggage to me.

 **Teler Maid** :

And what do we eat?

 **Captain** :

Whatever we catch, or find that day. It would always be different. -- Doesn't that sound like fun?

[pause]

 **Teler Maid** :

Not very.

 **Captain** :

That's what he thinks too, except he always finds that he likes it. It's the natural life for Elves, not this foolishness of living in stone boxes.

 **Teler Maid** :

But I like our cities!

 **Captain** :

And you'd like camping too, if you'd give it a chance. It's easier than living on a boat, that's for certain.

 **Teler Maid** : [doubtful]

\-- Sometimes perhaps.

 **Captain** :

You just wait and see. We'll get Suli' to come too. Who knows, I might have nieces or nephews by now, to make it a proper party. It'll be grand.

 **Steward** : [looking at the ceiling]

That means you'll come home to find all your gear being rummaged through by a maniac who happily announces, "We're off to Himring! Why aren't you packed?" as if it were a walk to the plaza, not a journey covering three-quarters of the subcontinent, and in pouring March rains and wind, to boot.

 **Captain** :

Oh, come on -- it wasn't like that, and besides if you hadn't been dawdling around trying to do everyone else's work for them, I wouldn't have had to take care of your luggage for you all the time. I swear you deliberately waited to the last minute every time we set out so I'd end up packing for you. -- At least it wasn't hailing.

 **Teler Maid** : [dry]

And you did abide with this for all this Age?

[the Steward only shrugs]

\-- I see now how you did learn patience.

[the Captain gives her an affronted Look, as Finarfin cannot help chuckling at their turnabout, while the divine vintage is circulated ever more freely about the gathering. Perhaps a little too freely: Finrod, propped up on one elbow to take the wine-cup, suddenly turns to Beren, with an expression of barely-suppressed mischief...]

 **Finrod** :

Think of this, my lord of Beor, to console yourself -- now that we're related several times over --

 **Angrod** : [snorting]

No, you're _not_ \-- we sorted this out, remember?

 **Aegnor** :

\-- Edrahil did, at least.

 **Finrod** : [earnest]

No, I thought of _another_ way. -- You're going to _hate_ it.

[to Finarfin and Nerdanel, quickly]

Father, Aunt 'Danel, just pretend you don't understand our dialect for a moment. It's amusing if one's dead.

[the living Eldar look somewhat disconcerted]

Amarie, I beg you, don't be angry: we're just laughing in daylight at past nightmares again.

[she touches the back of his hand, giving him a rueful smile, and he continues in lecturing mode:]

You know the Lindar custom of forging a blood-bond between those with no kinship ties --

[his brothers start correcting him (and each other) before he can finish]

 **Aegnor** :

That's Sindarin originally, I'm fairly certain.

 **Angrod** :

No, they absorbed that from the Haladin, it wasn't originally a custom of our people in Beleriand --

 **Finrod** : [cutting them off with a risky gesture, given the wine-cup in hand]

As a matter of fact, you're both wrong and both right, because the Secondborn learned it from the Singers on the other side of the mountains, and brought it with them in their travels from Estolad, whence it was taken up along Doriath's marches, but the fraction of Denethor's following who stayed in Seven Rivers have also maintained it to some extent, so precedent and ownership of the custom are pretty tangled by now. Regardless the point is --

[looking at Beren quizzically]

\-- when we were fighting over you, between teeth and claws and us trampling you, enough of my blood must have mingled with yours to bind us three times over.

 **Beren** :

. . .

 **Finrod** : [to his siblings]

So you see, Beren's not just related to me as our cousin's spouse, and I don't have to count anyone twice, either.

[dead silence as everyone tries to figure out if they can change the subject yet or not or how]

 **Beren** : [with a sidelong glance]

I don't think it works that way, Sir. Otherwise everyone who died on the same battlefield would be related. I think it has to be deliberate, for it to count.

 **Finrod** : [dismissive]

But if we _had_ thought of it, we would have intended it. So when you're worrying about annoying or scandalizing Elu in the future, think of it as rather the upholding of a long family tradition, as our blood-brother --

[Luthien and Amarie exchange a wry Look]

 **Aegnor** : [dry]

As was but lately pointed out to myself, Ingold, _none_ of us have any blood, now, so you've got to say _former_ , and I don't think that our uncle will be greatly impressed by a retroactive claim.

 **Finrod** :

But it isn't retroactive, _or_ past-tense. It's the same as any investiture of office, like regency or stewardship: it holds even if the physical symbols of that office are destroyed or lost.

 **Aegnor** : [taking the wine from his distracted brother and handing it on]

I'd _love_ to have seen you try that one on Lord Namo.

 **Finrod** : [straightfaced]

You don't think he would have gone for it? I suppose it's too late, now.

 **Nerdanel** : [shivering]

All thy jests hold them an edge, like to the wind i'the east else northerly, to us that be full-blooded.

 **Ambassador** :

Alas, not only to the living.

[he takes a deep draught from the cup as it is passed]

 **Angrod** : [looking disturbed]

Besides, that would make him not just Luthien's husband but also her cousin, and _that's_ not right.

 **Finrod** :

But a generation removed, like 'Tari and Celeborn, so no problem there.

 **Captain** :

There's a _much_ more troubling aspect everyone's managing to overlook.

 **Luthien** :

Dare we ask, milord?

[Beren shakes his head, but without much expectation of it working]

 **Captain** :

Well, it seems from what's been said -- granted I wasn't present, at least not in any meaningful sense, but still -- it seems to me that the _next_ conclusion which would follow would be that of kinship with _Werewolves_.

[to Finrod]

Or hadn't you thought of that yet, Sire?

[the Lord Warden cringes where he is sitting a little apart from the Ten, and not alone, either. Amarie sighs deeply, while her true-love ducks his head down with an embarrassed grin as the conversation careens on out of control:]

 **Soldier** : [reasonable]

But then again, he _was_ one for all practical purposes, as her Highness recounted.

 **Fourth Guard** :

Yes, Beren -- why didn't you mention that you were being Draugluin when you infiltrated Angband?

 **Beren** :

Uh . . .

 **Warrior** :

Did you think we'd be revolted and dismayed?

 **Beren** :

Um . . .

 **Ranger** :

Well, he was right -- we _were_.

 **Youngest Ranger** : [definite tone]

No, we were not.

[his subordinate stares at him disbelievingly]

 **Ranger** :

You honestly weren't revulsed by the idea of him shapeshifting into the Wolf that ate you?

[the Warden of Aglon flinches again, and seems torn between covering his ears and listening in morbid obsession]

 **Youngest Ranger** : [stiffly]

I don't think mine was Draugluin.

 **Ranger** :

You didn't look _and_ you're avoiding the question.

 **Youngest Ranger** : [defensive]

I -- didn't think about it like that until you said it that way. -- I was thinking about it from Beren's point of view.

 **First Guard** :

So you are revolted, admit it.

 **Youngest Ranger** : [urgent]

But it doesn't _diminish_ him in my regard, at all.

 **Ranger** :

Of course not. I didn't say we loved him less for it, only that his keeping quiet about it was utterly understandable.

 **Fourth Guard** :

Right -- think of all the funny looks we've gotten for explaining about King Felagund's ruse. This is _infinitely_ more disgusting than braiding orc-hair into one's own.

[catches himself just as the Youngest Ranger cuffs him, with an exasperated glance towards Luthien]

Er . . . Ah.

[mortified]

I didn't mean to imply that _you_ were disgusting, Lady Luthien.

 **Teler Maid** : [nonchalant]

But why not? For so she did say no less.

[her cheerful innocence is just a little too perfect]

Nor might you say that 'tis repugnant for Lord Beren to be clad in werebeast's fell, yet not herself's own self.

[her unfortunate former coworker hides his head in his arms, while Luthien tries to stop laughing and can't, as even Aegnor smiles a little at the general silliness. The Captain reaches across and tugs on one of the Sea-elf's braids, straightening before she can turn to see who it was -- but she isn't fooled, and makes a face at him]

 **Beren** : [feeling the left side of his face and ear]

We might not _have_ any blood, but that doesn't seem to help any -- I can _remember_ blushing just fine anyway.

 **Tulkas** : [leaning over and nudging him]

Want that drink, eh?

 **Beren** :

Yeah, I -- think I'll take you up on that offer now.

[the Wrestler passes him the mead-horn, considerately keeping his hand on the vessel's tail to support it while he takes a draught. Judiciously pausing while the patron of friendship waits anxiously for his verdict:]

Not bad, but -- is it _real_?

[Tulkas guffaws loudly, slapping him on the back -- at his laughter his Lady's deer startle again and go bounding off into the further reaches of the Halls, both of them this time]

 **Tulkas** :

"Is it real?" -- That's a good one --

 **Beren** : [quietly]

Ow.

 **Nessa** : [shoving her husband's arm]

I'm not going after them again, _you_ go since you set them off.

 **Tulkas** : [easily]

They'll come back.

 **Nessa** : [insistent]

They'll get lost. And worried. Go find them, please.

 **Tulkas** : [snaps his fingers]

Huan, go round 'em up and chase 'em back here, okay?

[without needing further encouragement the Hound sprints off into the dim corridor once more]

 **Luthien** :

I don't think Vaire's going to appreciate that very much.

 **Finrod** :

I know she won't. She thinks we traumatize people too much with our rowdiness, and we've _never_ held phantom hunts. Huan baying down the halls thrice in one day is going to get complaints, I'm sure.

 **Nessa** :

That's all right, a little excitement's good for the soul, I always say.

[batting her eyelashes at Tulkas]

Not just the soul, either.

 **Fourth Guard** : [wickedly passing the role to another]

Uh-oh, Beren's getting embarrassed again.

 **Nessa** :

Really?

[leans over to look at the mortal shade]

Oh, how cute!

 **Beren** : [glaring at his friend]

I will _get_ you for that. -- I think maybe I should explain how this ritual of dunking your kinfolk really works, with a demonstration?

 **Fourth Guard** :

Well, you could try.

 **Beren** :

Nuh-uh, not just _try_.

 **Fourth Guard** : [snorts]

Only if I _let_ you, Beor.

 **Beren** :

That's what you think. See, you're gonna be thinking I'm crippled and not take me seriously, plus you can't help being careful because you don't want to hurt me, and I'd take advantage of that and trip you before you had a fair chance. I don't fight fair, even for fun, I just win.

[leaning back comfortably on the grass, raising his eyebrows with a smug grin]

\-- That's why _I_ had the biggest price on my head of anyone here, present company included. -- Want to go a round? Betcha I can throw you two falls out of three.

[the Youngest Ranger's friend who died at Serech looks at him in surprise]

 **Stranger** : [awed]

You really are crazy, my lord.

 **Beren** : [frowns, thinking about it]

Nah, just a bit tipsy, right now.

 **Fourth Guard** :

I think you're bluffing. Only way you could do it is if you pushed me when I wasn't looking, the way Maiwe likes doing.

 **Beren** :

Okay, I'm game. Let's see who's the better wrestler.

[reaches out his hand]

Help me up?

[in automatic chivalry the royal Guard starts to offer his hand in turn -- then checks, catching the glint in the other warrior's eyes]

 **Fourth Guard** : [indignant]

Beren! I'm not _that_ naive.

 **Beren** : [wicked grin]

Almost got you, didn't I?

[one of the Guards addresses his colleague from where he is lounging back against another comrade's ankles]

 **Second Guard** :

Don't be stupid, you're not going to win, and it's far more pleasant to sit here on the grass and remember peace in the quiet.

[as if in ironic contrast to his words, Huan comes galloping in chasing Nessa's deer, who are pronking in great leaps and bounds, and who proceed to take turns chasing each other around the pillars of the Hall]

 **Beren** :

All right, I'll let you off this time.

 **Fourth Guard** : [dry]

If I didn't know you thought that war-for-fun was rank insanity, I'd think you _wanted_ to fight.

 **Beren** :

This ain't war, this is revenge. No, wait, I mean a learning experience. 'Sides, you said you were gonna win.

 **Finrod** :

If it weren't untoward to sponsor internal rivalries, I'd stake my wager on House Beor against all comers.

 **Luthien** :

And of course I'd bet on my lord's prowess against any challenge.

 **Fourth Guard** : [plaintive]

What, will no one support me?

 **Steward** : [shrugging]

If their Highnesses will not, then I shall -- but I am certain they would back you, for we are _most_ experienced in the matter of lost causes.

[to Tulkas, as cheerful groans and jeers come from the Ten]

And no, you _cannot_ wager on both sides at once. Even if both contestants are your friends.

 **Nessa** : [poking him with her toe]

\-- Spoilsport.

 **Warrior** : [to the Guard]

Wait, wait, I've got it -- accept a general challenge, for then _you_ get to choose the manner of it.

[hefting the mead-horn as it comes around]

A contest of endurance, to the first that drains it dry.

[confidingly, as Beren directs a humorous scowl at them]

\-- If one sip of ambrosia does _that_ to him, I don't think you have to worry.

 **Tulkas** : [puzzled]

But it doesn't empty unless I want it to.

 **Nessa** :

That's the point. He'll be flat, first.

 **Beren** : [waving to Tulkas]

You'll just have to help me out, one Latecomer to another.

 **Tulkas** : [wide-eyed]

But that would be cheating --

 **Beren & others in chorus**:

\-- And -- ?

[move to the lower tier of the dais, where Nienna is still listening patiently to Aule's disconsolate servant lamenting the injustice of the universe]

 **Assistant** :

He doesn't do _any_ job satisfactorily, but you keep entrusting _more_ tasks to him, even when he hasn't troubled to finish the last one! Like not monitoring communications, as we just saw --

[waving towards the once-again-glowing palantir without looking around]

How hard _is_ it? Well, without dedication or an attention span longer than a gnat's, that becomes a rhetorical question I suppose. It isn't as if he had any _real_ responsibilities that would have legitimately kept him from noticing --

[catching sight of its light he leaps up and hurries to the Throne to answer it, in the manner of someone taking an old-fashioned long-distance (or "trunk") call on an old-fashioned phone, loudly and impatiently:]

\-- Yes? Certainly it's me; who else would I be? -- Well, of course he isn't at the Mahanaxar. You didn't -- If you'd asked _me_ instead, I could have told you that he was going out on a sweep of his own and saved you the trouble of going all the way over there. No. -- No. Here's what you should do: return here, and _stay_ _put_ , and _I'll_ go and have him located for you. Otherwise there's only going to be more chasing around in circles wasting time. -- I know. Yes, _I_ _know_ , Pallando. Don't worry, I've got the situation under control.

[shaking his head as the seeing stone goes dark]

 _People_.

[his good humour and confidence restored as his grievances are forgotten in a new task and the opportunity to make others look incompetent, he turns briskly and starts off the dais towards the corridor. As he is on his way out, a shining Maiar figure comes in, not with a dramatic entrance, but wandering in through the door with a hint of a slouch. He is lightly (& fantastically) armed, most notably with a sweeping silver bow and quiver. There is an odd mixture of cocksure swagger and sheepishness in his mannerisms. (Perhaps Donald Woods (Charles Darnay) from 1935's _A Tale of Two Cities_?) Looking around worriedly, he addresses Aule's servant in a confidential manner:]

\-- I say, do you know where he is? They told me the Smith was here, but I think they're wrong.

 **Assistant** : [cold satisfaction]

Tilion. You are in _such_ trouble.

 **Tilion** : [defensive innocence]

 _What_?

 **Assistant** :

Don't tell me that Lady Arien neglected to inform you of your transgressions!

 **Tilion** : [dismissive and bitter]

She's always yelling at me about something.

 **Assistant** :

Well perhaps you should _listen_ once in a while.

 **Tilion** : [defensive]

The ship's fine. We were hundreds of leagues apart.

 **Assistant** :

That's not far enough -- and you know it.

 **Tilion** :

I just wanted to see what was going on --

 **Assistant** :

But that isn't your job. Other people have that duty. Your task -- which you chose or rather _begged_ , to accept, might I remind you -- is to pilot your vessel.

 **Tilion** : [narrow Look]

I _thought_ my job was to guard the world from the skies above, and to guard the Moon from attack. Something interesting was going on Below and I thought it might be important, it isn't my fault that Narya's such a stickler for procedures and routine and won't vary her course --

 **Assistant** : [nastily]

Well, you can explain all that to Taniquetil, then, can't you?

 **Tilion** : [as the other Maia walks away]

You don't understand --

[sighing]

 _Nobody_ understands.

 **Nienna** :

 _I_ understand.

 **Tilion** : [uncomfortable]

Yes, but . . .

 **Nienna** :

Do you think I can help that? -- Don't you think it's _inconsistent_ , to complain that you're misunderstood, and then that someone understands you far too well?

[he can't meet her eyes]

If you'd rather stay where you are, I can't help you.

 **Tilion** : [whiny]

Nia! That isn't very kind of you.

 **Nienna** : [blunt]

I'm not _blaming_ you for preferring to stay miserable. But you have so much pity for yourself, that anything I offer would be superfluous, wouldn't it?

[he scuffs his boot on the floor, doesn't look at her]

Aule's in a meeting right now, but he'll be returning here presently. If you're willing to hear my advice -- I _don't_ recommend that you go interrupt him right now, unless you really want a reason to feel ill-used and put upon.

[turning away]

 **Tilion** :

Where are you going?

 **Nienna** :

Where I am needed. Which isn't _here_ , at the moment.

[she fades from view. The Archer looks around disconsolately, and at Nessa's encouraging wave, slopes over to their hill.]

 **Nessa** :

What's wrong now?

 **Tilion** : [sitting down cross-legged on the floor]

Not even Nienna feels sorry for me.

 **Tulkas** :

Yes she does, she's just bored out of her mind by your nonstop moping.

 **Tilion** :

Hey! That was brutal!

 **Nessa** : [shrugging]

You should know better than to go fishing for insults, particularly here.

 **Tilion** : [mournful]

I should never have entered Ea. Nobody wants me about.

 **Nessa** :

That isn't true, nobody wants a gloomy melancholic of an Ainu about. So -- either you stop being all doldrum-y, or just ignore the fact that you're annoying people the way you usually do.

 **Tulkas** :

Can't have it both ways, y'know.

[Tilion heaves a huge sigh and leans his head on his hands. Softly the Youngest Ranger goes over and kneels down next to him.]

 **Youngest Ranger** :

My Lord?

[the Archer looks up at him sadly]

If you'll pardon my boldness, sir -- I wanted to tell you -- I've always admired you greatly.

 **Tilion** : [doubtful]

Really?

 **Youngest Ranger** : [nodding]

Yes, sir. You were one of my heroes when I was alive.

 **Tilion** : [blinking]

You mean that -- you're not just saying so to cheer me up?

[beaming, cheering up instantly]

 _Thank_ you. That's so very kind of you.

[looking at the Sindarin warrior's gear]

So you're a bowman too?

 **Youngest Ranger** :

Yes, my Lord. I -- I used to think of you as my patron, when I was fighting Wargs.

 **Tilion** : [very pleased]

Oh? How flattering. -- Where are you from?

 **Youngest Ranger** : [abashed]

Oh, you'd not have heard of it, sir.

 **Tilion** :

Probably not, but I bet I've seen it.

 **Youngest Ranger** :

Well -- do you know the marshes in the west of Beleriand?

 **Tilion** :

North or south?

 **Youngest Ranger** :

South, my Lord.

 **Tilion** :

Where all those willows are?

 **Youngest Ranger** :

Um, yes, those are near . . .

[track up from the flattered Sindarin shade, to the increasing frivolity of House Finarfin's dead]

 **Angrod** : [to Finrod]

Are you _happy_ now that you've contrived to make us all look like savages and lunatics and completely foolish? -- _Give_ me that.

[he confiscates the wine-cup again from his elder brother and leans quickly back out of the way before the other can jostle his arm in return.]

Missed.

 **Finarfin** : [bemused, but tolerant]

I recall mine own children being none so fey else foolish, not even the whiles they were but infants.

 **Nerdanel** :

Nay, mine own halls were ever filled with pups: this I ken well. Oft and aye shall the youngling hounds, of eyes new-opened, tumble and fret their ways out from den, to roll and yelp and verily another's leg to gnaw, that a moment since, as hence, shall be licking ears and noses.

[Luthien, slyly, reaches over as Angrod is drinking and gives his elbow a push, making him splash himself]

 **Amarie** : [dry]

Behold what thou hast loosed, Ingold, and canst thou call't back? I hold _not so_.

[grimacing, she reaches out her hand patiently for the goblet to come around]

 **Finrod** : [earnest sincerity]

What, you doubt that I have always acted in perfect and complete foreknowledge of the future unfolding of my actions, with total clarity of insight?

 **Beren** : [aside]

\-- Stars, I _hope_ not!

 **Finrod** : [glares]

 _Quiet_ , you.

 **Beren** :

I didn't say anything.

 **Finrod** :

You _thought_ it. You're supposed to be supporting me, not working against me.

 **Beren** :

Oh, did I get it wrong? I thought the plan was to convince her how helpless and pathetic you were without her, -- not impresssing her with your competence. Did you change it _again_ and forget to tell me?

 **Finrod** :

No, _you're_ the one who makes things up on the spur of the moment: "-- Oh, let's just grab _another_ while we're here!" Brilliant, Barahirion, just brilliant --

 **Beren** :

\-- Hey, at least . . . huh. I think you've got me there.

 **Finrod** :

 _Good_.

[aside]

I just hope nobody's keeping track!

 **Beren** : [wide-eyed innocence]

\-- So we _are_ going for competent, then?

 **Finrod** :

Look, Beren, I don't know _what_ my cousins told you, but I never employed _any_ of your ancestors in the position of Fool -- I've never seen the need for a dedicated professional of that nature in my organization.

 **Beren** :

Oh, _oh_ \-- you expect me to walk away from _that_ one? At least I never thought I could take on an Immortal openly single-handed.

 **Finrod** : [airily]

Well, obviously, since you'd not have been able to manage it with both, either --

[instead of retorting, Beren reaches over and collars him, hauling him over in a headlock -- this doesn't last more than an instant as Finrod breaks loose but can't quite manage to pin him, and they tussle like a much younger pair of siblings, trying not to knock into anyone else; meanwhile the three participants in four- footed tag come thundering up to the Hill, one deer being chased by Huan, the other chasing the Hound. The first deer leaps over the company to some annoyance and a futile protest by Nessa, and is about to be followed by its playmates, but the former owner of one of the miscreants raises her hand:]

 **Nerdanel** : [to Huan, severely]

Hold!

[the Hound freezes drops to a crouch at once at the foot of the hill looking guilty, as does the other deer -- the first fawn only circles around and starts bounding back and forth over the other two beasts, while the former King of Nargothrond and the former Lord of Dorthonion sit up and disentangle themselves looking (only slightly) abashed.]

 **Beren** :

Now we're in trouble.

 **Finrod** : [trying to get his braids back into some kind of order]

My aunt wasn't scolding _us_.

 **Beren** :

Yeah she was.

 **Nerdanel** : [lofty tone]

Mine injunction I made unto _all_ creatures that did require such mandate.

[one of the fawns ambles up the hillside picking its way between people, to see if her hair is edible]

 **Beren** : [elbowing Finrod]

See?

[he works on straightening his lent cloak and tunic while the Elf-lord frowns at him with narrowed brows]

 **Finrod** :

You _ambushed_ me, Beor.

 **Beren** :

Yeah, you know, I'm surprised you Elves are still falling for that one. Hundreds and hundreds of years, you'd think you guys would've figured out some caution by now.

 **Finrod** : [snorts]

 _You're_ a caution and no mistake.

[he makes a darting grab at Beren, but catching at his maimed arm, fails to connect as the mortal easily slips free and then wrangles him again, disarranging his hair and knocking him over once more before they break off the scuffle, panting and laughing, leaning against each other's shoulders.]

Ah, you're a _disaster_ , Beren! Should I throw sticks for you, next?

[(Huan looks up hopefully at this.) Amarie is having renewed doubts of their sanity.

Luthien is enjoying it as are the present Powers, immensely.]

 **Aegnor** : [bemused]

What has gotten _into_ you, brother? You never were like this before: sarcastic, flippant, -- silly! -- nothing seems to matter to you, now --

 **Beren** : [solemn]

It's me. I'm a bad influence on everyone.

 **Finrod** :

Oh come, I'm sure there's _someone_ out there you couldn't affect --

 **Beren** :

Yeah, I doubt anyone could make Curufin worse than he already is.

 **Finrod** : [snorts]

Now _there's_ a terrifying thought.

[Luthien clears her throat -- Beren checks, and looks more sincerely penitent. To Nerdanel, who is now feeding roses to the deer now sprawled across her lap like a greyhound puppy]

 **Beren** :

Oops. Sorry about that, ma'am.

 **Nerdanel** : [benevolently dismissive]

\-- _Whelps_ , said I.

 **Captain** :

Besides, it's only the White Lady who'd hit you for that. And she isn't here so we're safe.

[enter Fingolfin, accompanied by Aredhel on his arm -- with Eol on her other side, in a shockingly civilized and amicable display]

 **Steward** :

 _When_ will you learn not to say such things?

[the company rises politely, if warily, as the scions of the elder branch of House Finwe approach. Fingolfin waves towards the couple in a formal introductory gesture:]

 **Fingolfin** : [very seriously and courtly]

Gentles: my daughter, Aredhel, afternamed Ar-Feiniel, Princess of the City of Gondolin beyond the Sea, and her consort, Lord Eol of Nan Elmoth, of the kindred of Kings Olwe and Elu, Master Smith of Beleriand.

[bows are exchanged on both sides, in ritual courtesy, with an edge of uncertainty and disbelief on one side, and of uncertainty and defensiveness, on the other]

\-- I request your gracious welcome to them both, as for myself, being kindred spirits of your own.

 **Finarfin** :

We bid ye welcome, then. Will ye sit down with us, so to partake of the refreshment our sweet Lady Nessa hath provided for our pleasure?

[there is an air of immense satisfaction and a point proven about both of the younger shades.

 **Eol** : [inclining his head]

No, cousin, I think I will view the . . . interesting collage your relatives and associates have put together and attempt to discover some overarching theme or structure in it.

[to Aredhel, nodding towards the waterfall]

Care to join me, my lady?

[his consort looks narrowly at Amarie and Finrod standing together]

 **Aredhel** :

Mm, I'll follow . . . in a moment.

[he nods with a pleasant smile and saunters over to the mural, as she approaches her other kinsmen]

 **Aredhel** : [in an undertone]

So she took him back, hm? What happened?

[none of the Lords of the West look at each other at all, before answering:]

 **Angrod** : [deadpan]

He put a spell on her, like the Beoring did to cousin Luthien.

 **Aegnor** :

Then she slapped him again, just like at the wedding.

 **Captain** :

Then they had a swordfight.

 **Angrod** :

Followed of course by a passionate kiss.

[the White Lady cuffs the nearer of her cousins]

 **Aredhel** :

Come on, what _really_ happened?

 **Angrod** : [shrugging]

Ingold apologized abjectly, on his knees.

 **Aegnor** :

Amarie couldn't help crying, much though she tried.

 **Captain** :

Then they kissed.

 **Angrod** :

Then we heard about her shipbuilding projects, and my brother decided to give up the idea of being a hermit on a mountain in favor of life as a harp-playing vagabond on a houseboat. At least for now.

 **Aredhel** : [giving him a shake]

No, tell me, what really happened? Stop making _jokes_!

 **Captain** :

Every word's the truth, Your Highness, my word upon it.

[Aredhel makes an exasperated exclamation and gives up, going over to survey the fountain sculpture instead -- the three ghostly lords of House Finarfin look at each other and shrug before breaking into laughter]

.

 **Luthien** : [to the Ambassador, amazed]

Did you ever in a thousand years imagine that he could be that civil?

 **Finrod** : [to his uncle, as his father nods agreement]

However did you manage it?

[the late High King of the Noldor sighs]

 **Fingolfin** :

It came clear to me in these last few hours that for all his scorn of us (and others), he is but a proud Elf who desires respect, and to belong amongst those he deems his equals, and yet is too proud to temper his ways, lest he seem weak. I am -- somewhat familiar with the type.

 **Finarfin** :

How didst convey thy meaning, that did not give affront?

 **Fingolfin** :

It was not so hard. -- I told him he was _welcome_ , and though I should never like nor approve of him, still, as my daughter's choice, he now is family, and I might not deny his kin-right, without denying the truth of things, little though I cared to concede it.

 **Finrod** :

What happened?

 **Fingolfin** :

It pleased _her_ , that I ratified her choice, and that he yearned for recognition, as much as it pleased him to have the High King of the Noldor bow before him, and he . . . humoured her in her superiority to his yearning, and she permitted it. They were both . . . quite ironic, both to each other and to myself.

 **Amarie** : [shrewdly, but a bit surprised]

And _thou_ didst permit.

[Fingolfin nods; pause]

 **Finarfin** :

It requireth greatest strength, the stiffer a neck for to bend.

 **Fingolfin** : [blasé]

This present amicability will not last, for she is too hot and restive of spirit, he too cold and stolid of his ways -- but that's their lookout, as mortals say, not mine.

 **Nerdanel** :

Belike on a day they'll waken, and behold themselves from a backward pace, so that seeing thus, remember that there's a greater world beyond their own thought of each the other.

 **Elenwe** : [reappearing]

Mayhap.

[as everyone stares at her]

'Twas dull and drear, the whiles apart. -- Ingold, I blame thee greatly.

[she gives him a severe Look; he grins. To Fingolfin:]

Belike thou'd while away some of our slow-Doomed hours in this diversion thou dost cherish, and lesson me in this Art thou dost name _chess_ , betimes?

[he is greatly touched by her act of compassion]

 **Fingolfin** :

I would be pleased to entertain you, daughter, as perhaps you might betimes entertain myself as well, when the weight of thoughts of my past life burden me with reproach, and show to me these fair memories you have wrought from times with those we both well love --

[the Vanyar shade smiles, bowing her head almost shyly -- the Lord Warden of Aglon clears his throat]

 **Aglon** :

Your Majesty? -- If I might be permitted to make a suggestion?

[at the High King's encouraging nod]

Teach her the mortal version -- the one where you win so long as _someone_ survives to carry on the fight. Not ours, that's all-or-nothing.

 **Teler Maid** : [approving surprise]

That is a most hopeful and cheering thought, of yours.

[he gives her a wary Look, but she is not paying attention to him -- nobody is, in fact, it begins to dawn on him. As the party reconfigures around the pair of newcomers, and slowly settles back down on the sward, the Lord Warden slips over to where the Princes are standing and beckons the Captain aside -- but then stands with clenched jaw, trying to bring himself to speak]

 **Captain** : [wry]

Can I help you, gentle sir?

[with an effort the Warden of Aglon returns, almost politely, except for biting off each word:]

**Aglon**

I believe this is your cloak. Do you want it back?

[the other Elf looks him up and down]

 **Captain** : [magnanimously]

No, that's quite all right.

[Aglon snorts and defiantly tosses it back over his arm in what would be a dashing look if the cape weren't a sodden mass. Pause.]

Look, I truly am sorry about your brother, but I've not encountered any sign of him here, and I don't have any helpful things to say. -- Except -- have you considered asking the Lord or Lady of the Halls?

 **Aglon** :

I was going to ask Nienna, but she's vanished again. -- But that wasn't what I was trying to say.

[the Captain frowns]

\-- Thank you.

 **Captain** :

Er -- I'd say "Welcome," only I'm not sure what it would be for.

 **Aglon** : [snorting]

Not for blows, I assure you.

 **Captain** :

Good learning experiences, assuming you survive 'em. And you got me a few times, don't forget.

 **Aglon** : [suppressed fury]

One of you people _shot_ me.

 **Captain** :

Well, yours did us, at that. Or are you complaining about someone cheating and using a Mark X back in "Under Stars"?

 **Aglon** : [through his teeth]

Not games. At Mithrim. It had slipped my mind, until -- until the King brought it all up.

 **Captain** :

Not fatally, obviously.

 **Aglon** :

No, but deliberately.

[pause]

And _laughed_ about it.

 **Captain** :

Ah.

[pause]

\-- Anything more specific than that?

 **Aglon** :

I was riding patrol on _our_ side of the lake, morning twilight, and thought I heard something. As I rode over towards the rushes where the splash came from, an arrow came out of the fog, on the water, from a -- boat of some sort, some kind of a primitive vessel like a narrow tray --

 **Captain** :

\-- hollow-log skiff, traditional, we did have those, used them in shallow draft --

 **Aglon** :

\-- and _clipped_ me along the side of the head. I was nearly -- I _was_ unseated, lost my balance and my horse spooked, and the spy -- spies -- took off across the lake before I could return a shot. And I heard laughter. Is that reminding you of anything?

 **Captain** : [noncommittal]

Yes. I -- did hear something about that.

 **Aglon** :

Who loosed that shot?

 **Captain** : [looking up into the arches]

I can tell you this much -- the Elf who loosed that dart was only trying to _startle_ , not strike, and had no idea that air density could vary so much and so unequally in the Old Country. In other words, it was partly an accident. The shooter was quite shaken up at the nearness of the miss, and rather ashamed of the whole incident afterwards, accidental kinslaying being quite as much frowned upon our side of that puddle, you see, and strictly avoided and such stupidity from then on.

 **Aglon** : [grimly]

Who was it?

 **Captain** :

Does it matter? The watchers were reprimanded by our lords and strict orders given concerning further sniping.

 **Aglon** :

You know who it is.

 **Captain** :

Yes.

 **Aglon** :

 _Who_? You're protecting someone, so he's got to be dead.

 **Captain** :

Or _she_. I didn't say.

 **Aglon** :

It's one of you, isn't it? There's only one of you it couldn't be, and there's only a few of you who are likely suspects. You _know_.

[they match Looks, Aglon's suspicions plain in his face. The Captain maintains his innocent expression]

Or else it's _you_.

 **Captain** : [levelly]

Does it _matter_ now?

[the Lord Warden looks uncertain]

As compared to other things, at least. -- If you really won't have peace without knowing, I'll find out if I can tell you. Or go ask Himself, since that's what I'll do. But I'm wondering what getting dumped over your horse's haunches into a thicket and having a nick taken out of your ear amounts to, in contrast with . . . getting killed, for example.

[Aglon closes his eyes, though the Captain's tone was offhand, not reproachful at all. Brief pause.]

 **Aglon** : [thickly]

How will I ever face the people I -- failed?

 **Captain** :

When you know, you'll be ready to.

[reaches over and tugs the wet cloak over his shoulder and reclaims it, wringing it out (SFX - the water, as before, vanishing before it hits the floor) thoroughly]

Couldn't you have thought to take this off before dealing with the Sea-Mew? She doesn't think a day's well spent if someone hasn't ended up _drenched_ by the end of it.

[folds it up into a small bundle, grimacing, and slings it over his shoulder]

 **Aglon** : [reluctant admission]

I suppose it _was_ pretty funny . . . when I tipped heels-over-head like a duck diving into that marsh.

 **Captain** : [straightfaced]

So I heard.

[the Lord Warden grudgingly smiles, knowing he can't win this game; the other Elven-warrior looks at him thoughtfully, then nods towards the thrones of judgment.]

A suggestion -- ask the Lord himself your question, see what he knows about your brother. -- If you're up to it.

 **Aglon** : [ruffled]

I'm no coward!

 **Captain** : [half-smile]

I know.

[gesturing to the grassy sward]

Sit down with us and have a drink. Or not, as you please. But I vow I'll not mock you -- any more than anyone else, that is.

 **Aglon** : [snorting]

That doesn't inspire much confidence.

[he goes along with the invitation, however. On the dais the Doomsman and Aule's Assistant reappear, Namo sitting down and taking out the "pager" version of the palantir looks at them together, shaking his head]

 **Assistant** :

Of course he wouldn't have been able to make something that works, Sir. Invention should be left to professionals, not -- enthusiastic amateurs who have never devoted themselves to the necessary studies!

 **Namo** :

No, it _works_ \-- it's just that it's been scaled down so much that it's not noticable. That's the problem with reality versus planning -- some things don't become obvious until you actually try them out.

[to the security folks on the other end of the connection]

\-- I understand you have our stray?

[over on the Hill, Finrod notices the activity and excuses himself from the conviviality to come over]

\-- Ah. But you have him pinned down, at least, right?

[pause]

"So to speak" -- ? What's _that_ supposed to mean?

[pause]

Yes, I'll wait here until you come explain in person. _Right_ here. I promise. -- I don't see why you're being so mysterious about it.

[Finrod comes up kneeling to look at the palantir up close as its glow dims]

 **Assistant** : [snorting]

Obviously someone's slipped again and things are worse than they want to admit.

 **Finrod** : [interrupting]

How do they work?

[Aule's aide gives him an arctic Look, to which he is totally oblivious]

 **Namo** :

I don't know. I didn'tMake them. I'm tempted to say "not very well" but that seems to be partly a paradigmatic problem involving the users as much as anything.

[the Assistant, with an offended sniff, vanishes.]

 **Finrod** : [abstracted frown]

Hm . . . I wonder . . .

[looking at the stone intently, holds up his hand and makes it rotate slightly where it is resting on the arm of the Throne]

Can't tell without another one to test it against, anyway.

[looks up at the Doomsman]

Excuse me, my Lord, but I was wondering if I might trouble you with a small request?

 **Namo** : [bemused]

 _You_. You threatened to blow a hole in an exterior wall just a little bit ago. You turned my living room into an armed camp. You presumed to _lecture_ me on moral philosophy as though I were one of your deranged relatives. -- _Now_ you're asking me for favors?

 **Finrod** : [apologetic]

Well -- yes.

 **Namo** : [resigned]

What do you want now?

 **Finrod** :

I was thinking I might dig around in storage and try to find the rest of those far-seeing gadgets, if you don't mind.

 **Namo** :

 _Now_?

 **Finrod** :

Oh no, just sometime, when things are settled. It isn't critical.

 **Namo** :

Do you know how much stuff is down there? I'm not going to spare anyone to go hunting up the things for you.

 **Finrod** :

That's quite all right. I'm not in any hurry, and I'm not afraid of work. But it seems a shame to let them go to waste.

[pause]

 **Namo** :

Okay. You can poke around there whenever you want. -- Just _don't_ rearrange any of the walls. Do you understand? That isn't a suggestion.

 **Finrod** : [rising]

Of course.

[thoughtful]

But what if I notice some way that things could be more conveniently organiz --

 **Namo** :

 _Finrod_!

[pause]

Take it up with my wife, if and when that happens. -- _Before_ you do it.

 **Finrod** :

Yes, my lord.

[he bows flamboyantly and goes back to the others]

 **Namo** : [sighing, shaking his head]

That kid . . .

[returning through the ordinary entrance and seeing him, his sister's Apprentice comes up to him, looking perplexed and troubled]

 _There_ you are. -- You don't have to apologize.

 **Apprentice** :

Er -- what for?

[the Judge only looks at him until he gets embarrassed.]

Ah. Yes. I -- wasn't, actually, my Lord.

 **Namo** :

I gathered that. What do you want?

 **Apprentice** :

I -- I don't want to seem critical, Sir, of how you handled things, but --

 **Namo** :

You're going to anyway. What do you think I should have done instead?

 **Apprentice** : [waving towards the Elves]

It just seems rather -- unfair. You let them all talk thinking that things were one way, when you knew quite well that they weren't that way, and you could have told them so at the very start.

 **Namo** :

You mean that I should have cut them all off before they'd had the chance to have their say, overawed them into silence and just _made_ them listen, instead of letting them tell me off?

 **Apprentice** :

Well, I -- but they wouldn't have had to say those things, and been forced into defiance -- apparent defiance -- or apparently forced into defiance, um --

 **Namo** :

And that would be a _Good_ thing, eh?

[he looks consideringly over at where House Finwe is enjoying a convivial partial reunion, and back at his sister's follower]

 **Apprentice** : [shrugs]

I -- suppose it's better, this way. I don't suppose, I mean, it _is_ better; but there was an awful lot of anguish and difficult personal decision-making involved, as a result, and pain which could have been forestalled if -- surely there must have been _some_ way around all that?

 **Namo** : [coolly]

That's not my job.

[pause]

 **Apprentice** :

Did you _know_ what she was going to choose?

 **Namo** : [raising an eyebrow]

I've told you, I have no way of knowing in advance what mortals will decide.

[the Apprentice nods and continues towards the Hill, but then stops suddenly a few strides off, his expression changing to that of someone who just realizes that the joke's on him, and glances back at the Doomsman, who regards him calmly over his teacup. Shaking his head, the Apprentice goes off to the party just as the three Maiar demon-hunters show up again.]

So what's the deal?

 **Pallando** :

We can't _get_ at him, my Lord, without blasting. And we can't tell how far back he's gotten. _Someone_ \--

[gives Alatar a Look]

\-- wanted to just start hacking off slopes from above, but _fortunately_ wiser heads prevailed. I don't know anything about fault lines and shear planes, but at least I'm _aware_ of that.

 **Namo** :

Where _is_ he, exactly?

[they "unroll" a map of light and point to an area of topography. Flatly:]

Right outside my front door?

 **Pallando** :

Afraid so, sir.

 **Namo** :

And it took you how long to find him?

 **Pallando** :

We didn't expect he'd be hanging about here --

 **Measse** :

\-- and it wasn't that long really, we reported in right away but no one ever got back to us.

 **Namo** : [dry]

And -- _someone_ \-- was suggesting the use of overwhelming force?

 **Alatar** : [defensive]

They were saying it was _impossible_ to chivvy him out --

 **Measse** :

 _Without_ starting earthquakes, Swordboy.

[shakes her head in disgust, leaning on her spear]

 **Pallando** : [putting away the map]

Your people have the cleft surrounded, and he hasn't shifted while we've been monitoring him, so we're pretty sure there's no other egress.

 **Alatar** :

It's too narrow, though, to send in a squad with enough power to take him out.

 **Measse** :

And your first idea is to start blowing things up, of course!

[he tries to step on her foot, and she sidesteps and cracks him on the ankle with the spear-butt -- the Lord of the Halls clears his throat and they stop roughhousing guiltily]

 **Pallando** : [dignified, trying to contrast with his teammates]

Before we sent for the Smith himself to open the earth, and our own C.O. to prod him out afterwards, I thought to ask you if you'd be available to try Summoning him first, Sir.

 **Namo** :

At last --

[he bangs his cup emphatically on the arm of his chair]

Someone asking for help instead of resorting to violence from the start. Maybe there _is_ hope for the world.

[wry aside]

I could have used this diversion earlier.

[he stands up abruptly, the teacup in his hand changing to a tall black staff, not a spear, but more impressive than the weapons of the three Maiar for its understatement, as his plain black outfit changes to something cloaked and flowing and heavily embroidered with silvery designs reminiscent of mystic sigils down the front of his vestments -- all very wizardly and striking in comparison to the glimmering armour of the demigods seeking his help. They vanish with another flash of light, causing those who are not regular denizens of the Halls to start and look over at the dais again. (Tulkas and Nessa are so caught up in each other that they're not noticing anything at all, though their displays of affection should evoke Botticelli-era-classical art, not a beach blanket movie . . .)]

 **Luthien** :

What's going on?

 **Finrod** :

Nothing much --

[as they are speaking Aredhel and Eol come up finally from their "museum-gallery" critique of the wall sculpture and join them; it is clear from the arrangement of the listeners that Finrod has commandeered the discussion again and is expounding at some length, and with some lack of reserve, on favorite topics:]

 **Beren** :

Looks like more'n that --

 **Finrod** :

Just another rogue spirit scouting around the perimeter: probably one of Morgoth's unbodied followers given up on trying to eat the Sun and Moon and looking for an easier way of causing mischief.

 **Beren** :

 _That's_ "nothing much" -- ? And you give _me_ grief for understatement?

 **Aegnor** : [shrugging]

They show up from time to time. Either they get driven off, or the Doomsman bags them and hands them over to Nienna.

 **Captain** : [thoughtful frown]

\-- Though there usually isn't this much excitement about it.

 **Apprentice** : [humorously]

Well, usually, it isn't --

 **Finrod** : [disregarding him, going on right over him]

As I was saying, the question is not whether but how --

[as the Steward is rather fixedly preoccupied in tuning his harp, and therefore Not Listening, the Sea-elf turns and tugs hard on the sleeve of the nearest of the Ten:]

 **Teler Maid** : [urgent whisper]

What _is_ a dragon?

 **Second Guard** : [sighing]

Long story. -- Several centuries.

 **Captain** :

Like a Balrog, only different.

 **Finrod** : [as the Apprentice twitches but restrains himself from speaking]

 _Nothing_ like a Balrog, by all accounts. -- Except for the fiery element in common.

 **Aredhel** : [exasperated]

\-- Are you still going on about that foul monster?

 **Finrod** : [calm emphasis]

The Dragon is _beautiful_.

 **Aegnor** : [biting off his words in turn]

The _Dragon_ destroyed us.

 **Finrod** :

And was he not beautiful, as he did so?

[they cannot deny this; he goes on confidently]

When the Music is sung properly, the Golden One will be a bright and glorious strand in the Great Theme.

 **Aredhel** :

Morgoth _made_ him. How can you think he belongs in the Song?

 **Finrod** : [adamant]

Morgoth _gave_ _him_ _a_ _body_. He did not _make_ him, _nor_ his beauty, which must be a reflection of something in Glaurung's nature _no less_ than his flame. What is good in him will endure -- _must_ endure. You'll See.

[silence]

 **Beren** :

I think -- I'm not the only one who's had too much to drink, Sir.

 **Fingolfin** : [waving his hand dismissively]

No, no, my nephew argues this all the time. -- Usually with a modicum ofspurious modesty to ameliorate his certitude, but this claim is nothing new.

[snorting, aside]

I would really like to hear you try to tell Fingon this!

 **Steward** : [revealing that he has been listening despite himself]

Not _all_ the time -- I calculate it as one fifth part of total debate, with an insignificantly-small variance.

 **Captain** :

See, I'm not the only one who exaggerates.

 **Steward** :

It's only the most easily-grasped, and hence objectionable, aspect of all the theory, in popular understanding.

 **Amarie** : [frowning]

I am not much more at ease with this thy fanciful and speculative theorem. How, in truth, sayeth Lord Namo concerning thy words?

 **Finrod** :

Ah -- increasingly loudly, until he has to go do something else and we agree to continue the discussion another time. -- How do you and Ulmo manage to get on, with your stance on war? He's no pacifist, you do realize.

[she looks him in the eyes with lurking irony in her gaze]

 **Amarie** : [measured]

We speak not thereupon.

 **Finrod** :

Oh.

 **Steward** : [aside]

\-- What a _novel_ idea.

 **Finrod** : [teasing]

What, not trying to verbally arm-wrestle people into agreeing with you? Who'd have thought of such a thing among the Eldar?

[he leans over and presses a penitent kiss onto his wife's bare shoulder, making her shiver deliciously]

I'll have to try it -- someday.

[she gives him an amused smile]

 **Aredhel** : [derisive]

Next you'll be saying that _Morgoth_ _Bauglir_ is going to be renewed and given a part in this Second Music of yours.

[silence]

 **Finarfin** : [carefully]

Holdest such, my wiseling?

 **Finrod** :

I don't know. I haven't Seen that.

 **Nerdanel** : [very emphatic]

Oh, fie! Out on thee, malapert! Thou art surely not so _noble_ as to have mercy upon yon black-hearted Fiend, that's less deserving of't than my poor wretched husband, else any that did haste them in his train -- forasmuch as thou wouldst lessen his suffering in aught of kind, even as to degree, thou dost _mock_ all that his Theme have done to death, or pains endured, or endure them still! 'Tis no kindness in thee, but veriest unkindhearted, to wish an end to justice!

[she tosses her head angrily, in a striking display of passion for Feanor's reserved consort]

 **Finrod** : [not offended]

My Lady Nienna pities him. When you condemn me, do you not condemn her no less?

[off to the side where the Youngest Ranger and the Archer are talking quietly, the latter suddenly checks as if remembering something, looking slightly alarmed]

 **Tilion** :

Well, I should be back at work. So nice meeting you --

[he grabs up his quiver and bow in a rush and disappears summarily]

 **Youngest Ranger** : [wonderingly]

I never thought of the phases of the Moon having anything to do with him losing track of time, too.

 **Eol** : [incredulous]

Do you even pity _Celegorm_ , then?

[pause]

 **Finrod** :

Sometimes.

[shrugs]

Most times I don't think of him at all. It's easier.

[quietly]

I admit that I am weak. -- I don't _hate_ him, though.

 **Angrod** : [fierce aside]

I do.

 **Aegnor** :

Will you embrace him, too, and Curufin, if they ever return home, the way you seem to think we should welcome the Golden One in your after-the-after?

 **Finrod** : [quiet smile]

I suspect that by then . . . we shall understand each other far better.

[rueful laugh]

I must concede, the thought of you giving them future hell for me does not -- regrettably -- give me _quite_ as much regret as it ought.

 **Aredhel** : [seizing the wine-cup as it goes around before her spouse can]

Look at you twisting your way out of things again -- you're as bad as a wyrm yourself! You're not supposed to want harm for anyone living, but you can get away with it by having someone _else_ want it for you.

 **Finrod** : [shaking his head]

No, I'm not intending them harm. I merely have a different perspective: one outside our limited give-and-take of earthly necessity. I can admire the neatness of events -- the conservation of momentum, so to speak -- that will bring their Doom full circle, creating ironic justice in its fulfillment, without desiring it in the least. I won't be able to stop my brothers from doing what they like, once I'm alive. And, thanks to their actions, I can't do anything to keep my cousins alive now, either. There's Fate, for you.

[wry]

Admittedly, it's just as well for all of our sakes that my involvement will be a moot question, by that time, so that revenge will not be a challenge presented to me.

 **Captain** :

Not you alone. I'm afraid the temptation would set me back a few thousand years -- unless they change beyond recognition by then.

[at this instant the Lord of the Halls of Mandos reappears, his brows drawn impatiently, his robes flaring as if from great haste.]

 **Namo** : [roaring]

 _NIA_!!!

[this unexpected intrusion sends a spasm of alarm through everyone present: beverages are sent flying, animals scrabble wildly in all directions, various people shout in reaction, or lunge for weapons, or duck, (a few vanish briefly, even) while Tulkas leaps to his feet looking around for enemies -- unfortunately for Nessa sitting on his lap!]

 **Beren** : [falling backwards in exaggerated relief]

Yeargh! Aahh --

[half-laughing, looks ruefully at the Lord Warden, who is hunkered down nearby with his arms folded defensively over his head, looking self-consicous]

Teach me to let my guard down, huh?

 **Huan** :

[short reproachful barks]

 **Teler Maid** : [defiantly big-eyed as she sits perfectly still]

I was not frightened.

[Elenwe doesn't say anything -- her sardonic expression is perfectly eloquent as she helps Fingolfin put back the pieces of the chess game they had been working on between them]

 **Captain** : [shaking his head, as he puts away his sword]

Sweet Cuivienen! Can't you have a little consideration for people's nerves?!?

[the Doomsman just Looks at him]

Er . . . I suppose we _aren't_ the ones to complain, at that . . .

 **Finarfin** : [blandly to his sons]

Naught but common matters, ye said, did ye not?

[Finrod, having been the unlucky party with the mead-horn when the interruption occurred, is coughing too hard to answer]

 **Angrod** : [straightfaced]

Oh, this happens all the time, Father.

 **Aredhel** :

Only usually it's Vaire shouting "Finrod!" instead.

 **Luthien** : [frustrated, wringing wine out of her skirts]

You know, I really cannot _wait_ to get home.

 **Tulkas** : [to Nessa, desperately as he bends over her solicitiously]

I'm very, very, very sorry -- even sorrier than that, too --

 **Nessa** : [cross]

Oh, stop it. Sit down again and kiss me.

[she smacks him on the shin, and glares at Namo]

 _You_ did that on purpose.

[Namo only leans on his staff, looking abstracted and impatient, not answering. Orome appears, with his two assistants]

 **Orome** :

You have a good fix on him?

[before Namo can answer, Tulkas' cupbearer also reappears, looking a bit rushed]

 **Measse** :

Gentles, Aule will be along in a moment -- they're just going to get the Chain now.

[Vaire and Irmo appear beside the Loom]

 **Vaire** : [tersely]

I'll set this up so that we can see what's happening and coordinate things better --

[Luthien gets up and stalks over to the Powers; Beren scrambles to his feet and trails after, followed by the rest of the party in combined curiosity and disgruntled outrage]

 **Luthien** :

 _What_ is going on, and does it have any bearing on us, or can't it wait?

 **Beren** :

Yeah, that too, 'cause I was gonna ask if anyone was planning on shouting like that again and if so give us a warning first.

 **Huan** :

[fretful whine]

 **Ambassador** :

I _heartily_ agree, milords.

 **Luthien** :

Well -- ?

 **Namo** : [regarding them with a strange smile]

Funny you should ask that. It seems we have a little problem. The being formerly known as Carcharoth, the Dreadful Thirst, "greatest wolf that will ever walk the world," et cetera, has ensconced himself not far from here and is . . . steadfastly resisting every effort of my people to extract him from his retreat. In fact, since you have some experience in that regard, Barahirion, perhaps you might be willing to . . . lend us a hand?

[Silence. Shocked stares.]

That was a joke.

[More shocked silence.]

 **Orome** : [sighs]

Guess I'd better go saddle up.

[to Tulkas]

\-- Ready to finish the job, Blondie? Or you going leave it to me this time?

 **Namo** :

What? Just because I made a joke -- it isn't the end of the world.

 **Vaire** : [sighs]

No, -- it's just _unprecedented_ , darling.

 **Irmo** :

And _not_ in the best of taste.

 **Beren** :

Carcharoth --

[he looks equally disbelieving and horrorstruck]

This rogue you've been chasing all this time -- is _my_ Wolf?

 **Apprentice** :

Well, what's left of him.

[as everyone present has heard the story to some degree by now, nobody is looking particularly happy]

 **Finrod** : [glares at him]

What _use_ is it to know someone in the know, if they never bother to _tell_ one what they know?

 **Apprentice** :

I started to, but you didn't let me finish.

[drawing himself up]

You got off on one of your rants again and there was no checking you.

 **Finrod** :

I assumed you were just going to say something we already knew.

 **Apprentice** : [sadly]

I know.

[pause]

 **Finrod** :

Point taken.

[to Namo]

The Dreamer's right -- that was an _abysmal_ joke.

 **Beren** : [distantly]

No . . . no it wasn't.

[as they stare at him]

Not a joke. Our paths keep crossing -- there's no escaping it.

 **Luthien** :

Beren! Don't you _dare_ go all fey on me again.

 **Beren** : [to Namo]

Why is he here? Don't Morgoth's servants have to go back to him, when they're killed?

 **Namo** :

Most of them do choose to take the easy way and stay in Middle-earth, yes.

 **Luthien** : [angry and worried]

So why is he _here_?

 **Namo** :

A very good question.

[looking at her levelly]

Why did he not return to his Master's thought, in the usual manner, to be reembodied at Melkor's pleasure? Why, alternately, did he come most of the way, but not _all_ the way, here, in answer to my Summons? Very intriguing.

[meaningfully]

Could it perhaps be that the fact that someone recently showed him mercy, while at the same time remaining his enemy, thereby confusing him? As well as the fact that the augmentations and enhancements bestowed on him by various means made him strong enough to resist both Calls?

[Luthien scowls, not liking the implication]

Whatever the cause, I now have on my hands a powerful and savage ghost who also happens to be suffering from an existential crisis.

 **Apprentice** :

So why doesn't he just give up and let us take care of him, then?

[Nienna appears, unruffled]

 **Nienna** :

He's angry, and in pain, and feeling very betrayed, and quite fed up with existence. I can barely reach him at all. He needs a few eons just to sleep and heal, but he doesn't want to trust anyone right now, and he's mostly insane.

 **Beren** :

I can relate . . .

[pause]

Where's he hiding?

 **Namo** :

He's found a crevice next to the foundation and is holed up there. I _could_ drag him out, but that would set him back -- a great deal. But I'm afraid that's what we're going to have to do, for his own sake, because gnawing his wounds in the dark for a few Ages is going to be worse for him in the long run.

 **Beren** :

He can't hurt anybody now, can he?

 **Namo** :

He can't hurt _us_. Not permanently. I honestly don't know if he can do anything to _you_. He's discorporate now -- but so are you. I really was just joking. I wouldn't ask anyone else to do this.

 **Beren** :

Why not?

 **Namo** :

It isn't your task.

 **Beren** :

I know where he's been -- I've walked the same path.

[expression darkening]

It's almost like we're the same, in a way -- he's his King's hereditary champion, he's the one who guards the way to the realm, the one nobody else could come near to, doing what he was born to, and all because of the Silmarils -- and getting killed for it, in the end.

[Finrod recoils again at the reminder -- but this time Amarie puts her hands on his shoulders, steadying him and snapping him out of his self-reproach at once]

Only he didn't choose it, at all. He had less of a say in it than me, and if I hadn't of gone for the Stone, he wouldn't've been made to stop us. It is my fault, in a way. And -- I was his sire, in a way, and so there's kind of a kin-thing going on between us --

[as his friends, living, dead, or Deathless, shake their heads urgently]

\-- anyway, it falls to me, somehow, 'cause I do understand some, and I owe him somehow, and maybe I can go and talk him out of there. Maybe there's a chance that we can do this without another battle.

[looks at Luthien]

Will you help me? 'Cause the other thing I know is, I surely can't do it alone.

 **Luthien** : [exasperated]

Beren. Don't be stupid.

[he looks crestfallen, all at once, giving up his plan; she shakes her head fondly]

Of _course_ I'll help you. You don't have to ask that.

 **Beren** : [half-smile]

\-- Yeah, I did.

 **Namo** :

I can't let you do this.

 **Beren** :

Can you stop us?

[long pause.]

 **Namo** :

No. Only hinder you.

 **Beren** :

Do you think you should? After everything -- it only seems fair that I should help finish this.

 **Finrod** : [very tense]

Isn't that what you said before? And look where it's gotten you, Beren.

 **Beren** : [looking over his shoulder at his friend]

I learned from the best.

[small, knowing smile]

Hard example to live up to -- but I have to try.

[Finrod tries to say something and cannot]

 **Namo** : [heavily]

Very well. In justice, I will let you go.

 


	154. Act IV Index

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunately, the notes for Act 4 are not entirely complete,ending about halfway through the act. I have posted what notes there are here, anyway, and made my own meager additions where I can recognize the Philosopher's sources.

And now we come to the closure and the summation of the whole bizarre project, the resolution that made all the preceding continuations possible, because I couldn't figure out a way to make it work at first until I realized that I could tell it in retrospect and completely change the tone and focus without it being inappropriate (at least in theory.) Some readers have understood the subtitle, and have been horrified at the prospect, to which the only answer I have been able to make is, "Yeah, me too."

There are a few brief remarks that need to be made at the outset. First of all, there are a few _devices_ in the technical sense that allow this to work, which are not strictly canonical. The dedication at the opening, to Lucian and TSE, is not thrown in for looks. In fact, those who know those authors well might feel some trepidation at those lines as much as at the "disclaimer" that follows them. Eliot invited the Furies home to dinner after a disastrous vacation cruise in _The Family Reunion_ , and Lucian needs to be more widely read throughout the science fiction and fantasy world for having gone far above and beyond in his pursuit of mythological accuracy, visiting Hades to interview Charon and his passengers, ascending to Olympus to interview Zeus himself, and sailing beyond the Gates of Hercules to find Homer himself on the Blessed Isles and ask him that that burning question in an attempt to solve the great literary controversy — what deep meaning was there in the opening lines of the _Iliad_ , "Sing, goddess &c"—?

As Homer, in the _True History_ of Lucian's impossible journey, replies over a glass of nectar, that it just happened to pop into his head, you can gather that his take on the myths in these metafics is somewhat less than ponderous. Riddled with bad puns and biting social commentary, you do not want to read _Dialogues with the Dead_ or _Dialogues with the Gods_ while eating or drinking anything. And _Fishers_ , where the great Philosophers are given a travel-pass by Hades so that they can come up from the Underworld and beat Lucian up for parodying them in his _Auction_ skit, is both hilarious and a great consolation to any student afflicted by academic pomposity.

What has all this to do with Arda? Well, aside from Lucian being practically the patron saint of fanfiction, there's a more than good chance that Tolkien was familiar with his work, being after all a classicist. In fact, it's quite possible that C. S. Lewis who makes use of one of Lucian's devices and refers to him in _The Great Divorce,_ was introduced to his work by JRRT. And the alternation of flippancy and earnestness is very similar to the tone of _Farmer Giles of Ham,_ or the dry asides and comments on the foibles of Shire-folk. But it is not mere mockery, his parodying, because it provides not only a refreshingly unponderous take on the classical myths, but also in doing so provides insights into those very legends and distant figures. —What would it have been like to be Hera, coping with having Ganymede around the palace, or Paris, being bribed by three Immortals to fix the judging of a beauty pageant, or the Gatekeeper of the Underworld, dealing day after day with clueless arrivals who haven't yet realized that being a famous sports hero Upstairs doesn't mean anything _now_?

In his interview with Zeus, Lucian notices a complicated amplification system built into the King of the Gods' study, which proves to be a sort of prayer-filter, through which the petitions of mortals can come to his attention. This, and the subsequent discussion of which pleas are answered, and how, has its reflection in my own device of the Loom. As a device, it serves a more important purpose than merely being a humorous modernism — it allows for information to be conveyed in the context of the story both plausibly and without endless expository dialogues, making it possible to get to what (I think) are the more important problems. Other solutions throughout (no specifics for spoiler reasons) which may seem no less dubious, are also borrowed from Lucian , but can at least be justified if not proven. (Surely you didn't think the Norns wove with ordinary wool? nor even a rayon-silk blend.)

But the most important things (and many of the minor ones as well) can all be backed up with HOME textual citations — even some of the more surprising ones. (All of which will be marked in these Notes as appropriate.)

You may also have noticed that there is an homage to old movies, of which I am a long-time fan, in the noir setting, and the casting of the Powers. As always, I cast by voice and presence — performers who have and thus can convey the necessary ranges of strength and nuance, not merely pretty faces; though again, as always, these are merely my own choices, and as with any play other casts might be assembled. Obviously this episode is impossible to stage — though if it weren't, this is where the special-effects budget would go — and so can only exist in the interface between "this glassy square" and the readers' imagination. But if it were to be done (and likewise the entire Script) ideally it would be animated by a collaboration of the greatest animators, (personally I favor [Leiji Matsumoto](http://www.ugo.com/tv/influential-cartoons/?cur=star-blazers) and [Hiyao Miyazaki](http://www.google.com/)) working under the direction of, yes, a Disney artist — the late, incomparable [Kay Nielsen](http://www.google.com/).

It's true: the renowned illustrator — and set designer! — was for a time [employed at Disney's studios](http://www.bpib.com/illustrat/nielsen.htm), though the only surviving work of his which actually made it to the screen was the very brief scene at the end of Fantasia, where candlebearers process into a cathedral to the "Ave Maria"  a sequence which instantly made me think of Nielsen when I first saw it, without knowing he was actually responsible for it. He had, however, been working on sketches for a "Ride of the Valkyries" sequence — and a Little Mermaid feature length film which would not in any way have resembled the one which was eventually released. Alas, they didn't happen. But we can imagine what might have been, and since Nielsen was responsible for popularizing ["East of the Sun, West of the Moon,"](http://www.surlalunefairytales.com/authors/asbjornsen_moe.html) I'd like to have him helm this production too. (Coincidentally, the famous ["Sorcerer's Apprentice"](http://video.google.com/videosearch?hl=en&q=sorcerer%27s+apprentice&um=1&ie=UTF-8&ei=kgeISruQB6Oltgfzr9jnDA&sa=X&oi=video_result_group&ct=title&resnum=4) sequence in [Fantasia](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fantasia_%28film%29) is taken from an episode in one of [Lucian's narratives](http://www.pitt.edu/%7Edash/type0325ast.html), brooms and all.)

Finally, — does it work? It may prove to be an impossibility which should not have been attempted. this endeavor to steer between the Scylla of mawkishness and the Charybdis of buffoonery, whilst evading the Clashing Rocks of Canonicity and Artistic License. Nevertheless — _Excelsior!_

Oh, and the title? It comes from Lúthien's own description of Beren, to his face, in a moment of extreme exasperation — the point at which he is just about to set off on his own to infiltrate Angband, when she and Huan have finally caught up to him. That passage, from Canto XI of the first _Lay of Leithian_ fragment, is _key_ — to understanding not only Lúthien's character, and not only the Lay itself, but also the entire Arda mythos. And I don't think I'm exaggerating.

 

Act 4: SCENE I

 

"this glassy square" — Gower's speech recalls the intrusive reminder of the physical setting of the play during the narration of _Henry V,_ in which the theatre is called "this wooden O" and the audience requested to _imagine_ the fleets of sea-going ships, the cannons being loaded, the horses and royal panoply of war which 16th-century special effects units couldn't provide — which, by making such an acknowledgment, that this is _only_ a play, and a mere homage to events, and nothing _really_ like, allows the process of suspending disbelief to proceed with an untroubled subconscious.

 

 

 _"Ainulindalë" and "Valaquenta," in the vernacular_ : I make no real apology for the informality and down-to-earth characterization of the Valar, jarring though it undoubtedly is. After all, the formality and reverential tone in which their doings are recorded is a necessary aspect of celestials' doings being apprehended by younger, more limited beings — but that doesn't mean that that is how they appear to themselves. On the contrary: the glimpses we get of them "up close and personal" together with remarks like that in Ainulindalë to the effect that it's useless going to Tulkas for _advice_ , since he's preoccupied by the present and doesn't take the long-range view at all, suggest a lively and somewhat uninhibited bunch, far from stodgy, who don't necessarily behave in the way that younger races would consider appropriate for deities.

It isn't just that their own original language, invented for use in a material dimensions, was considered harsh and "like the glitter of swords" by the Elves of Aman, who endlessly refined theirs to make it more melodious. After all, the one Power we get to know _quite_ well in Tolkien's writings is pushy, impatient, sarcastic, appreciative of good food — and drink! — and lamentably given to practical jokes, like leaving "Burglar for hire" signs on the doors of unsuspecting homeowners, or making terrifying pyrotechnic special-effects to shake up a tipsy bunch of partygoing townsfolk…

 

 

The reference to the Eagle is a dual one — yet I think the secondary reference must have been intended by the author as well, and not really original to me. In the original texts from which the published _Silmarillion_ narrative of the Geste was harmonized _,_ it is mentioned ( _HOME:Lost Road_ & _Shaping)_ that there were stories that she came alive to Mandos, either by crossing the Ice alone, herself, westwards (!) or that her mother had summoned one of the Eagles to carry her while she was dying over the Sea in a belated gesture of unselfishness, in the hopes that her daughter might be saved there; however these possibilities were discounted as unlikely even by the tellers, and the most probable that Lúthien in fact actually died, "fading" in the words of the various versions, out of grief, and went to Mandos in the usual manner, "down those dark ways that all must tread alone." (LT2, "The Tale of Tinúviel")

The reference to her travelling west via Eagle, however, is oddly reminiscent of another particular class of European folk-tales, most famously represented by "East of the Sun, West of the Moon," with which Tolkien was of course quite familiar. One of the sequences in this variant of the "Mastermaid" stories is the heroine's journeying through rugged mountainous lands, finding unexpected assistance, and when confronted with the need to make an impossible journey to the ends of the earth, across the sea, is aided by either the Winds themselves or by the King of the Eagles, who carry her to her destination and the rescue of the ensorcelled, sleeping, prince who is her long-lost husband. (There is something oddly familiar about that last, isn't there?)

So I have played with, or paid homage to, _both_ sources with the suggestion that Lúthien must in fact struggle to reach the abode of the dead — and this too is not mere supposition on my part, based on world mythology and the preceding texture of the story, which has been far from easy on our heroine, as in one of the outline-drafts for the "lost cantos" of the Lay of Leithian, it speaks, following the lines, "the meeting and farewell of Beren and Tinúviel beneath Hirilorn. Burial of Huan and Beren," of the "Fading of Lúthien. _Her journey to Mandos."_ (Emphasis mine.)

That it is described as a _journey_ , and intended to warrant a descriptive section in the canto, indicates to me that it was _not_ an easy jaunt. Eagles and other great birds have always been seen as spirit-messengers and bearers of the dead to the realms of immortality (q.v. the sculpted images of various Roman emperors being shown in apotheosis) in every culture around the globe; while the idea that Lúthien's Maiar side might take over while she was unbodied, leading to all kinds of distractions, has its inspiration in part in the distractibility of immortals by the natural world demonstrated by Voronwë in _UT,_ "Of Tuor and his coming to Gondolin" — which would, as _Silm_. describes and Act IV shows, be exacerbated for those who are not only immortal but Immortal. That the Eagles, being who they are, great Maiar serving Manwë as messengers, exist in both the Seen and the Unseen realms is hardly to be questioned.

 

 

For Beren not being among the shades of the Elven dead, I invoke the the 1930 typescript of the Quenta:

"More frail were Men, more easily slain by weapon or mischance, subject to ills, or grew old and died. What befell their spirits the Eldalië knew not. The Eldar said that they went to the halls of Mandos, but that their place of waiting was not that of the Elves, and Mandos under Ilúvatar knew alone whither they went after the time in his wide halls beyond the western sea. They were never reborn on earth, and none ever came back from the mansions of the dead, save only Beren son of Barahir, who after never spoke to mortal Men. Maybe their fate after death was not in the hands of the Valar." (HOME: _Shaping of Middle-earth_ )

 

 

Yes, Huan is present. (Of course he's present — where else would he be?) But this is not mere conjecture, nor this artist's sense of "fittingness," nor sentimentality, that puts the faithful Hound waiting in the Halls with his beloved master for their liege lady. In those outline-drafts for the unwritten parts, after the line, "The wolf-hunt and death of Huan and Beren," follows the line, "The recall of Beren and Huan." So — he was always intended to be at Beren's side in Mandos, and after all, what would else would you expect of him? What he did there, and what followed that joint recalling, are sadly left to our imaginations: this is the result of mine.

 

Act 4: SCENE II

 

Considering that the Valar, in no recorded chronicle, are shown to have acted in haste and without deliberation, that there was a prolonged and widening discussion _before_ ever Námo appealed to Manwë for assistance in solving the dilemma, (which as the mortal Bard reminds us was not solely the Doomsman's decision) is not completely implausible.

 

 

 _Tulkas & Nessa_, respectively, are the patrons of Husband and Wife (note that they are _not_ the patrons of _couples_ , in the collective, which honor belongs to a different pair of demiurges) as well as being known for fighting (or rather, indeed, _brawling_ ), friendship, good cheer, and lively athletics. They are _not_ famous for hard-headed logic or technical skills. This description of them, and the detailed story of Tulkas showing up out of the blue to the rescue during the primordial wars against Melkor and his subsequent marriage to Nessa may be found in _Silm.,_ "Valaquenta: Of the Valar" and "Of the Beginning of Days."

 

 

 _Finrod_ : The Grey Annals, the chronicles of Beleriand kept by the folk of Doriath, relate (among other details of the Quest) that Finrod was not long in the Halls of Mandos. Bearing in mind that "not long" does not necessarily mean the same thing for Elves as for mortals, it is still a very significant remark — for it inevitably leads to the question, _How did they know?_ The Grey Annals being what they were, unless the notation is a "later scribal interpolation" it must necessarily _predate_ the War of Wrath — which is the only point in the First Age after the Flight of the Noldor when corporeal, surface-traversing travellers arrive out of the West.

This means there are only two possible sources of this information. The first, least likely, is via the Eagles, who travel freely between the continents — but there is not much indication that they spend a great deal of time bringing news to people in Beleriand, or dealing with any save the people of Gondolin on a regular basis; nor would there be any probable way for the news to arrive from Gondolin between the Geste and the fall of Doriath, since the only significant egress from the Hidden Kingdom was during the disastrous expedition to the battle that would become known as the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, and there was not a lot of time for chatting and catching up for Turgon at that debacle, and the already shattered state of communications and travel in Beleriand post-Bragollach became a nightmare of Enemy occupation. So, barring a post-fall-of-Gondolin rewrite at the Havens, when the survivors of Gondolin united with the remnants of Doriath and Cirdan's following (or even later revision), there is one probable answer — and that is Beren and Lúthien themselves, upon their final return to Menegroth.

Now, this could, logically, have merely been _conveyed_ to them; they might have only asked, and/or been told the news — that, perhaps, he had already been released. My reasons for taking a different tack are again, not mere sentimentality, but as with Huan's presence, a way of exploring a huge number of ramifications, implications, and cultural aspects of Valinorean history in a natural and dramatic manner. Because, after all, if he _were_ still there — does anyone seriously think he wouldn't be meddling, too?

 

 

 _Amarië_ : the facts of the case are few, but significant: we know that she was Finrod's true-love; we know that she was of the Vanyar, like his grandmother; we know that she did not go with him to Middle-earth, but remained behind in the West, at her family's wishes. From this, and from a few other things, we can however deduce a good bit more. Being of the Fair Elves, she would indeed be "pious and godsfearing" — but in the rarified, heady way almost of archangels themselves, not any sort of benighted folk-supersition, because the home of her people is literally right down the hill from Taniquetil, and so they walk among the gods most of all of the Eldar, and have the greatest and most direct knowledge of them, since they and their lord Ingwë were the first and most ready to join the Valar — and, since they are most concerned with music and _understanding_ , in a mystical sense, unlikely to sympathize much with the desire for or interest in _things_ , whether as collectibles or as technology, and even less likely to sympathize with rivalry, strife, and instability.

So much for generalizations. In specific, one can safely say that her family took a dim view of the proposed union, since it was in obedience to their objections that she did not join Finrod in the Return — and that she was extremely angry with him as well, because she obeyed them. If they had not had such misgivings, it is unlikely, given the deep reluctance displayed to break up or block even the most ill-advised of lovers in Aman, Finwë and Indis, that they would have been so forceful about it. It is essential to remember that Elenwë, the wife of Turgon, who died in the course of the Crossing, was Vanyar as well. (Why might they have objected to Finrod, one might ask, who after all is part-Vanyar himself? There is a very good answer in the fact of his extremely contentious extended family, who by this time were deeply embroiled in feuding and had been for quite a few years.) And if Amarië herself had not been furious with him, it is unlikely, given the generally-intractable nature of the Eldar, male and female, who feature in the chronicles of the First Age, that any parental disapproval would have sufficed to restrain her from going. (Again, I point to the example of Elenwë.)

Why furious? Well, Vanyar or not, the Eldar are proud. _Rejection_ isn't something they deal with well at all, as the stories indicate. And to be set second, below either (in less-rational moments) mere things, like treasure and vengeance, or (in more cool-headed recollection) other people, Noldor friends and relatives, all of whom have forsaken peace and gratitude and cooperation for greed and self-aggrandizement — or worst of all, the lure of far-off lands and strangers, quite incomprehensible to the Vanyar, content to dwell where they are and needing no more from life than what they have — is a hard thing for a relationship.

And, of course, she ought to be a _match_ for Finrod — in the medieval sense, that is, where the concept of _mate_ included the notion that both parties were equally matched and appropriate for each other on many different levels — unless of course one takes the view that it was an ill-advised, youthful folly, and they were neither of them suited for each other at all, which is a bit hard to justify, given that Finrod at least was over a hundred at the time of the Return: not exactly a smitten young fifty-year-old with no experience of judging character, his own included. If they are really soul-mates, then Amarië is bound to be just as intelligent, perceptive, good-willed, and energetic as her would-be consort. (Which is rather a frightening thought, actually: not one, but two of them, working in tandem?) But a messy break-up, and four-hundred-sixty-plus years to brood about it, and the conviction of unshakable moral superiority, is a very bad situation to start over from.

—In other words, they're Doomed. (Think Nargothrond, and Finrod's response to rejection before the assembled folk there. Mirror it. —Take cover.)

 

 

"daughter of twilight" — Amarië's epithet is actually merely the literal meaning of her given name, _Tinúviel_ , being the etymology of the word for nightingale. The situation becomes particularly ironic if it is borne in mind throughout that Lúthien is the daughter of one of the Ainur.

 

 

 _garment of hair_ : as well as recognizing the fact that there is something definitely outré about Lúthien's "magic," this is an invocation of later events in Doriath, and the insulting joke that Saeros — a relative newcomer to that realm, as well as seriously lacking in tact and judgment — makes to Túrin about the women of Dor-lomin. If Túrin had only waited a moment longer before hitting Saeros, someone else (once the stunned disbelief had worn off) would very likely have done it for him.

 

 

"in trouble" — the idea that Finrod and his staunchest supporters would be a significantly disruptive force in the Halls of Awaiting is based on the ceaseless energy that the King displayed in his lifetime, from taking charge of the March over the Helcaraxë to maintaining a vast communications network and overseeing it personally, and the sense that death, and Mandos itself, doesn't _automatically_ change a person or individual personality. The hazards of having a relentlessly-inquisitive, adventurous, well-meaning speculative metaphysician famously known for underground building projects — and ten martial companions absolutely committed to him — on the premises also make for an amusing contrast with all the descriptions of the Halls in prose and poetry as a place of stillness, profound quiet, tranquility and meditation. (It also provides _me_ at least with a great deal of diversion, considering the problems posed by the existence of a _genuine_ , honest-to-goodness Philosopher King.)

 

 

There should be a noticeable difference between the attitudes of the Ten (with individual variation, of course) _now_ and in their interactions with Beren back in Act II, which were characterized by admiration, respect, and affection, but with a certain reserve — which is now entirely vanished. They have journeyed, fought, been POWs, suffered, and died together; he is no longer an honoured, but essentially-alien ally, nor is their respect for him due to the storied deeds of a stranger, nor their affection secondhand, so to speak, the inheritance of his father and kin.

 

 

 _Meássë_ : in LT1, she's named as one who brings mead to the guests in the hall of Tulkas, and a warrior-goddess — in other words, she's a valkyrie. Tulkas, however, is no Odin, and Nessa _nothing_ like Erde, so it only makes sense that their followers would also be of more cheery disposition.

 

 

 _Fëanor_ : nowhere does it say that Finwë's eldest son was kept in solitary confinement — what it does say is that "he comes no more among his kin," which _could_ be a poetic way of saying that he can't — but since any number of his kin have also been in the Halls of Mandos during subsequent Ages, and given the usual understanding of a phrase like "So-and-so never comes to visit", a reasonable conclusion is that his isolation is voluntary, though not unconnected with the reasons that he will be there for the forseeable future. (It is also imporant for fellow _HOME_ junkies to bear in mind that at this juncture the Second Prophecy concerning the Dagor Dagorath has not been made: Túrin is still a small child and Tuor not yet born, far less his son Eärendil — and Morgoth not yet exiled to the Void, far less his future return predicted.) Whether it is for reasons of remorse, denial, pride, or combinations of all three, the implication is that until the War is ended, he will not be ready, or willing, or able, to break free of what the Vedic authors call _maya_ , self-maintained illusions about the world and one's role in it, and attain _dharma_ , the state of righteous harmony characterized by clarity of vision and purpose untainted by selfishness.

 

 

 _Glaurung_ : this is of course an invocation of LOTR:FOTR, "A Long-Expected Party," and just as that sequence has deeper and darker resonances, so too this, since that "golden worm" will ultimately conquer Orodreth and hold power as the last King in Nargothrond.)

 

 

 _Roch_ : as subsequent lines hopefully make clear, this is just Sindarin for _horse_.

 

 

"Healers" — any reader of _Silm._ who doesn't think Lúthien's handling of the situation merits awe hasn't spent much time dealing with trauma while violence is still on-going — or thinking about it (or even taking people to the emergency room.)

 

 

Beren's comment about the left-over gouges from Fingolfin's duel with Morgoth now some twelve years back come from the Lay of Leithian and the outlines, where the "pitted plain" is specifically noted as they approach the guarded Gates of Angband.

 

 

"under Morgoth's seat" — Note what two pertinent facts Beren has omitted, as he describes their infiltration attempt.

 

 

Beren's description of the great hall of Angband, Lúthien duelling with Morgoth, the account of the Iron Crown falling like a wheel of thunder, Beren frantically trying to pull the stone off, _then_ remembering the knife, its subsequent breaking, their panicked flight, forgetting their disguises, and getting cornered by Carcharoth in the hallway, all come from LL1, Canto XIII.

 

 

"fireballs" — all this sequence, as described by Beren, is actually canonical, coming from an outline for the unwritten Cantos (the bracketed words are somewhat smudged in the penciled original and conjectural):

"Carcharoth goes mad and drives all [orcs] before him like a wind. The sound of his awful howling causes rocks to split and fall. There is an earthquake underground. Morgoth's wrath on waking. The gateway [falls] in and hell is blocked, and great fires and smokes burst from Thangorodrim. Thunder and lightning. Beren lies dying before the gate. Tinúviel's song as she kisses his hand and prepares to die. Thorondor comes down and bears them amid the lightning that [stabs] at them like spears and a hail of arrows from the battlements. They pass above Gondolin and Lúthien sees the white city far below, [gleaming] like a lily in the valley."

 

 

Yup, they were _those_ Eagles — old Thorondor _and_ his two kids Gwaihir and Landroval. For some reason still obscure to me, Christopher Tolkien decided that having them be the same as in LOTR was somehow _wrong_ , and edited out their names from the published _Silm.,_ along with other small asides, important and less-so. (The story-within-a-story about Lúthien's tears falling to the ground during their flight and causing a spring to well up, a legend of Beleriand which might be true, evocative of various classical myths, is charming, but not crucial; the bit that refers to the Eschaton is not the first, but definitely the latter.) This rescue-under-heavy-fire is more than deserving of a DFC, I should think.

 

 

Beren's recovering in Spring, as told in _Silm.,_ has suggestive similarity to the end of the Bragollach offensive at the close of that winter (to the extent that fighting cooled down at that time, if you will excuse the pun.) It is merely my conjecture that his awakening came with equinox, when the amount of sunlight becomes greater than the duration of darkness, however.

His being trapped in an unpleasant dream-world is also described in the _Silmarillion_ , but earlier in LL1, Canto X, he has had a similar experience, if much shorter, during the night when he was being healed of the arrow-wound by Lúthien:

 _The shadows fell from mountains grim._  
_Then sprang about the darkened North_  
_the Sickle of the Gods, and forth_  
_each star there stared in stony night_  
_radiant, glistering cold and white._  
_But on the ground there is a glow,_  
_a spark of red that leaps below:_

 _under woven boughs beside a fire_  
_of crackling wood and sputtering briar_  
_there Beren lies in drowsing deep,_  
_walking and wandering in sleep._  
_Watchful bending o'er him wakes_  
_a maiden fair; his thirst she slakes_  
_, his brow caresses, and softly croons_  
_a song more potent than in runes_  
_or leeches' lore hath since been writ._  
_Slowly the nightly watches flit._  
_The misty morning crawleth grey_  
_from dusk to the reluctant day._

 _Then Beren woke and opened eyes,_  
_and rose and cried, 'Neath other skies,_  
_in lands more awful and unknown,_  
_I wandered long, methought, alone_  
_to the deep shadow where the dead dwell;_  
_but ever a voice that I knew well, like bells,_  
_like viols, like harps, like birds,_  
_like music moving without words,_  
_called me, called me through the night,_  
_enchanted drew me back to light!_  
_Healed the wound, assuaged the pain!_  
_Now we are come to morn again,_  
_new journeys once more lead us on—_  
_to perils whence life may be won,_  
_hardly for Beren; and for thee_  
_a waiting in the wood I see,_  
_beneath the trees of Doriath,_  
_while ever follow down my path_  
_the echoes of thine elvish song,_  
_where hills are haggard and roads are long.'_

And they pick up fighting right where they left off the day before… (Beren's arguments to her as he has reported them to the Ten, as to why they cannot just camp out in the woods forever are almost exactly as they are given in the following verses of the Canto, by the way.) LB Page 266.

 

 

 _chaos in Doriath_ : this is described tersely but clearly in the outline-drafts:

"The embassy meets the onslaught of Carcharos who by fate or the power of the Silmaril bursts into Doriath. All perish save Mablung who brings the news. Devastation of the woods. The wood-elves flee to the caves."

This is followed by the note that the three travelers find the woods eerily silent and empty as they proceed towards Menegroth.

 

 

The story of Beren aiding Finrod in the earlier verbal combat with Sauron derives from LL1, Canto VII, where (since "Detect Alignment" isn't infallible in Middle-earth) the arrested Eldar are commanded by a suspicious junior Dark Lord to swear a terrible oath of fealty to Morgoth which curses all life and creation along with the Powers in a primal two-minute-hate — something which if they were true minions they would not balk at, but which they cannot bring themselves to utter even literally to save their lives (remembering that words have binding force in Arda) — so Beren leaps into the breach, so to speak, by mouthing off to the Lord of Wolves in a diversionary attempt at FUJIGMO:

' _…Whom do you serve, Light or Mirk?_  
_Who is the maker of mightiest work?_  
_Who is the king of earthly kings,_  
_the greatest giver of gold and rings?_  
_Who is the master of the wide earth?_  
_Who despoiled them of their mirth,_  
_the greedy Gods? Repeat your vows,_  
_Orcs of Bauglir! Do not bend your brows!_  
_Death to light, to law, to love!_  
_Cursed be moon and stars above!_  
_May darkness everlasting old_  
_that waits outside in surges cold_  
_drown Manwë, Varda, and the sun!_  
_May all in hatred be begun,_  
_and all in evil ended be,_  
_in the moaning of the endless Sea!'_

 _But no true Man nor Elf yet free_  
_would ever speak that blasphemy,_  
_and Beren muttered: 'Who is Thû_  
_to hinder work that is to do?_  
_Him we serve not, nor to him owe_  
_obeisance, and we now would go.'_

 _Thû laughed: 'Patience! Not very long shall ye abide._  
_But first a song I will sing to you, to ears intent.'_  
_Then his flaming eyes he on them bent,_  
_and darkness black fell round them all._  
_Only they saw as through a pall_  
_of eddying smoke those eyes profound_  
_in which their senses choked and drowned._

And the battle begins in earnest…

 

 

"Great Chief" — the "name" Boldog which causes so much confusion in the examination of the draft versions and outlines of the Lay in _LB_ may not actually be a proper name at all, but a _title_ , like _Khan_ or _Imperator_ , and thus might not have been intended to refer to any one orc-chieftain, but to whichever of them was acclaimed leader (no doubt after surviving rounds of challenge first, like Uglûk in _LOTR:TTT)_ of the battle-group instead. This solution (another "yes" to an-either or, I'm afraid) occurred to me after finding the word means "powerful" + "slayer" which strongly evokes a ritual epithet, rather than a personal name, (though it could of course be both.) Thus, the Boldog sent to capture Lúthien after Morgoth discovers rumours of her flight, and who is killed in combat by Thingol while the Northern forces are destroyed by the army of Doriath on its way to Nargothrond, doesn't have to be the same Boldog whose was earlier killed testing Doriath's borders, the lack of current information concerning which event caused such disastrous results.

 

 

 _letter_ : that the infamous missive concerning not only Lúthien but Beren and Finrod sent to Thingol by Celegorm and Curufin was afterwards returned to Orodreth by his great-uncle, is found in the outlines; the method, that there was a river path along Esgalduin that was a regular line of communication between the two kingdoms, is mentioned in UT, "Narn i Hin Húrin," where Morwen, threatening to attempt her own crossing of Sirion, is taken to it by Mablung:

_"Will you not return?"_

_"No!" she said."Then I must help you," said Mablung, "though it is against my own will. Wide and deep here is Sirion, and perilous to swim for beast or man."_

_"Then bring me over by what ever way the Elven-folk are used to cross," said Morwen, "or else I will try the swimming."_

_Therefore Mablung led her to the twilight meres. There amid the creeks and reeds ferries were kept hidden and guarded on the east shore; for by that way messengers would pass to and fro between Thingol and his kin in Nargothrond._

 

 

It is an irony that doubtless did not much amuse her parents, that while they were looking for her, and after they had given up hope of finding her, Lúthien was in fact inside the borders of Doriath, fending not only for herself but the convalescent Beren, with Huan's help.

 

 

Beren's wretched Sindarin accent grating on Thingol and conveying the impression of deliberate disrespect is not only to be found in HOME but intriguingly mirrors a conversation reported in _Letters_ between Professor Tolkien and an officer from New England during WWII — the young Yankee rather obstreperously challenged JRRT's British accent as phoney and put-on, and was somewhat surprised to learn that not only was it quite unaffected, his own "normal" American accent sounded, to his interlocutor, equally affected, as if he were deliberately trying to sound uncouth. (They also had a bit of a heated discussion on the matter of feudalism, not too surprisingly.) After this eye-opener (if such can properly be used of a matter strictly _aural_ ) however, the American became much less obnoxious, according to JRRT, and willing to look at such subjective impressions from a more objective and technical light, and they parted on good terms. (Myself, I wonder _where_ in the Northeast the kid was from: up in the northern hills and to the west, the accent is surprisingly "southern," being part of the original Appalachian farming culture — this is undoubtedly how Gen. Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain, from Maine, was able to convince a group of Southern soldiers he was one of their officers, and so escape capture during the Civil War. But some of the Boston-area dialects are so gruesomely distorted as to cause physical pain in out-of-state listeners: if you get the for-me-many-years-incomprehensible joke, "I'm outta here like a bald guy," you will begin to gather why.)

 

 

 _Daeron_ : it's unlikely that they would have learned about the bard slipping off during the chaos of the initial searches for the escaped princess, though remotely possible that Huan might have heard from his avian contacts. My assumption is that everyone had more pressing things on their minds than wondering about someone presumably safe at home.

 

 

Melian & Thingol honeymooning in Dorthonion is mentioned almost at the very beginning of the second Lay fragment, in what is surely not a coincidence, as well as in _Silm.,_ "Of Beren and Lúthien," — "But the waters of Tarn Aeluin were held in reverence, for they were clear and blue by day and by night were a mirror for the stars; and it was said that Melian herself had hallowed that water in days of old."

 

 

 _Beleg_ : as Thingol's chief Ranger, and given his exploits at infiltrating Nargothrond to bring back the news of Lúthien's further flight and the exile of the sons of Fëanor, he would be the most likely candidate for such an intelligence mission.

 

 

That Carcharoth was intended and put in place as an anti-Huan device is not in question — post-disaster (at least from Morgoth's viewpoint it was a disaster) investigations indicating the presence of Huan at the debacle of Tol Sirion, a panicked Dark Lord took quick and urgent steps in the following weeks to set up an effective (hopefully) defense system against Giant Sentient Invincible-Except-By-Prophecy Hounds of Valinor. This is stated in the rough drafts: "Morgoth…thinks it is Huan and fashions a vast wolf—Carcharas—mightiest of all wolves to guard his door," and in slightly different wording,

"Morgoth hears of the ruin of Thû's castle. His mind is filled with misgiving and anger. The gates of Angband strengthened; because of the rumour of Huan he fashions the greatest chooses the fiercest wolf from all the whelps of his packs, and feeds him on flesh of Men and Elves, and enchants him so that he becomes the most great and terrible of all beasts that ever have been— Carcharos."

Canto XII goes into it at some length, detailing the rationale behind it and the morbid processes by which one force-grows a super-werewolf, which I will quote here again:

_Then came word most passing strange of Lúthien  
wild-wandering by wood and glen,  
and Thingol's purpose long he weighed, a  
nd wondered, thinking of that maid  
so fair, so frail. A captain dire,  
Boldog, he sent with sword and fire  
to Doriath's march; but battle fell  
sudden upon him: news to tell  
never one returned of Boldog's host,  
and Thingol humbled Morgoth's boast.  
Then his heart with doubt and wrath was burned:  
new tidings of dismay he learned,  
how Thû was o'erthrown and his strong isle  
broken and plundered, how with guile  
his foes no guile beset; and spies  
he feared, till each Orc to his eyes  
was half suspect. Still ever down  
the aisléd forest came renown  
of Huan baying, hound of war  
that Gods unleashed in Valinor._

_Then Morgoth of Huan's fate bethought  
long rumoured, and in dark he wrought.  
Fierce hunger-haunted packs he had  
that in wolvish form and flesh were clad,  
but demon spirits dire did hold;  
and ever wild their voices rolled  
in cave and mountain where they housed  
and endless snarling echoes roused.  
From these a whelp he chose and fed  
with his own hand on bodies dead,  
on fairest flesh of Elves and Men,  
till huge he grew and in his den  
no more could creep, but by the chair  
of Morgoth's self would lie and glare,  
nor suffer Balrog, Orc, nor beast  
to touch him. Many a ghastly feast  
he held beneath that awful throne,  
rending flesh and gnawing bone.  
There deep enchantment on him fell,  
the anguish and the power of hell;  
more great and terrible he became  
with fire-red eyes and jaws aflame,  
with breath like vapours of the grave,  
than any beast of wood or cave,  
than any beast of earth or hell  
that ever in any time befell,  
surpassing all his race and kin,  
the ghastly tribe of Draugluin._

_Him Carcharoth, the Red Maw,  
name the songs of Elves.  
Not yet he came disastrous,  
ravening, from the gates of Angband.  
There he sleepless waits;  
where those great portals threatening loom  
his red eyes smoulder in the gloom,  
his teeth are bare, his jaws are wide;  
and none may walk, nor creep, nor glide,  
nor thrust with power his menace past  
to enter Morgoth's dungeon vast…_

 

There is moreover a weird parallel between the clash/combination of Light and Dark powers in Melian versus Ungoliant, which results in the blighted area between Dorthonion and Doriath, the "Mountains of Terror," where the "poison of Death" that was in the Spider-demon and her lethal aura which has corrupted that region wars and merges with the healing, life-giving power of the Maia who was once part of the original domain of Lórien and a companion of the Vala of renewed life, Vána — and the situation of Carcharoth-plus-the-Silmaril. On the one hand, the entire physical being of Carcharoth is so corrupted on so many levels that contact with the Varda-blessed jewel sears him, just as it did Morgoth; yet on the other hand, containing the primal life-energies, undiminished, of the universe, it gives him inordinate power even as it burns him, so that he is maintained in a permanent state of destruction and renewing. In a way, he is but another casualty of the war, like Nan Dungortheb itself, since whatever pride and attraction to violence lured him to follow Melkor, this fallen Ainu can hardly have had any notion what he was getting himself into: if he weren't mad to begin with, such a grisly ordeal would certainly have made him so.

 

 

Melian telling Lúthien that Beren is still alive but captive, for,

'The Lord of Wolves hath prisons dark,  
chains and enchantments cruel and stark,   
there trapped and bound and languishing   
now Beren dreams that thou dost sing'

is found in LL1, Canto V, when she asks the Maia what has become of him and gets the bad news. (There's so much elegant, understated sensuality in the Lay of Leithian fragments that I'm surprised they're not more widely known; I guess it's the understatement.) The differing attitudes towards sex, implicit and embodied in the fact of Elves celebrating the date of _conception_ , not of birth, as age-marker, follow naturally from the greater unity with the natural world that is theirs (including body-mind, which makes conception a controllable and voluntary action on the part of parents) and spiritually Unfallen state (unlike mortals, their Fall is the rebellion of the Noldor, a much more limited corruption, though certainly no less devastating in its consequences.)

A reverential but entirely neurosis-free and non-aggressive attitude towards reproduction is the natural result — "seldom is told of any deeds of lust among them" — and although Beren coming from a much more "primitive" society as well as one whose culture is heavily influenced by Eldar beliefs and attitudes (and being for all practical purposes a devout pantheist) would be far less afflicted by the neuroses of "modern civilization," there is still a world of difference between regarding something as Mystery and therefore not casually or irreverently spoken of, and _not regarding it as any different from the rest of everyday life at all_. The affectionate teasing his comrades subject him to, born of their incomprehension of his embarrassment, is intended not only to point up this fact (and contrast it with contemporary attitudes in our world), but to illustrate the confusion that mortals in turn experienced while dealing with the Eldar, the apparent contradiction between their vast knowledge and sophistication, and the apparently-childlike "naiveté" which doesn't understand (as Men see it) the seriousness of things ("Athrabeth") — whereas to the Elves it appears that Men are both troubled and troublesome, and the recipients of "strange gifts." _(Silm.,_ "Of the Beginning of Days.")

It's not entirely unrelated to their differing approaches to the Powers, as well, and the cognitive dissonance that Beren has mentioned earlier when trying to cope with statements like "And then I asked Varda…" which also follows from the difference of their respective backgrounds, which only gets worse the more deities he encounters.

 

 

The Nargothrondish scholar's theory (it is safe to assume she is the same one who _didn't_ end up helping Lúthien in Act III) about mortals being lesser spirits incarnated by Morgoth is a variant of a common Gnostic tradition: the idea that the spirit world _alone_ is the creation of God, and the physical world that of Lucifer; this form of Duallism necessarily requires that procreation, and life (as we think of it, organic and biological) itself, be regarded as intrinsically evil, since both serve to imprison pure souls in a corrupt material plane.

 

 

The going-to-ground of Carcharoth as described in _Silm_. and the _Tale of Tinúviel_ represents the big-game hunter's worst nightmare — even apart from sentience and demonic ferocity plus enhanced, off-the-scale size, to have a wounded, angry, invisible predator lurking in impassible territory as the sun goes down is one of those situations that no one trying to deal with a maneater _ever_ wants to find one's self in.

 

 

"Then Mablung took up a knife and ripped up the belly of the Wolf; and within he was wellnigh all consumed as with a fire, but the hand of Beren that held the jewel was yet incorrupt. But when Mablung reached forth to touch it, the hand was no more, and the Silmaril lay there unveiled, and the light of it filled the shadows of the forest all about them. Then quickly and in fear Mablung took it and set it in Beren's living hand; and Beren was aroused by the touch of the Silmaril, and held it aloft, and bade Thingol receive it.'Now is the Quest achieved,' he said, 'and my doom full-wrought'; and he spoke no more."

 

 

"tarrying" — There are several different ways to tarry, and in a place where one isn't technically supposed to be. One can do so loudly, challengingly, demanding of one's rights, and asserting of them — which sometimes works, but isn't pleasant for anyone involved, whether it works or not. Or, one can do so unobtrusively, not making an issue of it, for as long as possible; this will often be overlooked, and sometimes not even noticed, by the earthly powers-that-be. (This is different from _hiding_ , note, which only works as long as it is successful, since once discovered the authorities will take an extremely dim view of further tarrying.) How do I know about staying in places technically off-limits? Erm … Ahem. All we are told by the texts is that Beren — unlike any other known mortal, before or since — tarried there as per Lúthien's instructions, so we must imagine for ourselves what said tarrying would be like. Given his behaviour in Neldoreth, I tend to the second option as most likely — and followed by the same utter stubbornness that outstayed welcome in Dorthonion for eight years; though nonviolently, as it seems highly unlikely to me that the policy strictly maintained by the Valar of non-coercion and non-interference would suddenly be changed.

 

 

"wrath of Ossë" — that mercurial and hot-tempered deity is usually the one responsible for ocean storms and deadly waves, but there is at least one notable exception in the chronicles.

 

 

 _dew_ : excess energy from Telperion (in essence, small amounts of raw starlight) saved up in liquid form illuminates the Halls according to one legend.

 

 

That Beren was "reserved for torment" after Finrod's death is found in the Lay and the outline-drafts, as well as being implicit in the warning Sauron gave them, that if no one gave in, the last one would be tortured (in cruder, less psychological ways, that is) until he broke. However, since Finrod had accidentally given away their identities already while trying to convince Beren that it was a futile idea for him to think that he could save Finrod by turning himself in, and Sauron had already dismissed Beren as not knowing enough to be worth keeping alive, the only obvious remaining motive is vengeance, which is a pleasure the Lord of Wolves is willing to put off, while dealing with the present ongoing disturbance at his gates.

This casual disregard of the mortal as mere muscle, and not any longer a major player with Dorthonion effectively "pacified," is of course fortunate (and not indeed too uncommon in so-called intelligence services today, who all too often overlook key figures in conspiracy) as what would have happened, subsequently, had Sauron known, when Lúthien arrived, that it was her own true love he had in the dungeon, does not bear thinking about.

 

 

"Wild Man" — although there is no reference to the Druedain in the published _Silm.,_ this does not mean that they were not present in Beleriand, as is revealed in UT, where we find that they, although few, shy and solitary, were beloved by the Elves who encountered them for their gifts of mirth and laughter, and also were honored and in demand for their skills as trackers and ferocious enemies of the Orcs. (Readers may recall that in Act II, the sons of Fëanor have mockingly suggested that Beren might be one of them.) However, they (prudently, perhaps) preferred to keep to themselves, by and large, although there is a story about one shaman of the Woodwoses who protected the family of a close friend among the Haladin, at considerable cost to himself; this story, "The Faithful Stone," is interesting as well in that we find yet again in Arda the concept of imbuing an inanimate object with one's essence, to focus (in this case remotely) one's power so as to be effectively in two places at once.

Like everyone else in Beleriand, they were driven south by the successes of Morgoth and eventually forced to resettle in the eastern, remaining parts of Middle-earth after the Dark Lord's defeat. However, some of them even took advantage of the gift of the Valar and journeyed to Númenor, where they lived until that realm began its decline, returning to Middle-earth with the cryptic (yet prophetic) statements that the place was no longer stable. (Now _there_ are potential stories that would be interesting to tell, and hear, about those adventurous deep-woods tribesfolk crossing the Sea and living on what would become Atalantë!)

 

 

 _Halmir_ : this was originally the name of a son of Orodreth killed by Orcs (as mentioned in LB, "The Lay of the Children of Húrin," Canto III) who disappears out of the later versions, though not it must be said necessarily out of history. I didn't include him in The Script because I felt that it would be too much of a distraction, too diffusive of the familial and social energies already at play in Nargothrond, and would weaken the dynamic of the Finduilas-Gwindor-Turin triangle. However, it would certainly be possible to do a fanfic set in Nargothrond, which would include the unfortunate Prince, and could quite effectively use, as is implied in LB, his capture and death while out on patrol as further reason for Orodreth's unwillingness to engage in offensive measures, and could also make quite effective use of his loss as yet another son-replacement factor in Turin's instant adoption as Young Champion of the King, against all rational probability. (If I were to do it, I would follow the friendship of Gwindor and his brother with the Prince's children, and emphasize Gwindor's role as a first son-substitute, after his friend Halmir's killing, in Orodreth's affections — which would make his defiance and subsequent loss at the Nirnaeth all the bitterer to Orodreth and make even more inevitable his own displacement by  the Adanedhel as tanist. I don't have that story to write, myself, unfortunately, poignant though it would be.) But I have given his name to a fallen warrior of Nargothrond in tribute.

 

 

Beren saying he should have died and been buried with his dad comes from LL2, the Canto X fragments, where just before getting run down by the exiled sons of Fëanor he and Lúthien are having a heated argument over what they are going to do next:

 _"My word, alas, I now must keep_  
_and not the first of men to weep_  
_for oath in pride and anger sworn._  
_Too brief the meeting, brief the morn,_  
_too soon comes night when we must part!_  
_All oaths are for breaking of the heart,_  
_with shame denied, with anguish kept._  
_Ah! would that now unknown I slept_  
_with Barahir beneath the stone,_  
_and thou wert dancing still alone,_  
_unmarred, immortal, sorrowless,_  
_singing in joy of Elvenesse.'_

To which she, unimpressed, returns:

 _'That may not be. For bonds there are_  
_stronger than stone or iron bar,_  
_more strong than proudly spoken oath._  
_Have I not plighted thee my troth?_  
_Hath love no pride nor honour then?_  
_Or dost thou deem then Lúthien_  
_so frail of purpose, light of love?_  
_By stars of Elbereth above!_  
_If thou wilt here my hand forsake_  
_and leave me lonely paths to take,_  
_then Lúthien will not go home—"_

Considering this exchange in the light of what they've both just been through, here is all the warrant needed (if it should be needed) for the characterizations of Beren as a guilt-ridden depressive and Lúthien as sarcastic, impatient, and absolutely indomitable. (Also the Elven habit of swearing by the Stars.)

 

 

"reborn" — somewhat predictably, an affirmative answer for the rehousing-or-rebirth? controversy over Elvish reincarnation. It seems to me that the decision of those peoples who elected to stay behind in Middle-earth could be respected, allowing them to return there in the (to us) traditional mode of reincarnation, being reborn among their own kindred (even descendents, making it quite possible to be one's own grandparent) and eventually recalling their past experiences, thus adding layers of knowledge and understanding over time, like Vedic sages and heroes in the _Mahabharata_ or the heroines of Celtic legend — or as it is said in the Quenta _(HOME:Shaping of Middle-earth)_ :

"Immortal were the Elves, and their wisdom waxed and grew from age to age, and no sickness or pestilence brought them death. But they could be slain with weapons in those days, even by mortal Men, and some waned and wasted with sorrow till they faded from the earth. Slain or fading their spirits went back to the halls of Mandos to wait a thousand years, or the pleasure of Mandos according to their deserts, before they were recalled to free life in Valinor, or sometimes were reborn, it is said, into their own children…"

Those who chose to come to Aman, on the other hand, and their descendents, not having the complicating problem of the almost-impassible Sea barrier, could be reincarnated right there, as soon as they were ready to return to the world, and pick up more or less where they left off. This would be a rather workable and fair system, but like any system would get bollixed up by intractable and anomalous cases, like that of someone who didn't want to be reincarnated _at all_ regardless of what it meant to her family and friends, or who wanted to change his ethnicity to match his friends…

 

 

"Normal Use" — this is the modern military expression for requiring replacement of gear, or parts, indicating that they've either worn out or gotten broken in expected ways. I have it on extremely good authority that this can be (and invariably is) stretched to cover unauthorized (but done everyday) use of tools for purposes which they are _not_ (at least by by the books) intended to be used for, such as using specialized cleaning implements as prybars and replacing the skid of a helicopter which the C.O. had managed to intersect with the top of a tree… Given the literate, record-keeping society of the Noldor, contrasted with the intractable, independent nature of the Eldar generally, something like this is bound to happen (when it doesn't become overt non-compliance, as illustrated in Act III.)

The unfortunate (for everyone) Lieutenant Telumnar we have encountered already, in Act III, via the documents left behind by Finrod, outlining his discussions with the Captain over promotions, which Orodreth belatedly has discovered. The idea that good commanders know what they need, and _don't_ need, to know about, is applicable to many situations, from parenting to organizing a business — though the opposites, at both extremes, are more obviously to be found. (One example of a leader who fails to grasp the fact that not everything _needs_ to be micromanaged, and not every minor infraction sought out and punished, is to be seen in _The Caine Mutiny,_ where the compulsive Captain Queeg makes "strawberries" into a byword for overkill.)

 

 

 _Andreth_ : we don't actually know for certain that Finrod _didn't_ tell Beren about that ill-starred romance, which is chronicled in the "Athrabeth," the "Debate Between Finrod  & Andreth," and where his radical metaphysical speculations are expressed as well. But since it isn't stated to _have_ been the case (although there is an allusion to it in one of the original text of the prose Geste, which was removed for the published Silm. as an editorial judgment, to avoid confusion) and there is good psychological reason for not having done so — as well as the potential for drama and dark humor upon discovery of the fact that one of Finrod's younger brothers once dated and dumped one of Beren's great-aunts — I've gone with that presumption. More on this situation as the story progresses, to minimize spoilers.

 

 

An-the-deep-minded: another nod to the sagas, and the terrifyingly-competent Icelandic folk heroine who endured so many losses but was known during, as well as after, her own lifetime as Unn-the-deep-minded. ([Laxdaela Saga](http://www.google.com/))

 

 

 _waterfall_ : the healing aspects of water, and particularly the sound of running water, are a constant theme in the Arda mythos, as in the experience of the Fellowship after Moria, beside the banks of the Nimrodel, (LOTR:FOTR, "Lothlórien") or in Túrin's healing at Eithil Ivrin after his accidental killing of Beleg. _(Silm.,_ "Of Túrin Turambar")

 

 

Edrahil's explanation of their ghostly state as discussed and determined by the Noldor intelligentsia is actually a quick summation of the notion of the Forms, or Ideal Versions of Things, put forward in Platonic philosophy. (The phenomena they are attempting to explain also go along with classical mythology, and subsequent takes on the afterlife, but mostly with Graeco-Roman tradition. —Was Sysiphus rolling a real boulder in his punishment, or merely a virtual boulder? Regardless, it was "real" enough for living visitors to Hades to note and comment on it.)

 

 

As always, thanks are due to [Ardalambion](http://www.uib.no/people/hnohf/), for their easy-to-use online linguistic resources, allowing some creative use of vocabulary drills. (The ban on the use of Quenya in Beleriand proclaimed by Thingol would hardly be relevant to them at that point, regardless of ethnicity, given the terminal nature of their situation.) Beren's "cobbled-together" word Atandil means "mortal-friend," while Edrahil's retort, Atandur, indicating that he's just doing his job, signifies "mortal-servant." The reference to the "taste" of words is derived from the Quenya word lámatyávë or "sound-taste" which refers to an individual's sense of what words and combinations of sounds "feel right" when spoken aloud.

 

 

No, Edrahil's song isn't mine. I'm not that good: I just borrowed from a source very familiar to JRRT as well. (The grayed-out lines are those which I didn't include in the excerpt for this scene, and the ones in brackets are _not_ my own translation.)

"The Wanderer"

Oft him anhaga    are gebideðmetudes miltse þeah þe he modceariggeond lagulade longe sceoldehreran mid hondum hrimcealde saewadan wræclastas wyrd bið ful aræd

swa cwæð eardstapa earfeða gemyndigwraþra wælsleahta winemæga hryre

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['Often the solitary man enjoysThe grace and mercy of the Lord, though heCareworn has long been forced to stir by handThe ice-cold sea on many waterways,Travel the exile's path; fate is relentless.'So spoke a wanderer who called to mindHardships and cruel wars and deaths of lords.]  
  
---|---|---  
  
oft ic sceolde ana uhtna gehwylce mine ceare cwiþan nis nu cwircra nan þe ic him modsefan minne durre sweotule asecgan Ic to soþe wat þæt biþ in eorle indryhten þeaw þæt he his ferðlocan fæste binde healde his hordcofan hycge swa he wille Ne maeg werigmod    wyrde wiðstondan ne se hreo hyge helpe gefremman for ðon domgeorne dreorigne oft in hyra breostcofan bindað fæste

swa ic modsefan minne sceolde oft earmcearig eðle bidæled freomægum feor feterum sælan siþþan geara iu goldwine minne hrusan heolstre biwrah and ic hean þonan wod wintercearig ofer waþema gebind sohte sele dreorig sinces bryttan hwær ic feor oþþe neah findan meahte þone þe in meoduhealle min mine wisse oþþe mec freondleasne frefran wolde weman mid wynnum wat se þe cunnað hu sliþen bið    sorg to geferan þam þe him lyt hafað    leofra geholena warað hine wræclast    nales wunden gold ferðloca freorig nalæs foldan blæd gemon he selesecgas and sincþege hu hine on geoguðe his goldwine

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—Oft should I, alone each dawn, my cares lament: now living is none that I to him the mood of my heart dare disclose. I know full well that for a leader 'tis lordly strength that he his locked counsels shall fastly bind, hold close his coffered thought, howso other he would. No more may heartwearied Doom stand defying, nor shall troubled musings bear with them help— for they most earnest of others' respect, tears oft in their breast's chamber shall bind away fast.

So should I oft my soul make safe— beggared by care, bereft of my House, far from my home — fettering my soul since I left him, my lord gold-joyful, generous, in earth's dark depths — and I unwillingly, winterweary, was bound hither over the waves. [And suffering sought the hall of a new patron]

Where might I find, living, friend or lord now who shall in meadhall name me their own? or my friendlessness would turn to friendship, win me to joyfulness? —This do we know how cruel a comrade is sorrow to him whose true friends have all been taken, wandering in exile — worthless the worked gold, ice-cold his inmost thought, worthless the flowering fields. _[He calls to mind_ vreceiving gifts of treasure And former hall retainers, and remembers How in his younger years his lordly patron Was wont to entertain him at the feast]  
  
wenede to wiste wyn eal gedreas for þon wat se þe sceal his winedryhtnes leofes larcwidum long forþolian ðonne sorg and slæp somod ætgædre earmne anhogan oft gebindað þinceð him on mode þæt he his mondryhten clyppe and cysse and on cneo lecge honda and heafod swa he hwilum ær in geardagum giefstoles breac ðonne onwæcneð eft wineleas guma gesihð him biforan fealwe wegas baþian brimfuglas brædan feþra hreosan hrim and snaw hagle gemenged 

þonne beoð þy hefigran heortan benne sare æftre swæsne Sorg bið geniwad þonne maga gemynd mod geondhweorfeð greteð gliwstafum georne geondsceawað secga geselden swimmað oft on weg fleotendra ferð no þær fela bringeð cuðra cwidegiedda cearo bið geniewad þam þe sendan sceal    swiþe geneahhe ofer waþema gebind    werigne sefan

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_He minds him ever_ ^how all joy is broken,  for that he knows that his joyful lord and his dear counsel shall long be forgoing:

then sorrow and sleep  ever together pitiful, solitary, oft are binding him in mind that he his liege-lord clasps and kisses and on knee lays hand and head, as he did betimes, vassal in spear-hall, at the gift-dealing yet, then awakened, the joyless man sees before him the fallow waves, bathing the seabirds, broad of wing, as sleet and snow and hail fall mingled.

Then all the heavier be heart's wounds, sorely yearning after. Sorrow's made new again, when comrades in mind and thought return:

he greets, joyfilled, earnestly looks on them yet swiftly their souls swim oft away, floating forth, nor bring their spirits the cheerful harpsong. Cares are made new to him that shall send ever anew over waves binding the wearied soul.  
  
for þon ic geþencan ne mæg geond þas woruld for hwan modsefa min ne gesweorce þonne ic eorla lif eal geondþence hu hi færlice flet ofgeafon modge maguþegnas swa þes middangeard ealra dogra gehwam    dreaoseð and fealleþ for þon ne mæg weorþan wis    wer ær he age wintra dæl in woruldrice Wita sceal geþyldig ne sceal no to hatheort ne to hrædwyrde ne to wac wiga ne to wanhydig ne to forht ne to fægen    ne to feohgifre ne næfre gielpes to georn ær he geare cunne Beorn sceal gebidan þonne he beot spriceð oþ þæt collenferð cunne gearwe hwider hreþra gehygd hweorfan wille

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For this I may not in this world thinkof aught that my heart might darken notwhen I name noble lives all gone thence,[how they suddenly have left their hall]brave horsemen and vassals. So Middle-earthand all upon it daily fades and fails.For this a warrior may not name him wisewho has not dwelt winters in that worlds-realm.[A wise man must be patient, not too hastyin speech, or passionate, impetuousor timid as a fighter, nor too anxiousor carefree or too covetous of wealth;Nor ever must he be too quick to boastBefore he's gained experience of himselfA man should wait, before he makes a vow,Until in pride he truly can assessHow, when a crisis comes, he will react]  
  
ongietan sceal gleaw hæle    hu gæstlic bið þonne eall þisse worulde wela weste stondeð swa nu missenlice geond þisne middangeard winde biwaune weallas stondaþ hrime bihrorene hryðge þa ederas woriað þa winsalo waldend licgað dreame bidrorene    duguð eal gecrong wlonc by wealle sume wig fornom ferede in forðwege sumne fugle oþbær ofer heanne holm sumne se hara wulf deaðe gedælde sumne dreorighleor in eorðscræfe    eorl gehydde

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—Such a one knows how soul-shaking shall bewhen all this world's wealth stands bestrewnas now likewise upon Middle-earththe wind bewails where walls are standingice-enameled, ruined the fortresses,fallen the wine-halls, [monarchs lifeless liedeprived of pleasures,] dead the defenders,lying by walls. Some the war took from us,faring in faroff ways: that one fed the carrion fowlfar from harbour, to that one the ice-grey wolfdealt out death, — that one the faithful friendhid in earthen grave, mourning for lord.  
  
There is a lot more of this poem which I haven't translated or transcribed, but which is well-worth reading, as it contains, for example, the lines "where now the horse, where now the rider?" and other trenchant meditations on hubris, mortality, and the transience of status and good fortune.

 

Act 4: SCENE III

 

This is among other things an homage to the great swashbucklers of the 1930's: _The Prisoner of Zenda, Robin Hood, Captain Blood, The Scarlet Pimpernel,_ and all the rest of those films which managed to combine action, adventure, romance, drama, intrigue, special effects, great costuming, superb cinematography _and_ well-turned dialogue, products of an art which appears to be largely lost these days.

Gower's speech reflects the frequent comparison of true love as more permanent than the sturdiest earthly monuments, both in essence and in memory, such as stone buildings and cast bronze statues, in Shakespeare's sonnets, q.v. the Notes to Act III. The addition of trees is a recognition of the culture of Arda.

 

 

 

Act 4: SCENE III.i

 

 _the Loom_ : much of what I have done in this Act is based on the following statement:

"Vairë the Weaver is his spouse, who weaves all things that have ever been in Time into her storied webs, and the Halls of Mandos that ever widen as the ages pass are clothed with them." _(Silm.,_ "Valaquenta.")

But it is often overlooked that Aulë is patron of weavers and embroiderers as well as smiths and artisans, and co-patron (with Yavanna, naturally) of farmers. _(Silm.,_ "Of the Beginning of Days.") Into his purview fall the arts-and-crafts, and the abstract sciences as well as the applied ones, and we are told that he and Melkor had most in common, and there was an intense rivalry stemming from Melkor's unwillingness to acknowledge anyone else his equal — but Aulë's efforts are all creative, and not destructive. _(Silm.,_ "Valaquenta")

Since it is also under his aegis that the Noldor invented and refined letters, there is a happy fusion of interests in Vairë's living-history recording project, and I consider it not unlikely at all that Aulë would have both been involved in the creation of it, and that at the counsels of the Valar their interaction would have taken the form of oblivious tech-speech, impenetrable to outsiders…

 

 

"the last crisis" — i.e. the flight of the Noldor. _Not_ a chance reference.

 

Act 4: SCENE III.ii

 

The decorative flames are present because the effects of light and water feature in Tolkien's writing (q.v. Gandalf's fireworks in Hobbiton) — and also in an allusion to LOTR:TTT, "The Passage of the Marshes" which is probably not in the best of taste, but oh well.

 

 

That Angrod and Aegnor were well-known to Lúthien follows naturally from their visits to Menegroth to see Galadriel. That she would be severely put out with them for harassing Beren at such a time (or any other) is probably an understatement.

 

 

"Black is the color" — this traditional English folksong has already appeared earlier, in Act III.

 

 

Irmo, being (along with Estë his wife — note that the Powers nearly always work in pairs) the Maia principally concerned with healing and spiritual understanding, was both the Power into whose care Miriel was given — and, one might assume, most deeply affected by their inability to save her from her suicidal depression.

 

 

 _Tilion_ : the pilot of the Moon, and doubtless the source of the expression "mooning about someone," as his hopeless, unrequited love for Arien, the pilot of the Sun, and their non-romance a subject of the chronicles — and for good-natured teasing, as is shown in the lore of the Shire, q.v. LOTR:FOTR, "At the Sign of the Prancing Pony." His intense psychic bond with the late Tree Telperion together with his defensive skills as a hunter made him the obvious choice for the job, as Arien's own communing with Laurelin and her combination of fearlessness and intelligence made her the automatic choice for hers; but Tilion's efforts to impress Arien by racing her and continued attempts to hang out with her, regardless of her own wishes, combined with his easy distractibility, have had a strong negative impact on his performance. The question of replacing him has not been recorded as coming up, however.

 

 

 _Eöl_ : It's highly unlikely that anyone outside Gondolin would know about this situation, (q.v. Act III) given the isolation of the City — and given his previously-displayed behavior, I doubt very much that he would have suddenly changed his ways merely by virtue of being dead. It's all too easy to imagine him demanding his wife back from the Lord of the Halls in the same way that he challenged the Noldor lords in Beleriand…

 

 

Beren's recognition of Irmo reflects the fact that in life, he has had a "prophetic dream," the warning of danger which preceded the dream-vision message given to him by Gorlim.

 

 

 _Bereg_ : the "black sheep" of the Bëorings, he has been mentioned earlier in Act II, and was the one who, together with Amlach of House Marach, convulsed the early Edain with a dramatic rift. (It also seems plausible that Sauron, or another minion, was involved in the scandal — but I tend to think Sauron myself, not simply because of the apt symmetry, but also because the message was entirely in the style of his later successful efforts to seduce Númenor.) Here, because it is so pertinent, is the story in full, taken from _Silm.,_ "Of the Coming of Men into the West":

But many Men remained in Estolad, and there was still a mingled people living there long years after, until in the ruin of Beleriand they were overwhelmed or fled back into the East. For beside the old who deemed that their wandering days were over, there were not a few who desired to go their own ways, and they feared the Eldar and the light of their eyes; and then dissensions awoke among the Edain, in which the shadow of Morgoth may be discerned, for certain it is that he knew of the coming of Men into Beleriand and of their growing friendship with the Elves.

_The leaders of discontent were Bereg of the house of Bëor, and Amlach, one of the grandsons of Marach; and they said openly: 'We took long roads, desiring to escape the perils of Middle-earth and the dark things that dwell there; for we heard that there was Light in the West. But now we learn that the Light is beyond the Sea. Thither we cannot come where the Gods dwell in Bliss. Save one; for the Lord of the Dark is here before us, and the Eldar, wise but fell, who make endless war upon him. In the North he dwells, they say, and there is the pain and death from which we fled. We will not go that way.'_

_Then a council and assembly of Men was called, and great numbers came together. And the Elf-friends answered Bereg, saying: 'Truly from the Dark King come all the evils from which we fled; but he seeks dominion over all Middle-earth, and whither now shall we turn and he will not pursue us? Unless he be vanquished here, or at least held in leaguer. Only by the valour of the Eldar is he restrained, and maybe it was for this purpose, to aim them at need, that we were brought into this land."To this Bereg answered: 'Let the Eldar look to it! Our lives are short enough.'_

_But there arose one who seemed to all to be Amlach son of Imlach, speaking fell words that shook the hearts of all who heard him: 'All this is but Elvish lore, tales to beguile newcomers that are unwary. The Sea has no shore. There is no Light in the West. You have followed a fool-fire of the Elves to the end of the world! Which of you has seen the least of the Gods? Who has beheld the Dark King in the North? Those who seek the dominion of Middle-earth are the Eldar. Greedy for wealth they have delved in the earth for its secrets and have stirred to wrath the things that dwell beneath it, as they have ever done and ever shall. Let the Orcs have the realm that is theirs, and we will have ours. There is room enough in the world, if the Eldar will let us be!"_

_Then those that listened sat for a while astounded, and a shadow of fear fell on their hearts; and they resolved to depart far from the lands of the Eldar. But afterwards Amlach returned among them, and denied that he had been present at their debate or had spoken such words as they reported; and there was doubt and bewilderment among Men. Then the Elf-friends said: 'You will now believe this at least: there is indeed a Dark Lord, and his spies and emissaries are among us; for he fears us, and the strength that we may give to his foes.'But some still answered: 'He hates us, rather, and ever the more the longer we dwell here, meddling in his quarrel with the Kings of the Eldar, to no gain of ours.'_

_Many therefore of those that yet remained in Estolad made ready to depart; and Bereg led a thousand of the people of Bëor away southwards, and they passed out of the songs of those days. But Amlach repented, saying: 'I now have a quarrel of my own with this Master of Lies, which will last to my life's end'; and he went away north and entered the service of Maedhros. But those of his people who were of like mind with Bereg chose a new leader, and they went back over the mountains into Eriador, and are forgotten._

 

 

"seen your father angry" — this is a reference to Galadriel's brothers getting thrown out of Menegroth upon the revelation of the Kinslaying and their prolonged silence on the subject. _(Silm.,_ "Of the Noldor in Beleriand") I've taken the (minor) liberty of assuming that they visited, like any proper heads-of-state in peace time, with an entourage, and that this royal train might well include high-ranking members of the court. Given that one of the Lay outlines speaks of the words of power being "wrung" from Sauron, this is an accurate guess on his part.

 

 

"What does _he_ know about fire?" — this is referring to the fact that the Maia known to history as (among many other things) Olórin is in fact a fire-spirit, but one who "walked among them unseen, or in form as one of them." _(Silm.,_ "Valaquenta: Of the Valar.")

 

 

"ere Tilion's embarcation" — a reference to the dark deserted streets between the Flight and the Moon, as for that time (which may have extended for several years duration, though I am not certain of the chronology there) that the orbiters were under construction there was no natural light source in Arda except for the stars. This is a fact which, together with its full implications, seems to escape notice frequently, when the cataclysm is considered — which should not be the case. (It is admittedly difficult for those of us who have never experienced a cataclysmic natural darkness, such as following a volcanic explosion, during a blizzard, or in a hurricane, or even the perfectly-natural and brief one of a full solar eclipse, to do so — I myself have only ever experienced a 3/4 solar eclipse, which was extremely strange — but it needs to be attempted, or else the magnitude of the disaster of the Treeslaying, and the concommitant psychological disruption and effect on the populace, will continue to elude the reader.)

And yes, this would be a very raw bit of guilt-tripping, too.

 

 

 _Amarië_ : yes, one more "yes" answer to an either-or question: that of whether or not she and Finrod were married at the time of the Darkening of Valinor. In at least one place, she is referred to as his wife; but elsewhere, as in the published _Silm.,_ it seems as though they were not. The idea that that they might have gotten as far as exchanging public vows and rings, in keeping with Valinorean tradition, but _not_ as far as the actual physical consecration of those vows, neatly allows for a gray area in which, depending on how one looks at it, they could be considered married, or equally, not. At any rate, they were definitely _committed_ to each other, and so of course any apparent or actual rejection and betrayal is going to be infinitely worse…

 

 

 _jilting_ : this also serves as a nod to the Border Ballad tradition, "Young Lochinvar" and so forth, and the Scottish romances so popular beginning in the 19th century, though some of the atmosphere also harkens to the Icelandic sagas. That there would have been such strife among the Bëorings from time to time is implicit in the following passage:

"But it was said afterwards among the Eldar that when Men awoke in Hildórien at the rising of the Sun the spies of Morgoth were watchful, and tidings were soon brought to him, and this seemed to him so great a matter that secretly under shadow he himself departed from Angband, and went forth into Middle-earth, leaving to Sauron the command of the War. Of his dealings with Men the Eldar indeed knew nothing, at that time, and learnt but little afterwards; but that a darkness lay upon the hearts of Men (as the shadow of the Kinslaying and the Doom of Mandos lay upon the Noldor) they perceived clearly even in the people of the Elf-friends whom they first knew. To corrupt or destroy whatsoever arose new and fair was ever the chief desire of Morgoth; and doubtless he had this purpose also in his errand: by fear and lies to make Men the foes of the Eldar, and bring them up out of the east against Beleriand…"( _Silm.,_ "Of the Coming of Men into the West")

 

 

 _Tafl,_ the game I have used as "mortal chess" in Act II, also called _cyningstane_ (kingstone), has simpler rules and more difficult play than what we think of as chess today. (And yes, chess did exist in Middle-earth, or some board-game translatable to "chess," at least, as Gandalf refers to it in LOTR:ROTK, "Minas Tirith," saying to Pippin, "The board is set, and the pieces are moving…But the Enemy has the move, and he is about to open his full game. And pawns are likely to see as much of it as any…" This doesn't of course guarantee that it existed in the First Age, but it gives me _some_ warrant, at least, beyond mere probability.)

The reason for its presence and emphasis here is not only continuity with the earlier parts of the Script: it will become clearer, but the secret of _tafl_ is that _it embodies the "song of staying_ " described in LL1, Canto VII. If you haven't read the Lay of Leithian fragments yet — what are you waiting for?

 

Act 4: SCENE III.iii

 

No, Elu wasn't acting on his own — this was a well-discussed and collective solution to the Lúthien problem, and she's justifiably angry at everyone who was involved, either actively or tacitly, by not standing up for her.

 _"In angry love and half in fear_  
_Thingol took counsel his most dear_  
_to guard and keep…"_

I have moreover made the presumption that the emissaries sent to Himring to demand restitution and help in finding Lúthien from Maedhros would include some of the most senior of the kingdom's counsellors.

 

Act 4: SCENE III.iv

 

 _kingstone_ : one of the several ways that _tafl_ or _cyningstane_ differs from modern chess is that you take as many pieces as are bracketed by your troops, like the games Othello or Pente.

 

 

The question of what — had not the Bragollach intervened — Beren's adult career would have looked like is an interesting one. Recall that he was not in immediate line for the headship of House Bëor, being only the son of the lord's younger brother — and the lord himself having two sons of his own, both of whom had children of their own. Being so far down the line for "the throne" it's highly likely that he would have followed in his father's path as a military commander, serving at the Leaguer, under the aegis of the Princes. What his life would have been like outside that duty is more complicated. We are told that he was born different from other Men, "in a charméd hour," and was from the beginning attuned to the wilderness in a way far from normal, which had the beneficial effect of making him the most successful hunter around — a skill highly valued in a non-industrialized society, agrarian or not — as well as allowing him to survive a war-zone situation which would have destroyed anyone else. But this "otherness" might have made it difficult to fit in completely comfortably with his fellow mortals, lordly house or not, even as his future kinsman Tuor found it difficult to fully adjust to civilization after living a nomadic, outdoors lifestyle for so long. It's entirely possible — even probable — that he might well have ended up (given the existence of older, able cousins to help keep order in Dorthonion) eventually going off to follow the King, even as did his ancestor Bëor, and might have ended his days as peacefully in Nargothrond, serving as a Ranger there and learning the arts of music from Elvish masters.

 

 

"doesn't look like" a Bëoring: this remark is a comment on Beren's atypical appearance, the fact that he was a bit taller than was typical and had blue eyes and sandy-blond hair — perfectly legitimately, since his mother was a near relative of Hador "the Golden" and he in fact had Dor-lomin ancestry on both sides.

 

 

The fact that _Ingold_ , meaning "Wise," is Finrod's mother-name, taken together with the fact that _amilesse_ are believed to be prophetic, makes the fact that the Bëorings, who were initially convinced that he was one of the Valar they were seeking, subsequently conferred on him the name _Nóm_ , which also means "Wisdom," particularly interesting. _(Silm.,_ "Of the Coming of Men into the West.")

 

Act 4: SCENE III.v

 

That Mablung was distraught at Beren's death is found in _Silm.,_ (since most unfortunately the extant fragmentary Lay itself does not go so far) where it is said that "Mablung and Beleg came hastening to the King's aid, but when they looked upon what was done they cast aside their spears and wept."

 

Act 4: SCENE III.vi

 

For the purposes of providing a different perspective on life before the cataclysm in Valinor, I have, as is now revealed, made the Captain and his family to have been faithful retainers of Finarfin's House, and not formerly of any great influence or renown, save among their own organization and friends. The idea that his sister also might be a huntress, goes automatically with the consideration of who in a great household might be Galadriel's handmaid, and what favored pursuits, given that lady's attested "amazon disposition" and her cousin Aredhel's delight in hunting. One might think of them not as, in those days, merely a gracious court of poets and musicians like Eleanor of Aquitaine's, but also like Diana and her maidens and favoured hunters — or indeed that medieval Queen and her contemporaries — riding far and wide with bow and spear exuberantly through the woods of Aman.

The Steward, on the other hand, is now shown to have come from a much "higher station" initially than his friend, and not the nearly co-equal status they now possess, from a much more "typical" Noldor background, and from a much more stressful family situation as a result. (Note that nobody has any doubt that rebel or not, the Captain's relatives will welcome him back with rejoicing, while his friend is not sure he still has a home to go back to.) By assigning him to the following of Mahtan, he is in a perfect position to be completely torn between parents who expect him to become a great artist — in the _visual_ arts, and his own _musical_ yearnings, pulling him equally towards the more skilled and prestigious grandson of Mahtan, and his much-junior, less-renowned, but far more congenial cousin and his multi-ethnic family. Which latter friendship itself will strain ingrained assumptions and snobberies to the breaking point, ultimately, but not without a great deal of personal turmoil in the meantime.

 

 

"The Terrible" — I don't think it as unlikely as some authorities that Sauron would himself employ the name by which he was known in Middle-earth, in any of the forms of it (Thû, Gorthaur) throughout history, since he was, after all, the leading commander of a dictator, viceroy left in charge of the war in his soveriegn's absence, sent out to pacify insurgent regions, sieze key strategic positions, and deal with troublesome rebels. Being known as "the abhorred one" or "the dreadful" isn't an image problem for a warlord, really — or as the ancient saw goes, "Let them hate, so long as they fear me."

 

 

The notion of some sort of casting of lots derives initially from the mere fact that of the twelve captives, Beren and Finrod were left for last — and is validated not by a line of the authors, but by the crossing out of a line. In the outlines, it says:

"…they come upon the _werewolves_ , and the host of Thû Lord of Wolves. They are taken before Thû, and after a contest of riddling questions and answers are revealed as spies, but Beren is taken as a Gnome, and that Felagund is King of Nargothrond remains hidden. They are placed in a deep dungeon. Thû desires to discover their purpose and real names and vows death, one by one, and torment to the last one, if they will not reveal them. From time to time a great werewolf Thû in disguise comes and devours one of the companions. …at last only Felagund and Beren remain. It is Beren's turn to be devoured…"

and in another draft,

"They go and seek to break into Angband disguised as Orcs, but are captured and set in chains, and killed one by one. Beren lies wondering which will be his turn. by the Lord of Wolves, and set in bonds, and devoured one by one."

The combination of these facts, one positive, one subtractive — the removal of the line which states that he wondered when his own time would come — strongly indicates that it was no accident that Beren outlives the Ten. The idea of a form of lot-casting, for fairness, follows from that not unnaturally; the idea of a verbal form comes from the technical difficulties of drawing lots while immobilized and in complete darkness, and the fact that in the Elvish languages, as in many earthly ones, the same characters were used for numbers as for letters. And, of course, a system that works by the choosing of letters whose order of precedence depends on a word as yet unannounced by the leader could be foiled by someone able to guess, or _know_ , what that word was going to be.

 

 

Beren's complaint about the seeming-uselessness of everything when the end result of all good intentions and works is the same defeat and destruction is a very trenchant one, and _not_ unrelated to the objection put forward by the Lord of the Halls to his own King as related in _Silm.,_ "Of the Sun and Moon," when the idea that good may ultimately result from it is put forward in answer.

 

 

The interactions between Finarfin and the Captain reflect the problem that all the Noldor had lives before, and knew each other, and not only marriages and families would have been broken in the Flight, but also friendships and working relationships — so, now what? It should be pretty clear now that for the most part, the Host of the Noldor were a bunch of rebellious young kids who ran away to sea to seek their fortunes, even if they thought they were completely competent and _quite_ able to take care of themselves, in any situation they might encounter. And to a large degree they did, and were, and to a greater degree they weren't, and trying to establish a new set of ground rules and boundaries for all of them in their interactions _now_ would, I think, be one heck of a challenge.

 

 

 _Enedrion_ : this is the name given to the foremost follower who insists that a successor must be publicly acclaimed before their exile from Nargothrond in the Grey Annals, where elsewhere the name _Edrahil_ is given, the latter being the form which Christopher Tolkien went with for the published version of _Silm_. I am not being merely equivocal in my Elvish answer of "yes" to the question of which one is correct: following the form established for naming conventions, Enedrion is a patronym, not a proper name, so both may be quite true. _Enedrion_ itself seems as if it must derive back to _Enedir_ , which breaks down to something like "the world's brightness," but this is only a conjecture on my part, for the purpose of more easily illustrating the prior, present, and changing social situations in post-cataclysm Aman.

 

 

Edrahil's making a virtue of necessity and putting a different cast on the strictures of Mandos (which are based in part on the old idea that the summoned dead must speak the truth) to take the moral high ground against Finarfin in their clash is technically called "mental reservation," and is the reason why witnesses in court are adjured to tell "the truth, the _whole_ truth, and nothing but the truth." (Emphasis mine.) How far this form of ommiting can be stretched in various circumstances while remaining within ethical bounds is a matter for much debate, revolving around motivation and the moral authority of the questioner; the _advisability_ of doing so is a different problem entirely.

 

 

 _Araman_ : "Above-Aman," that region of sub-arctic tundra where the marching Host of the Noldor and the accompanying Fëanorians aboard the surviving ships were told to cease-and-desist and return to face justice for the Kinslaying, by it is believed, the Doomsman himself, speaking for Manwë. _(Silm.,_ "Of the Flight of the Noldor.") The fact that there is some doubt about this is also interesting. Finarfin turned back, with a minority of his followers; the rest continued, with Finrod and Galadriel emerging as the _de facto_ leaders of the March.

 

 

 _Nerdanel_ : this Noldor lady, coming from a high lineage in her own right, her family being distinguished for its close connections with Aulë (as well as their unique auburn hair), is one of the more tragic characters in this series of "dark and difficult legends." Fëanor her husband studied with her father, the master-smith Mahtan; she was an sculptress equally capable of extreme realism and flights of abstract art. They had seven children, the largest known family among the Eldar, to whom "she bequeathed her mood" only in part, and only to some, they taking after their father for the rest, unfortunately for the world. We are told that she was wise, and the only person who could reach Fëanor and get through to him to make him see sense in his paranoia — but that eventually he stopped listening to her as well, something which would appear to correlate with his increasing attentiveness to then-Melkor.

She, however, unlike the vast majority of the Noldor, was _not_ swayed by his charisma against her better judgment and when he stopped heeding her counsel, she went her own ways. Even before their separation, this independence was demonstrated in her friendship with her husband's step-mother, a sign of open-mindedness as well as autonomy, (but which undoubtedly made Finwë's son conclude that _everyone_ was out to get him, that his father's second wife had succeeded in taking even his own wife's loyalty away from him — instead of judging, as a reasonable person would, that perhaps since even Nerdanel liked her, Indis might not be a totally worthless person after all.) After the Flight of the Noldor, Nerdanel moved in with her mother-in-law, and that is the situation which we find at present.

She is also possessed of a certain degree of the Sight, and while trying to convince Fëanor to leave at least the two youngest children behind, while he in turn dared her to prove her love for the family by joining them in the Flight, warned him that one of them at least would never make it to Middle-earth regardless — which foretelling is borne out in the story that their youngst son was sleeping on board the ships from homesickness when Fëanor burned them to prevent defections and forestall any chance of competition from his other relatives in Middle-earth.

So I have tried to show her as wise, independent-minded, indomitable, and an artist/technocrat, as she is described in the various source texts — "firm of will, but more patient than Fëanor, desiring to understand minds rather than to master them" — and someone with a tremendous burden of sorrow, who still keeps going and uses her own experiences to help her in that quest to understand others (which is a significant component of wisdom, after all.)

Her _presence_ comes from the need to have a foil worthy to match words with Finrod from among those who remained behind, but not as closely or as personally tied to him, with the attendant emotional complications — obviously, it would not be possible to find anyone among the great houses of the Eldar with _no_ connections to the Finarfinions! That is, she can say things that Finarfin and Amarië can't, won't, or won't say without a discrediting overlay of resentment and anger.

 

 

 _heresy_ : this is a reference to the cosmic reinterpretation of existence which occurs to Finrod in, as he believes it to be, a prophetic vision of the Eschaton, as related in the "Athrabeth" (of which more later) — and since it goes directly against everything previously believed by the Eldar about their own limited nature and confinement to the Circles of the World, both in dimension and duration, for the existence of Arda, and since it's being put forward by someone whose standing is dubious at best, I can't imagine it would be particularly well-received, especially at first — but by the same token, it would certainly be highly-controversial in the time before people in Valinor at least became used to the notion enough to include it as a possible alternative in "Ainulindalë," where it appears in the following lines (emphasis mine):

"Never since have the Ainur made any music like to this music, _though it has been said_ that a greater still shall be made before Ilúvatar by the choirs of the Ainur and the Children of Ilúvatar after the end of days.Then the themes of Ilúvatar shall be played aright, and take Being in the moment of their utterance, for all shall then understand fully his intent in their part, and each shall know the comprehension of each, and Ilúvatar shall give to their thoughts the secret fire, being well pleased."

There, in a nutshell, is the entire notion of _Arda Envinyanta,_ the idea that the universe will be made new again, and the still-more radical notion that _all_ the Children will help by contributing in its creation, not just the celestial demiurges. That phrase "though it has been said" when examined carefully reveals one thing and raises the question of another: that the scribe setting down their mythology in the "Ainulindalë" had some doubts about the matter, personally — and who, exactly, was it who was _saying_ this, now? Working "within the fiction," I can imagine Pengolod going over the traditions and writings of Rumil, and thinking to himself in some great library in Tirion, "It all seems so very orderly and rational…but then there are those strange ideas that Turgon's cousin has put forward, which also sound so compelling when you hear him. Of course he's quite mad, but…"

"—Yes, but I'm right, too" says Finrod genially, replacing a borrowed scroll. And the scribe shakes his head, and keeps writing… (The idea that complete, unrestricted communication is at least in part the key to universal peace and harmony also should not be too surprising, given The Professor's great love of languages.)

 

Act 4: SCENE III.vii

 

 _launching the Sun_ : the processes by which Aulë and his followers, Eldar and Ainur, built the celestial orbiters out of the remnants of the Trees' life-energies and got them airborne (a process which some texts suggest took several of what would be later reckoned as _years_ , which is not entirely unreasonable for getting a space-program going from scratch, even for demiurges) is literally unimaginable and at the same time intriguing beyond description — and must have been an incredibly fraught process, given that there wasn't any alternative to fall back on, if they blew it. The passages which describe that first lift-off, even seen from a vast distance, and its potent results, are among the grandest in the whole mythos.

 

Act 4: SCENE III.viii

 

"traditional methods" — these being of course riddles, chess (or dice) matches, and three questions, all of which are fraught and not exactly the sort of information-sources one can well rely on.

 

 

 _Couplesday_ , _sixes_ : I wanted to point out several facts here: that on the one hand some Mannish culture and traditions survived, even after the Edain were so long and greatly influenced by the Eldar, and that on the other hand such basic things as counting systems and words for reckoning can indicate cultural differences. Beren, being not only mortal but Bëoring, which is to say, belonging to the tribe "most like to" the High-elves in thought, is actually fairly flexible in his thinking, as well as possessed of a very Elvish curiosity, however untrained and rustic his mind may be, due to the disadvantages of his civilization getting obliterated in his youth. (The exact words are "eager of mind, cunning-handed, swift in understanding, long in memory, and moved sooner to pity than laughter" — _Silm.,_ "Of the Coming of Men Into the West.") He can step outside, to a great extent, his own limited experience, and consider it, and others, abstractly — which will come to the fore as the Act unfolds.

Another thing to consider is the _distilling_ or filtering effect which the accidents of history have in what words and systems become common usage, and which are forgotten or left behind. One thing which must have been the case is that a different set of names for the days of the week would have been used before the Darkening, as the current Elvish system used in one form or another throughout Middle-earth reflects that event, memorializing the Trees in their own day, and commemorating the Sun and Moon in others. And, in fact, poking about in the Etymologies (HOME:LR) proves this to be true. "Couplesday" was the day dedicated, interestingly enough, Aulë and Yavanna, as joint patrons of matrimony. (This makes me wonder if they were perhaps the first of the Valar to pair off, while the two most powerful brothers were both courting Varda and Tulkas was still a nobody.)

However, in the First Age, and especially given the separation of the different fiefdoms and domains across Beleriand, it is entirely possible that some of the Noldor would have continued to use the old calendar, and that the new system developed slowly — or even that it was a Valinorean creation of the Eldar there, and only brought to Middle-earth in after years. Or it might well have been, given the progress of events, the one in use in Gondolin, which through its peculiar mix of colonists, their preservation of Quenya lore, and the subsequent consolidation of the surviving refugee populations under the predominance of its ruling family, had a strong and lasting influence on the cultures which followed in Middle-earth. Just as the months and day-names we use today are similar to, and related to, those used in Roman times, but not identical, it's possible that the systems Beren was familiar with were not the same as those employed in the Second and Third Ages, either.

 

 

salt: the equation of that mineral and honesty — often unwelcome — is to be found elsewhere than in the New Testament: it shows up, for instance, in the [folk version of King Lear](http://www.pitt.edu/%7Edash/salt.html) (happy ending) where the virtuous princess compares her filial piety not, as her sisters do, to honey or expensive spices, but to the humble, bitter-tasting condiment. This refusal to play the game of course wins her only exile, a fate which is karmically returned upon her unwise parent. When at long last her impoverished father arrives on the doorstep of the kingdom her wisdom and goodness have won for her, she commands the household to prepare every dish without salt. When he complains about the revolting blandness of it, and comments on the need for something to give the meal savour, the recognition of both the value of directness and the survival of his faithful daughter overwhelm the old, exiled king in a very emotional reunion.

 

Act 4: SCENE III.ix

 

Finarfin learning the complete story of his son's Doom only now does not only serve as a source of angst and emotional drama, but is intended to point up not only the questions of communication, and whence information, and when — but also how much any decision, action, and speech is founded in that present, limited knowledge, and how it may take on new, possibly horrifying, significance in the light of subsequent revelations.

 

Act 4: SCENE III.x

 

 _Aredhel & Eöl_: if Saeros/Orgof, provoking Turin from malice, was due many centuries in Mandos to reflect and grow beyond his arrogance (LB, "The Lay of the Children of Húrin," Canto I ) then certainly Eöl would merit no less. Aredhel is of course under the Doom of the Noldor. What the two of them would have been doing over the past decades, and if they would have made any psychological progress or not, is anyone's guess.

 

 

 _galvorn_ : the black alloy that Eöl invented and used for his own special lightweight suit of armor _(Silmarillion,_ "Of Maeglin") — which, however, did not protect him from the vengeance of his wife's kinsmen after her killing. (It is amusing, but not particularly likely, to think that it might have been an early form of kevlar.)

 

 

 _Kinslayer_ : it is again mere conjecture that Aredhel was also (like Fingon) in the forefront, and joined in the attack on Alqualondë out of a misconception that the Teleri had attacked first (hence the lines "tragic misunderstanding"); but I have based it on her documented long-standing friendship and spiritual affinity for the sons of Fëanor, principally Curufin and Celegorm.

 

 

 _armour_ : this is yet another dual reference, to Aredhel's fate, daring to face down her alienated spouse without any protection other than injured dignity and righteous wrath, and the presence of guards, none of which are sufficient to cope with the suicidally-violent (as retold in _Silm._ , "Of Maeglin,") — and to LOTR:FOTR, "The Ring Goes South," with Bilbo's giving of his mithril vest to Frodo, to be worn secretly under the outer garments, thereby saving the life of the wearer.

 

 

The Captain's remark concerning the making of weapons in secret refers to the events related in _Silm.,_ "Of the Silmarils," where it is told that:

"…when Melkor saw these lies were smouldering, and that pride and anger were awake among the Noldor, he spoke to them concerning weapons; and in that time the Noldor began the smithying of swords and axes and spears. Shields also they made displaying the tokens of many houses and kindreds that vied with one another; and these only they wore abroad, and of other weapons they did not speak, for each believed that he alone had received the warning. And Fëanor made a secret forge, of which not even Melkor was aware, and there he tempered fell swords for himself and for his sons, and made tall helms with plumes of red. Bitterly did Mahtan rue the day when he taught to the husband of Nerdanel all the lore of metlawork that he had learned of Aulë."

 

 

 _threnody_ : a sad or melancholy song; a dirge. This and similar obscure musical terms are a semi-humorous answer to the question of what the gods might swear by.

 

 

"avenged upon the lot of you" — an ObRef to _Twelfth Night,_ where a humorless control-freak is made the target of an elaborate comic revenge plot, and vows at the end to get his own back as he storms off in high-dudgeon.

 

 

The idea that the more-warlike Powers might practice fighting to keep up their skills and in hopes of a rematch with Morgoth and his minions, however unlikely such a chance might seem to them at present, doesn't seem too far-fetched to me. There is, however, a world of difference between being champion of the All-Valinor Valarin Fencing Club and having successfully fought for one's life — and others — for over four centuries.

 

 

 _Ringil_ : the name of Fingolfin's blade is found first in LL1, Canto XII:

 _"Fingolfin like a shooting light_  
_beneath a cloud, a stab of white,_  
_sprang then aside, and Ringil drew_  
_like ice that gleameth cold and blue,_  
_his sword devised of elvish skill_  
_to pierce the flesh with deadly chill._  
_With seven wounds it rent his foe,_  
_and seven mighty cries of woe_  
_rang in the mountains…"_

in which it is also told that Grond was the name of Morgoth's mace, the war-hammer of the underworld — a name that will infamously return to haunt Middle-earth again. (It is, I should say, a signal of how much superior the technology of First Age Noldor artisans was to subsequent levels of smithing, that the High King's weapon is recorded as having wounded Morgoth eight times, (on the final stroke permanently laming him), without losing its strength, whereas the Númenórean blade wielded against the Captain of the Nazgûl dissolves on contact with the Ringwraith, as Aragorn indeed had warned would happen should such a stroke occur.)

 

 

"By your Lady" — in keeping with the swashbuckling theme, a turn on the medieval exclamation frequently encountered in the old Robin Hood stories, "By'r [Our] Lady," adapted for Arda.

 

 

"Endless Whirlwind" — a Dante ObRef, to the circle outside the Inferno proper, where the traveler meets famous lovers from history who destroyed themselves for the sake of each other, there swept in a continuous tumult like leaves on the wind, always together and never at rest.

 

Act 4: SCENE IV

 

The conflicts, large and little, which are apparent or implicit in the Geste are all stated and expounded in this Scene, and given context, hence its length.

 

Act 4: SCENE IV.i

 

Gower's words invoke not only the frequent references to truth vs. "sooth" in Shakespeare's writings, and the difficult valuing of honesty and directness set against the popularity of flattery, and the ease of self-deception ("When my love swears that she is made of truth/I do believe her, though I know she lies…") but also revelations of the devastating kind (often inadvertently-so) like the final words of Mablung to Túrin which moved the latter to self-execution.

"our beer it is brown": this Yuletide carol is the ["Gloucestershire Wassail,"](http://sniff.numachi.com/pages/tiWASGLOUC%3BttWASGLOUC.html) which is datable back to the 1700s but in melodic feel sounds much older to me, due to its smooth linear progressions and mellow intervals, which resemble those of prior centuries like "Lo How A Rose E'erblooming" and "Of the Father's Love Begotten" rather than the popular music of the 18th. Each of its many verses hails another member of the landholder's household — even the four-legged ones. (This is, after all, a drinking-song foremost.)

 

 

Lines 1096 - 1103 of LL1 suggest, though allowing room for dispute, that the Ring given to Beren's father was originally made by Finrod's own father, though it is possible that "the badge…that Felagund his son now bore" only refers to the heraldic device, (of the pair of emerald-eyed golden snakes eating a crown of flowers) and not to the signet itself.

 

Act 4: SCENE IV.iii

 

There's only one canonical, named, _Silm._ character this can logically be. Do not worry if you can't guess it, everything will be made clear by the end of the play.

 

Act 4: SCENE IV.iv

 

Chess-playing kings staying up late in the old stories (and occasionally gambling away vast fortunes, or worse, on the outcome of the match) make it clear that Solitaire and its variants would have been welcomed in former centuries.

 

 

The story of the forgery of the brooch reflects my thought that it is plausible that there were early forays of Easterling entrepreneurs — traveling traders, explorers looking for resources of various sorts — to bring back the news of those wealthy countries beyond the mountains which lured more enterprising colonists to follow once the political disarray of the hot-war made for likely opportunities.

 

 

Clearly Huan is one of those "spirits" Manwë reminds Yavanna of in _Silm.,_ "Of Aulë and Yavanna," who will come to Arda belatedly from the Timeless Halls (as did Tulkas, remember!) for love, not to do evil, summoned by her thoughts when the time is ripe, to go among the _kelvar_ and _olvar_ and act as guiding forces — and even choose to "dwell therein, and be held in reverence, and their just anger shall be feared." (There are strong indications that Shadowfax, in LOTR, is one also, as it is definitely stated the Eagles are.) But there is _no_ indication that anyone — certainly not his former master Celegorm — fully realizes this during most of his life. (There are still those who dispute this, and Huan's importance to the mythos. All I have to say to that is — count up the number of similarities between what Huan does, and what Gandalf does, and _then_ decide if it's mere coincidence.)

 

 

Technically the Seneschal of Formenos might also be speaking in an antiquated dialect, having been offed even before the Feast of Reuniting, (by which point everyone was speaking Sindarin as the "lingua franca" of Beleriand, _Silm.,_ "Of the Return of the Noldor") but for dramatic simplicity I chose not to do so; presumably, being very image-conscious, and having been there quite some time, he would equally quickly have adapted his manners to those of newer arrivals so as not to seem out of date or identified with the _ancien regime_.

—I have included these "extras" for the simple reason that someone very like them must have been there, given the enormously high casualties taken in Beleriand by the Noldor, and their chronological and demographic distribution. Not only does their presence add an element of conflict, but furthermore a firsthand presentation of different perspectives, untempered by the regrets and allegiances of the retellers.

 

 

 _ruel_ : the word is an antiquarian's in-joke, so to speak: it word comes up in the Middle-English usage "ruel-bone," and is employed by Tolkien as well. In the original contexts as well as later usage, it means some kind of ivory, but what kind no one is quite sure of. Because of the suggestive similarity between "ruel" and "rowel" in sound, meaning twisted, I tend to think of it as narwhal horn, which was a valuable commodity provided by Scandinavian mariners to continental Europe in the Middle Ages. Thus my conceit of the mysterious animal "ruel" as unicorns, — and thus solving the question of why they are not in Middle-earth: they are among those creatures never seen outside Valinor, _(Silm_., "Of Eldamar") though there might have been a perished population of them naturalized on Númenor as well. (And yes, wart-hogs are quite friendly and sociable animals and their keepers become very fond of them in zoos.)

 

 

Fëanor made the Silmarils in secret, not asking permission of even Yavanna before seeking to preserve and contain the Light of the Trees in some indestructible format — but his work was approved afterwards upon their revelation. _(Silmarillion,_ "Of the Silmarils.") This did not stop him from hoarding them, dragon-like, or coming to regard them as exclusively and originally "his."

 

 

The question of past and future livelihoods reflects very real problems for those coming back from some long, life-changing experience, whether it be war, hospitalization, or anything else, which would _not_ be fundamentally all that much different even in Valinor. The issues — new, old, and complicated — are going to be there, and must be dealt with. Or, as a much later hero would shrewdly put it, talking of happy endings and characters in the old tales, "And where will they live? That's what I often wonder." (LOTR:FOTR, "The Ring Goes South.")

 

 

"conniptions" — the native languages of the Edain are rather strange and abrupt and not "Middle-earthlike" at first glance, though deep digging into the etymologies and a more structural look at them reveals the root similarities. I've used this peculiar folk idiom to stand in place of the lost Taliska expression for throwing a fit…

 

 _Manir & Suruli_: these spirits of air, like those who inhabit water, Maiar who dwell in the skies or oceans, reveal similarities in their nature to the _kami_ of traditional Asian animism as well as to the sylphs, nymphs and water-gods of classical mythology. (Lúthien's dancing before Morgoth is said to have excelled that of the dancers of the air of the court on Taniquetil, which also brings to mind the Hindu mythos' _apsaras,_ the sylphlike maidens of the heavens.) We also meet one of them in _LOTR:FOTR,_ who comes to the rescue when invoked by those who have the right to do so — the river Bruinen. Since it seems that the Powers, greater and lesser, who inhabit these elements take their shape from them when they choose to manifest their consciousness in a visible and tangible form, the problem of _being dead_ — and what that _means_ among people who don't normally necessarily have bodies — gets sort of complicated in Arda.

 **Gamma's Note:** Althought the Philosopher didn't mention it, I rather suspect we have met three of these spirits. The river Bruinen, of course, as mentioned above and also, it is implied we have met two others, in bodied form in the persons of Tom Bobbadil and Goldberry.

 

The aesthetics discussion is not really implausible, given the nature of the participants. (Even in our world, and as late as WWII, Prof. Tolkien was called upon by a British officer who was a participant in a heated debate (upon which some significant mess-room bet was riding) to solve the question as to the correct pronunciation of the 18th-century poet Cowper's last name.)

 

Act 4: SCENE IV.vi

 

The Sea-Mew has been part of the story, as a ghostly presence (so to speak) since Act II was begun. She is, of course, the one obliquely referred to in the exchange re farewells between Finrod and Edrahil after the Council and coup; as a member of Olwë's tribe her situation allows for a not-entirely-disinterested outsider's perspective on the dynastic struggles of the House of Finwë. I meant for her to provide a reminder of the kinship connections between the three clans of the Eldar, and to illustrate the problems of division and strife which far predated the Kinslaying and attitudes which so ably were exploited by Melkor which allowed that event to happen. I also was strongly caught by the idea of someone _not knowing_ that a loved one had been caught up in the Kinslaying until their reunion in the Halls of Mandos, and the theme of good intentions rendered meaningless which is summed up so powerfully in the line, "all good deeds were made in vain," through the undercutting of Edrahil's spiritual renunciation and selflessness in assuming her to be happy — and better-off — without him, forever, by that revelation.

 _Quite_ late in the day, I realized that I had created an OFC who also happens to be the romantic interest of a canon character…! (And now yet another layer of significance is added to the word-game towards the end of Scene II.)

 

 

The documented envy of the Secondborn aroused by Melkor in the Noldor plays a significant role throughout this scene —as it did in the history of the Eldar. More on this later.

 

 

Beren's blaming himself for _everything_ both follows from his self-castigating remarks in the Lay fragments, and is a response to the criticisms made by readers on Usenet and elsewhere in this vein — _Really_? All right then, let's take this to its logical extreme…

 

Act 4: SCENE IV.vii

 

This section incorporates a small homage to Fabergé, whose studios managed to create both the tacky and the sublime, not infrequently combining both into the tackily sublime (or sublimely tacky), such as the comic or realistic animals crafted from the precise shades of gemstones to match their natural coloring.

 

Act 4: SCENE IV.viii

 

Helka & Ringil were the two pillars of the original Lamps, sometimes described as being made of ice, which Melkor subverted and destroyed after successfully infiltrating Arda during the distractions of Tulkas and Nessa's wedding party. This fact gives Fingolfin's crystal sword the nature of a sacred symbol, named in honor of that long-destroyed supporter of Light. (However, they are also described in terms which make it seem as if they were mountains. Before trying to determine _which_ they were — and I am not being mischievously Elvish here merely — one has to consider the question _of what matter_ would vessels containing enough energy to both light a continent, and to destroy vast sections of it when released by catastrophic failure, be constructed of — let alone be supported on, when created by godlike beings of superhuman intelligence and ability capable of "singing" a material universe out of nonbeing and potentiality into physical actuality? It's likely the answer would be as incomprehensible to us as the first alien description of a functioning hyperdrive will be:    "All composed of supercooling micro-accelerated particulate fields with a reversed matrix of indented parallel wavelengths, see?"    "—Ah. Yes. Of course." _—It works by magic—really_ advanced _magic…_

 

 

Beren endeavoring to tell Finarfin what his kids have been up to is not included merely for humorous effect, but also to point up the sheer magnitude of the task, and the difficulty of trying to convey events to someone interested in them, when both parties have only partial knowledge of both the circumstances and the players, and no direct experience of the events at all.

 

 

"Going to stake out a realm" — a not-so-kind reference to their shared pasts as would-be colonists in Beleriand and the hubris of the Noldor invoked as well as inflamed by Fëanor's rousing words after the Treeslaying.

 

 

"Fly pride, quoth the peacock" — ObRef to _The Comedy of Errors,_ an exquisite farce rife with mistaken identity, verbal and physical humour, and rhyme. This expression is the equivalent of "the pot calling the kettle black," due to the legendary vanity of peafowl — which has some basis in observed fact, as it is possible to keep peacocks in the open but in a central area by hanging a mirror outside: the males spend inordinate amounts of time displaying before this tireless rival, just as Siamese fighting fish will.

 

 

The tall and beautiful Nürnburg-style harps often seen in medieval art are, according to archaeologists, fairly fragile, extant examples of the instrument often showing breaks in the neck that were repaired in its original useful lifetime. Edrahil's travel-harp should be imagined more like the Irish harps, such as the one famously called Brian Boru's. Aegnor is playing nastily on old insecurities, in a reversal of the usual direction of snobbery, invoking the superior innate talents of the Sea-taught Teler at music, versus the Noldor skill at the "objective" arts of metal and stone working.

 

 

That there was strong friendship as well as kinship between the two sets of brothers is attested in "The Quenta," HOME: _Shaping,_ where it is remarked that Angrod and Aegnor were close friends with the sons of Fëanor (and not merely in agreement with their father about the Return.) Moreover, if Angrod and Aegnor were friends and longtime neighbors with Celegorm and Curufin, both in Aman and in East Beleriand, Aegnor is bound to have known Huan pretty well. And vice versa.

 

 

The incidents, er, _surrounding_ the fountain hearken back to the discussion in Act II regarding mortal forms of humour before the Council. The constant references to _water_ , and employment of it for various purposes, have a deeper meaning (sorry!) and while on the one hand reflecting simply geology and personal experience — I live in a land of old mountains and bedrock, and driving along the road it is possible to see the fresh water welling through and pouring down the surfaces of the granite cliffs, (which in the winter form most dramatic columns and sheets of ice) and every quarry becomes a tarn without constant pumping-out, because the water is there beneath the earth and _must come through_ somehow — it also refers to the water-symbolism omnipresent in the Arda mythos and the immense (though hidden, patient, and subversive) power of the Lord of the Deeps.

 

 

Regarding Beren's challenge to Aegnor not to walk away from their issues — _avoidance_ does seem to be a hallmark of the Exiles' way of dealing with things, given events both subsequent and prior.

 

 

"Tree toads" — an ObRef to some actual Fabergé artworks, crafted of gemstones. ([This Russian art history site](http://srv.stu.neva.ru/Faberge/history.htm) has a photograph of [one of the Fabergé flowers](http://srv.stu.neva.ru/Faberge/img/daffodil.htm), a life-size pheasant's-eye narcissus set in a vase of rock-crystal, filled with rock-crystal water.)

 

 

"Thargelion" — the joking about "mountain passes" and "rolling countryside" derives from the following Elvish linguistic associations: _súma_ : hollow concavity, bosom, i.e., cleavage; the equation of territorial elevations with female breasts transcends culture and language (as seen in the range from Scotland, "The Paps," to the New World's "Uncanoonuc," which by local legend memorializes an ancient Abnaki noblewoman) so I have extended the parallel to Elven cultures as well. (But without the attendant human self-consciousness.)

 _palúre_ : the surface of the land, as in the expression "the bosom of the earth" (equated with the English root "fold" as in Westfold) and the source of an alternate name of Yavanna, Palúrien.

 

 

"Rank hath its privilege," always stated in such archaic form, is a saying eternally current to describe the inequities of the military, though a modern acronym has of course been constructed from it, RHIP. I have no idea how old it is or what the original source: like _Greensleeves_ , it's always referred to as just "old."

 

 

"see," "perceive" etc. — there is a technical problem for metaphysicians in the fact that the words we are obliged to use to describe non-physical situations, and which are used universally so far as I can tell, regardless of language, all come from physical situations. "Understand," "back up," "past," "grasp" — all of these terms with their directional or action sources, are used by analogy — yet so automatically that this fact can be itself difficult to realize. Given that we _are_ physical entities, cannot be otherwise, and the signal lack of success of projects in the past century to create new philosophical languages devoid of any confusion or overlapping of terms, I suspect this is inherent to corporeal sentients (though of course this cannot be checked until we encounter an alien sentient race similar enough for us to communicate with) — but would _not_ be the natural case for a group of naturally-immaterial telepathic entities for whom even language is a makeshift invention used for dealing with the material world and the corporeal creatures who inhabit it.

 

 

Both the equine and canine dragging of logs comes from Primary World experiences, both firsthand and secondhand. (It could be that I've only known some very eccentric horses, but several people have recounted tales of dogs mysteriously drawn to hauling objects nearly as large as themselves, apparently for the sheer challenge of it. James Thurber, American humorist and dog lover, had one who tried to bring home abandoned furniture found in alleyways — in the middle of the night, naturally!)

 

 

The world of espionage, and how much of it depends on not standing out, and as well on the fact that people generally don't tend to question, or even to notice things, that are outside their own interests, is quite fascinating — as are the small, dumb little things that historically have given away agents, many of which seem due more to chance (favorable or evil, depending on one's perspective) than to any systematic investigative or watch efforts. Former agent John LeCarre does a good job of conveying this in his novels, but other examples from the news include the story of the Zimmerman Telegraph in WWI, the use of the Brompton Oratory (a High Baroque church in London) as a drop-point for microfilms in the late 1980s, and pop singer Josephine Baker's experiences working for the Resistance in WWII.

 

 

"small people" — I do hope that all readers would have guessed who the Apprentice is by now! More on his presence later — but recall that it is said in _Silm._ that he learned patience and pity of Nienna, — who in turn is said to spend most of her time counselling the inhabitants of the Halls of Mandos.

 

 

 _Edain_ : "Now Atani, the Second People, was the name given to Men in Valinor in the lore that told of their coming; but in the speech of Beleriand that name became Edain, and it was there used only of the three kindreds of the Elf-friends." _(Silm.,_ "Of The Coming of Men into the West.")

 

 

"wanted to be an Eagle" — not only an ObRef to later events, but intended to point up both the striking affinity of all three independent Immortal agents: both Huan in the First Age and Mithrandir in the Third work together with the Lords of the Eagles in their complicated efforts to influence the destiny of Arda for the better. (It also is a play on the not-uncommon wistful imaginings of being a fighter pilot or pioneering aviator, which (as C.S. Lewis once used in analogy) is very different in reality from the romantic ideas of it. Thorondor and his family also have jobs to do, as well as lives to lead, and despite being autonomous in the field, can't simply give up their duties of trying to watch Morgoth's activities, watch over Gondolin, and report back to Taniquetil in order to go exploring somewhere off south, say.)

It also serves to point up the fact that the Ainur _chose_ what they were going to be in Arda, and when they were going to join in. Not everyone was interested in making Eä at once, and not everyone arrived at the same time once the world was made. The Ainur aren't regimented, despite the urges of fans to organize them so: the Timeless Halls aren't Orwellian in nature. Power and authority are fluid, and come as much from within as from any Eru-conferred roles. Recall (since "Ainulindalë" is a bit long to retype, I haven't put it all here, but I commend rereading it) that the only Valar whose status as such we actually see taking place in the story are Melkor and Tulkas, who end up exchanging places. Melkor opts out of a universe he can't control; Tulkas shows up out of nowhere, starts slugging, and becomes the new member of the core leadership group. The Song begins slowly, with a lot of "tuning-up" — that is, each Ainu must discover his or her own voice — and this takes place _very_ slowly for some, and quicker for others, and it is never rushed by the One nor is self-knowledge forced on any of the Powers-to-be — and then from that, awareness of each other, and then the delight of small spontaneous jam sessions slowly grows into a comprehension of Music on a grand scale, and the potential for something really spectacular…

This is actually somewhat abridged from the original MS, which is available in HOME: _Shaping,_ "The Quenta," and has a lot more of the interpersonality of the Ainur in the Before-Time worldbuilding. There it's remarked that Melkor's music was forceful, though chromatically dull, and had the effect of either drowning out the quieter voices or leading them to follow his dominant monotonous tune — in fact, the whole story is very resonant to anyone with any experience of playing in groups of various sizes. The idea of each performer learning to make his or her own music, not being forced into "the box", and this being the foundation for building the symphony, attuned to the strengths of the individual soloists, is idyllic and utopian, (though not _impossible_ when considering celestials at play) but it also does reflect the reality of many successful groups whose sound is utterly unique and yet which changes over time as new members enter and old ones depart, and such spontaneity and individuality is also the hallmark of such folk groups as jazz ensembles, swing bands, Celtic and Cajun "sessions," medieval and renaissance consorts, and innumerable parallel ethnic traditions from around the world.

Except then there's a rebellion, and the woodwind section leader wants everyone to play _his_ improvisation as if it were the only possible elaboration on the given line, and manages to convince most of the section to join in his vision of how the symphony should go, and gets a crew playing "Twinkles" very, very loudly on rackets (industrial-strength renaissance kazoos) — and whether you want to or not, it's _very_ hard sometimes to stick with your own line if you have a loud, piercing voice right next to you, and especially if they tend to do the line wrong-but-easy…

I've also had the personal advantage of observing different conducting styles over the past dozen years, from the obsessed, manically-up-tight control freak whose band resembles nothing so much as a pen of deer-in-headlights trapped behind their music stands, to the completely indiscriminating, approving-of-everything leader who benignly waves the baton over a cacophony which the discerning audience, after much struggle, _may_ finally be able to identify without recourse to the programme — to the generally laid-back, affirming director who makes sure the timid people get solos and aren't abandoned to finger silently or whisper for fear of making mistakes, and lets people improvise and brings those variations into the final version if they work with the piece as a whole, and doesn't leap all over someone who mangles a key phrase by accident — but doesn't hesitate to step in and address the issue when timing gets out of control or someone just won't stop adding in excessive tremolo after repeatedly being advised that it isn't appropriate to gargle on _every_ note…and maybe gives that grand solo not to the metronome-perfect ten-year student, but to the two-year neophyte, still a little rough around the edges, a little uncertain, who leaps in with fiery enthusiasm and brings the piece to life.

 

 

 _Tirion_ : this brief portrait of the "present-day" capital of the Noldor derives from _Silm.,_ "Of Eldamar," and serves to remind the reader, as well as the characters, of that wider world out there, and the context of all actions, events, and personalities, even in Aman.

The symbolism of the odd task described is I hope obvious, and comes from two very different rituals I am aware of, on vastly-separate parts of this earth: the feast of Divali, in India, wherein tiny clay lamps, about 3 cm tall, are lit and placed along the edges of window-sills and rooftops, filling the towns with a warm golden glow far beyond what such a tiny flame would seem capable of generating, singly or in groups; and the kindling and exchanging of the Paschal flame in Roman rite Catholic churches during the Easter vigil. The style of the task, and all others implied or related, comes from the two mythic examples I am aware of in which a high-ranking female celestial has the tutelage of an earnest young male whose enthusiasm is not always equal to the study; one of which may be found in the Hebrew Scriptures, and the other in Chinese epic literature. (More on these parallels later.)

 

 

"witless and redeless" were Huan's actual words to Beren, as given in LL1, Canto XI, when he berates him for dashing off in this crazy, ill-advised way that is bound to get him killed, or worse.

 

 

The working-songs of Dorthonion are an idea inspired in part by the Scots Gaelic songs of this nature which I have heard sung, which like such songs all over the world are used to make easier and more mentally-interesting the boring repetetive tasks of agriculture and materials preparation, and also from the English tradition of [change-bell ringing](http://www.nagcr.org/pamphlet.html), in which complex mathematical patterns are played, and may be sung by the bell-ringers in practices or where bells are unavailable, and which ideally all return to the same original note simultaneously — something I've heard once for real, and a very eerie, impressive experience it was. (Change-ringing is prominently featured in what many consider to be Oxonian Dorothy Sayers' best mystery novel, [The Nine Tailors](http://www.powells.com/biblio/17-9780156658997-0).)

 

 

melisma: an ancient musical term meaning "honey-sweet," referring to a single syllable being run up and down across many notes. (A well-known example is the gloria refrain of the carol "[Angels We Have Heard On High](http://www.hymnsandcarolsofchristmas.com/Hymns_and_Carols/angels_we_have_heard_on_high_1.htm).")

 

Act 4: SCENE IV.ix

 

The question as to whether or not Lúthien could have messed with Beren's mind — and would have been so tempted — seems inevitable to me, given her efforts to convince him by lawful means…and the prior and subsequent events where her willpower and strength of purpose to protect Beren enabled her to befuddle and overwhelm a lesser demon, a greater demon, and the archfiend of Arda himself. The incentive is unquestionable, the ability equally so — put them together with Galadriel's words in Lórien concerning the difficulty of coercing and otherwise swaying minds, and the temptation to do so for the good of those individuals, and their shared familial history, and the question of the moral right to use "magic" to push people into doing the right and safe thing for their own sakes inevitably starts becoming something more than an abstract debate between friends and relatives late at night over the wine-cups on the terrace…

As to why she _wouldn't_ have done so, despite inclinations and ability — see Act III for likely reasons.

 

Act 4: SCENE IV.x

 

Huan: the Lord of Dog's role, and his Doom as one of the Noldor by virtue of following the sons of Fëanor, is something that (quite evidently) has fascinated me — as noted before, I do _not_ concur with Michael Martinez' stated belief that had Tolkien only done further revisions of the Geste, he would have made it less "fantastic," more "naturalistic," and done away with the figure of the giant talking dog. Not only is there no evidence of this — Huan being present from the outset and in each further revision gaining an _expanded_ role rather than a reduced — but in a world where there are also giant talking demon-wolves, and giant talking seraphic eagles, and Green Men with sacred charges, and sentient horses, and sentient trees, one more non-humanoid sentient demi-divine character is not going to strain a belief already given to the Ardaverse. There are many, many parallels between Huan's role in the Geste and the deeds of Gandalf in the Third Age, beyond the fact that both of them are known as "grey"; the fact that there is a prophecy surrounding him makes him part of a grand tradition of doomed characters in our history as well as Arda's; and his particular fate, entangling him in the Doom of the Noldor, and the ethical dilemmas of his conflicted loyalties make him one of the great tragic heroes of the legend.

—Who just happens to be a dog as well.

One of the reasons I have made Huan so very doggish is that he _is_ , even in the leadership role and narrow time frame in which we get to see him during the Geste. (This should not surprise, given the authentically-doggy personality of Garm, that canine Sancho Panza, in _Farmer Giles of Ham.)_   Throughout the Lay, Huan enjoys his work, hunting the Werewolves of the Enemy with a gusto and enthusiasm which owners of working animals (not simply hunting hounds) will well recognize; he is eager to do what he thinks should be done, as the comment in the Lay mentioned in the last Act notes, running ahead and looking back to see what's keeping his master; he is perceptive, which even ordinary dogs are, of the strains and stresses between his people, and easily depressed by it; but his affections are not given or withheld in accordance with his owner's priorities — also very canine behaviour. His creative interpretation of commands like "Stay!" is all too familiar to any dog-owner, and his protective behaviour and autonomous intelligence while in advance of, in very much in line with real experiences of Newfoundlands and other large, loyal breeds of dog told not simply in legend, like that of Gelert and the hound of Odysseus, but also in fact.

"You do not ride Shadowfax: he is willing to carry you — or not. If he is willing, that is enough. It is then his business to see that you remain on his back, unless you jump off into the air." (LOTR:TTT, "The Palantir")

There are also interesting parallels between Gandalf's steed, and the Lord of Dogs, who understands spoken language, and is so proud and unique that his carrying of Lúthien is a matter of some amazement in the chronicles, but nevertheless remains one of the _kelvar_ in his daily life. Like the Lord of the Eagles, who is unashamedly a Large Bird of Prey who makes no bones about snacking on stray cattle when opportunity presents itself, despite the armed objections of their owners _(The Hobbit)_ , this nobler kinsman of Garm is also _mirroanwë_ — a full incarnate, who abides by the rules of Earth even when he transcends them by virtue of his nature; and unlike Sauron he cannot "cheat" and escape death by morphing into another shape: every time he fights in defense of his friends is potentially the last time, until he meets his Wolf and walks that road alone. —Which is also not unlike the situation of a certain Maia in the distant future.

 

 

 _Q-P shifts_ : one of the hallmarks of the linguistic changes wrought by time and geographical separation among the Eldar, this is in our world found in the different branches of Indo-European, and can be seen very clearly in the diverging words for "horse" where the Latin is "equus," the Greek "hippos" and the Celtic horse-goddess is named Epona.

[ Act 4: SCENE IV.xii ](https://rustbucket.net/leithian/leithian_script_4.html)

Thingol's Sight warning him against humans before the coming of the Secondborn and leading him to forbid entry to all mortals, even to Finrod's servants, is described in _Silm.,_ "Of the Coming of Men Into the West," — along with Melian's private prophecy to Galadriel that one of the Bëorings will do so regardless.

 

 

The problem of the Elves going to Valinor in the first place is a complicated one: Ulmo thinks it's a terrible idea, and his conviction is the Author's, as revealed both throughout the text in the embedded (if subtle) commentary and the outcomes of the decision to bring them to Aman — and "outside the fiction," in various letters of JRRT. But at the same time, hindsight is always perfect, and the reality of making decisions based on what is presently known and likely based on that known information and past experience is never simple. And the desire to keep keep children safe and prosperous, to help one's friends and loved ones, is in itself good — and fraught with perils. "Call no man happy until he is dead," was the Greek sage Solon's advice on trying to assess "success" in someone else's life, meaning that until the full story of someone's life has unfolded, what is a good situation and who is fortunate, or happy, cannot be determined from the outside. How many millionaires have looked "happy" until their bubble bursts, revealing fraud and crime, marital strife, spiritual emptiness and substance abuse?

In the same way, what is a "good" decision or an imprudent one, cannot always easily be decided without considering the circumstances at the time each judgment call is made. This too is presented by the Professor in the course of the story, and while readers tend to oversimplify, one recurring theme in _Silm._ is that _every_ action has both good and bad consequences. (Like Finwë's remarriage, for one.) Consider one alternative history of Arda: the Powers return to Middle-earth and remain there with the Eldar. Morgoth comes up for parole, concealing his malice, and successfully incites division and rebellion among the Elves. When his misdeeds are exposed (in whatever form it should take in this timeline) and he flees, he doesn't have anywhere near as far to go, and all his secret stash of superweapons (i.e. Balrogs) are ready for instant recall to go up against the forces of the Ainur presently dwelling on this side of the Sea.

The War of Wrath takes place centuries earlier in a fully-inhabited Middle-earth, on the _eastern_ side of the Blue Mountains, with the same havoc that previous battles between gods and demigods always result in, like stray mountain-ranges and sinking rifts, and the Eldar are for all intents and purposes wiped out — along with the Dwarves, and Men as yet unborn. Endor is split into two new continents, Beleriand to the West and  on the other side of a wide mediterranean sea, the remnant portion beyond the Misty Mountains, across which the handful of traumatized survivors are scattered. Eriador down to Isen no longer exists. The Gap of Rohan is the _Gulf_ of Rohan leading up to Anduin, Fangorn an Everglades, Rohan a Camargue — except that there isn't any population left to give those areas names. All of civilization, and potential civilization, being in one restricted area, nothing of future history happens in any way resembling the known timeline of Arda. There's no Belegost, no Nogrod, no Long Peace, no Edain, no Gondolin — and no Aman as we know it; no cultural and material reserve to rebuild a Númenor after the Terrible Battle, so there's no Mordor, no Gondor, no Erebor, and also no Shire. _Nothing_ happens as it would otherwise have unfolded.

—Would this have followed, if the Eldar had not removed in part to Valinor? No way of telling. _Could_ it have happened? The maps say yes.

 

 

Remarks concerning the futility of keeping the future existence of the Secondborn classified forever are a reference to the alternate story of Galadriel's wishing to go East to explore even before the Darkening (UT), which whether considered apocryphal or not, is nevertheless in keeping with the long-standing tradition that Finrod, while not hungering for power and dominion, was nevertheless also lured by the thought of far-off lands to explore, and can be taken to indicate that such a return movement for benign reasons would eventually have come forward in Valinorean society, regardless of the Silmarils. The _palantiri_ are of course one of the improvements in scrying technology mentioned in the argument. The non-release of this information, and its leakage by Melkor, was one of the main factors in creating the rift between the Noldor and the Valar (and everyone else in the world, ultimately.)

 

Act 4: SCENE IV.xiii

 

 _Storytelling_ : this scenelet is devoted to the problems of how and when does information get from one place to another, and what effect does it have on those who receive it. It doesn't just transmit itself, magically, though we tend to feel that way given the amount of uncredited, generalized information to which we are exposed from an early age through school and the media. But intelligence has to come from _somewhere_ — or rather, someone — and at particular times, and through particular real routes, and it doesn't all arrive at the same rates, nor is it known to all persons everywhere at all instants, and in the same degrees, and the problems of bias are not simply that of ideology, but of perspective, access, and interests. This is on the one hand, the problem of history, and the honest historian, and on the other hand the problem of anyone who has to make command decisions in any area, based on what is currently known.

(It's also an homage to _LOTR_ generally, and TTT, "Flotsam and Jetsam" specifically, where the telling of tales itself is as integral to the story as the recounting of the adventures themselves.)

 

 

The idea that the years between Maedhros' capture and rescue by Fingon, a time of rivalry and strain between uneasy neighbors-across-the-lake, might have contained other efforts at negotiating with or spying on the Enemy is entirely mine (but the Noldor of the followings of Fingolfin and Finrod had to be actively pursuing any number of political options during that time in which they recuperated from the Crossing). However the fact that the Fëanorians' treaty was not attempted in good faith and that both sides meant to ambush the other and take hostages, but Morgoth sent the big guns and won, is a long-standing part of the _Silmarillion,_ as is the fact that Turgon's group assimilated first and fastest into the native Sindar population.

(This, combined with his early removal from the general landscape of Beleriand had the interesting effect of making Gondolin bilingual when Quenya was banned in the world outside: the Noldor, Sindar and "Gray-Noldor" of his domain being already one united people, no special stigma was attached to the language of Aman, regardless of whether or not the news of Thingol's prohibition ever reached them before Aredhel's return. Which in turn had ramifications for the subsequent history of Middle-earth, in that there was a significant portion of those few who escaped the fall of Beleriand who possessed and were at ease with the ancient knowledge, thus aiding in preserving what little did survive and bequeathing it to Númenor.)

 

 

 _Doriath_ : I wished here to point up several things, one of them being the immense age and power of the forest, something that could be as daunting to Elves as to mortals, (recall that in LOTR:TTT, Legolas — a Wood-elf even — is intimidated somewhat by Fangorn) which is owing to the accellerated growth it receieved from the presence of one of the Powers of growth and healing. (Nan Elmoth's shadow and powers of holding also are attributable to the fact that it was the place where Melian stayed during her visit to Beleriand, and where for long years she and Elu Thingol stood lost in each other's dreams.) Another fact is that it was, indeed, a Long Peace — that we only see it by and large in the moments of crisis, for as the chroniclers of _Silm._ note, stories are most interesting when things are awful and chaotic. Another point is the parallel between Doriath in the First Age and before, and Lothlórien in the Third Age, both in its political role and function in the War, and in its internal arrangements. It's possible to add to the picture of Doriath at peace by studying the realm governed by those who learned ruling there — that is, the images of Lórien in LOTR:FOTR. (One element of which, it may be recalled, is the coming to flower of an unlikely friendship.)

 

 

 _Ingold_ : being Finrod's _amilessë_ , or matronym, it's not impossible that he would be best known among his mother's people thus.

 

 

 _Galad(h)riel_ : that her name, meaning "maiden crowned with a bright garland" & referring to her hair worn braided and pinned round her head to keep it out of her way during sports events, was a gift to her from Celeborn and that in this Sindarin form it was sometimes identified with the word for "trees" by her own people comes from _UT_. This punning equation would surely have occurred to a natural linguist, and an older sibling wouldn't be too daunted to make a joke out of it no matter how proud this youngest Prince of Finarfin's scions might be…

 

 

 _Celeborn_ : the silver hair of Galadriel's husband described in LOTR:FOTR, "The Mirror of Galadriel", is a particular trait of Lúthien's father's family, one which he shares with Finrod's mother Eärwen, and comes to him through his grandfather Elmo, the brother of Elwë and Olwë about whom nothing else is recorded. (It is also said in HOME that Nimloth, who married the son of Beren and Lúthien and was also killed by the sons of Fëanor, was Celeborn's niece, the daughter of his brother Galathil.)

 

 

When exactly did Galadriel and Celeborn leave Doriath and go East? No precise time-frame is ever given, and many readers assume that they were present during the events of the Geste and afterwards. I think this is implausible for a great many reasons, geopolitical and psychological as well as textual — and there _is_ textual warrant for my supposition: she tells the Fellowship (LOTR:FOTR, "The Mirror of Galadriel") that they came to this part of Middle-earth "long" before the Cities of Beleriand fell. If _Galadriel_ considers it a long time, it probably wasn't just a decade or two. And this makes sense given both the established story of the War, that they would have left during the Long Peace, not while east Beleriand was in chaos and being overrun, and their friends and relatives in danger, but would have gone on a well-equipped, well-prepared, sizeable expedition.

One indication of _why_ (beyond, that is, the lure of distant far off lands and strange peoples which she shared canonically with her eldest sibling) is given in the varied sketches from _UT,_ in which it is noted that they took a company, containing no small number of Noldor followers as well, beyond the mountains because it seemed to her dangerous to keep themselves penned up in the subcontinent, all one's eggs in one basket so to speak, and that they needed to spread out more: a forewarning of danger, vaguer than the ones her brother and cousin received, perhaps borne only of her own strategic understanding — but it's also certainly possible that she too received some form of message of her own while in Doriath. Ulmo was a particular friend of Thingol and Melian, and the Girdle was extended so as to enclose a section of Sirion within its boundaries, for the purpose of maintaining that contact between them. I don't say it _did_ happen, but it could have.

 

 

"magic" — if Galadriel, who has had a wide experience of the chaotic realm of Middle-earth crossing three Ages of the world, has a hard time determining in her own mind exactly what mortals are thinking of when they use the word, it's guaranteed to be even less comprehensible to the Valinorean Eldar. (It's also an opportune way for Beren to get a little of his own back in the verbal combat department, needling his friends about things they don't know how to begin to explain.)

 

 

"Green Throne" — this outdoor seat of authority reflects old stories of European kings holding court at the foot of oak trees, but Thingol's place of power is at the base of the tree traditionally sacred to the Lady.

 _"But Thingol marvelled, and he sent_  
_for Dairon the piper, ere he went_  
_and sat upon his mounded seat—_  
_his grassy throne by the grey feet_  
_of the Queen of Beeches, Hirilorn,_  
_upon whose triple piers were borne_  
_the mightiest vault of leaf and bough_  
_from world's beginning until now._  
_She stood above Esgalduin's shore,_  
_where long slopes fell beside the door,_  
_the guarded gates, the portals stark_  
_of the Thousand echoing Caverns dark_."

These lines from LL1, Canto IV, herald Daeron's first betrayal, and Lúthien's first impassioned defense of Beren, as Thingol seeks to discover the reason behind the "spell of silence" that the great musician's jealousy has cast over Doriath. It is not, I think, coincidental that Oromë is mentioned in the lines which follow:

 _"Then Thingol said: 'O Dairon fair,_  
_thou master of all musics rare,_  
_O magic heart and wisdom wild_  
_whose ear nor eye may be beguiled,_  
_what omen doth this silence bear?_  
_What horn afar upon the air,_  
_what summons do the woods await?_  
_Mayhap the Lord Tavros from his gate_  
_and tree-propped halls, the forest god_  
_rides his wild stallion golden-shod_  
_amid the trumpets' tempest loud,_  
_amid his green-clad hunters proud,_  
_leaving his deer and friths divine_  
_and emerald forests? Some faint sign_  
_of his great onset may have come_  
_upon the Western winds, and dumb_  
_the woods now listen for a chase_  
_that here once more shall thundering race_  
_beneath the shade of mortal trees._  
_Would it were so! The Lands of Ease_  
_hath Tavros left not many an age,_  
_since Morgoth evil wars did wage,_  
_since ruin fell upon the North_  
_and the Gnomes unhappy wandered forth._  
_But if not he, who comes or what?'_  
_And Dairon answered: 'He cometh not!_  
_No feet divine shall leave that shore,_  
_where the Shadowy Seas' last surges roar,_  
_till many things be come to pass,_  
_and many evils wrought. Alas!_  
_the guest is here. The woods are still,_  
_but wait not; for a marvel chill_  
_them holds at the strange deeds_  
_they see, but kings see not —_  
_though queens, maybe, may guess,_  
_and maidens, maybe know._  
_Where one went lonely two now go!"_

Is it a coincidence that Thingol happens to wonder if it is Oromë's return which has caused this hush over the land — or that when he learns of a trespasser, demands,

" _How walks he free within my woods amid my folk,_  
_a stranger to both beech and oak?_ "

— when elsewhere these particular trees are named as Beren's comrades? It would take a much longer space than this to go into all the tree-symbolism, mythic archetypes and stories of Oak-Heroes and Kings of Summer and Winter that seem to play beneath the surface here.

 

 

 _Melian_ : her innate power, and her adventurous and flamboyant nature are to be found in the source texts for _Silm.,_ in greater detail (if under different names) than in the published edition. In "The Tale of Tinúviel" (LT2), an Elf who knew her answers the question of what she was like in the following words:

'Slender, and very dark of hair,' said Vëannë, 'and her skin was white and pale, but her eyes shone and seemed deep, and she was clad in filmy garments most lovely yet of black, jet-spangled and girt with silver. If ever she sang, or if she danced, dreams and slumbers passed over your head and made it heavy…'…but now the song of Gwendeling's nightingales was the most beautiful music that Tinwelint had ever heard, and he strayed aside for a moment, as he thought, from the host, seeking in the dark trees whence it might come. And it is said that it was not a moment he hearkened, but many years, and vainly his people sought him, until at length they followed Oromë and were born upon Tol Eressëa far away, and he saw them never again. Yet after a while as it seemed to him he came upon Gwendeling lying in a bed of leaves gazing at the stars above her and hearkening also to her birds. Now Tinwelint steping softly stooped and looked upon her, thinking, "Lo, here is a fairer being even than the most beautiful of my folk" — for indeed Gwendeling was not elf or woman but of the children of the Gods; and bending further to touch a tress of her hair he snapped a twig with his foot. Then Gwendeling was up and away laughing just softly, sometimes singing distantly or dancing ever just before him, till a swoon of fragrant slumbers fell upon him and he fell face downward neath the trees and slept a very great while.'Now when he awoke he thought no more of his people…but desired only to see the twilight-lady; but she was not far, for she had remained nigh at hand and watched over him. More of their story I know not, O Eriol, save that in the end she became his wife…"

and also

"She dwelt in the gardens of Lórien, and among all his fair folk there were none more beautiful than she, nor more wise, nor more skilled in songs of magic and enchantment. It is told that the Gods would leave their business, and the birds of Valinor their mirth, that the bells of Valmar were silent, and the fountains ceased to flow, when at the mingling of the light Melian sang in the gardens of the God of dreams. Nightingales went always with her, and she taught them their song. She loved deep shadow, but she was akin, before the World was made, unto Yavanna, and often strayed from Valinor on long journey into the Higher Lands, and there she filled the silence of the dawning earth with her voice and with the voices of her birds.Thingol heard the song of the nightingales of Melian and a spell was laid upon him, and he forsook his folk, and was lost…" (HOME:LR, "Quenta Silmarillion.")

So we have an adventurous, independent, powerful-yet-mischievous demigoddess who wanders the dark corners of the world on her own until she meets the love of her Immortal life, the young chief of a primitive, newborn people, and goes off to tame a savage and dangerous land with him by her side… and doesn't know how to cope when their daughter takes after her parents. (I particularly like the image of Melian like a gypsy Queen, clad in sparkly transparent black dancing outfits, and the attendance of singing birds is an old Celtic attribute of divinity — Aengus is the most famous of the Celtic god-heroes, but there are others as well.)

She's a fascinating character, who like most epic figures raises more questions than are or can be ever answered, but it's intriguing to think about them. —What was she supposed to do, in Middle-earth, and what might have happened if she hadn't been so ambivalent about her daughter's destiny? (In one of the earliest rescensions, the second betrayal is not simply by Daeron (who is still her brother at this time) but partly accidental — Lúthien is trying to get her mother to help by pleading with Thingol to get an army together, after being told of Beren's captivity, and in one version she does help, but in the other Melian says — "No help wilt thou get therein of me, little one, for even if magic and destiny should bring thee safe out of that foolhardiness, yet should many and great things come thereof, and on some many sorrows, and my rede is that thou tell never thy father of thy desire" — just as the latter happens to be coming into the room, and says — Tell him _what_?

Which makes things so much worse that she wishes she'd never even talked to her mother; but — does Melian say this by accident, _really_ , or not? And does she counsel Lúthien not to speak about it as advice to give up, or to do it on her own? All along, her role is strangely ambiguous — or is it? Your only daughter wants to go off and challenge your mortal enemy, the most powerful ruler in the known world, against whose defenses Elven armies have come to ruin, on behalf of someone who isn't going to stick around in this life or the next, and she wants your help to do it, and to take her side against your husband, and there are already strains in your relationship because of the situation …but on the other hand, there is your nature, your calling, the task you took up Ages ago to guard the Land, and the fact that by birth and training your daughter has a right to the name you gave her, Sorceress —

Some days it doesn't pay to get up in the morning, as the saying goes.

 

 

 _Daeron_ : His status as greatest of the three greatest musicians of the Eldar is found in the first Lay fragment, Canto III:

 _"…and when the stars began to shine,_  
_unseen but near a piping woke,_  
_and in the branches of an oak,_  
_or seated on the beech-leaves brown,_  
_Dairon the dark with ferny crown_  
_played with bewildering wizard's art_  
_music for breaking of the heart._  
_Such players there have only been_  
_thrice in all Elfinesse, I ween:_

 _Tinfang Gelion who still the moon_  
_enchants on summer nights of June_  
_and kindles the pale firstling star;_  
_and he who harps upon the far_  
_forgotten beaches and dark shores_  
_where western foam forever roars,_  
_Maglor, whose voice is like the sea;_  
_and Dairon, mightiest of the three."_

Maglor being of course the second of Fëanor's sons; I don't know anything about Tinfang Gelion (also known sometimes as Tinfang Warble) — neither ethnicity, place of origin, nor gender, nor even preferred instrument (though "Warble" would indicate vocalist primarily) — who always appears as one of the three foremost but who seems to have been lucky enough not to have gotten famous for anything else in history. (The status of Daeron and Tinfang in fact predates the inclusion (or final name) of Maglor, going back to the _Tale of Tinúviel.)_

  **Gamma's Note:  
** However, Tinfang is removed from the revised version of the Lay, leaving only Daeron and Maglor as equal players.

" _No other player has there been  
no ther lips of fingers seen  
so skilled, 'tis said in elven-lore  
save Maelor son of Fëanor,  
forgotten harper, singer doomed  
who young when Laurelin yet bloomed  
to endless lamentation passed  
and in the tombless sea was cast._  
_But Daeron in his hearts delight_  
_yet lived and played by starlit night..."_

 Make of this what you will. interestingly, this statemtnat about maglor's death is contradicted elsewehre by a statement that after Elros chose the Doom of Men, Elrond "bided with him for a time," but I can't remeber which volume of HOME it was in.

 

"absent friends" — in our continuum this is a traditional toast made in honor of dead comrades among military veterans; I employed this particular phrasing both because it is a memorable one and ambiguous in its unsentimentality (hence its appeal) and in hopes that the double appropriateness of it stemming from this association might possibly work its way into the reader's awareness, consciously or not; appropriate in this story, because the one who has occasioned it is also a casualty of the War, though unbeknownst to those who recall her overseas.

 

 

 _Elemmirë_ : a Vanyar Elf renowned for "The Lament for the Two Trees," about whom no more is known because this composer is evidently so famous as to be a household name in Valinor — and although the name endings aren't a 100% indicator of gender, known trends make it probable that the author of the "Aldudénië" is female, given the terminal -ë; "Elemmirë" (star-jewel) is also the name of an Arda constellation or first magnitude astral body.

 

 

 _Teler_ : that the third clan of the Eldar were reknowned for their musical ability particularly as well as for their affinity with water, having been taught by the Powers of the Sea, is present from far back in the development of the mythos. Perceptive readers may have discerned a compounding element of the romantic difficulties in this ethnically mixed couple in that fact.

 

 

 _Caranthir_ : this son of Fëanor, who has been mentioned (always with trepidation) now and again from Act II onward, is called the most grim and harsh of the seven (his name reflects the fact that his face was often red with anger, reflecting the darkness of his temper) and unlike his elder siblings is never said to have had any particular friendships with any of his cousins.

 

 

Impromptu horse-races among happy warriors on a journey are a [Beowulf](http://www.heorot.dk/beowulf-vorwort.html) ObRef, like cups stolen from dragons' hoards…

 

 

Philosophical battles over which arts and occupations are "nobler" go back as far as recorded argument, and undoubtedly long predate any written records, with carvers of mammoth ivory claiming that their work was better because it was more difficult than painting, and three-dimensional just like a real aurochs, and wall painters answering back that no, it was more of a challenge to make a flat surface look like an animal, and the flint knappers retorting to both of them that making good blades was the greatest art, because without it none of theirs would be possible…

 

 

The fear of the Sea among the first two hosts of the Eldar is canonical, and attested in _Silm._ , "Of the Coming of the Elves":

"At length the Vanyar and the Noldor came over Ered Luin, the Blue Mountains, between Eriador and the westernmost land of Middle-earth, which the Elves after named Beleriand, and the foremost companies passed over the Vale of Sirion and came down to the shores of the Great Sea between Drengist and the Bay of Balar. But when they beheld it great fear came upon them, and many of them withdrew into the woods and highlands of Beleriand…"

—As is Ulmo's continuing concern for all the Eldar, regardless of ethnicity, and efforts to help them throughout the course of the War.

 

 

The First Age employment of the sorcerous equivalent of electrified restraints is attested in both the Lay of the Children of Hurin:

""Then hung they helpless    Húrin dauntless   
in chains by fell    enchantments forged   
that with fiery anguish    his flesh devoured   
yet loosed not lips   locked in silence   
to pray for pity…"

as well as in the present context in LL1, Canto VII:

"…to dungeons no hope nor glimmer know   
where chained in chains that eat the flesh   
and woven in webs of strangling mesh   
they lay forgotten, in despair."

 

* * *

"Children of Aulë" - ObRef to _The Hobbit,_ "An Unexpected Party":

"Well, your father gave me this to give to you; and if I have chosen my own time and way for handing it over, you can hardly blame me, considering the trouble I had to find you. Your father could not remember his own name when he gave me the paper, and he never told me yours; so on the whole I think I ought to be praised and thanked! Here it is," said he, handing the map to Thorin.  
  
"I don't understand," said Thorin, and Bilbo felt he would have liked to say the same. The explanation did not seem to explain.  
  
"Your grandfather," said the wizard slowly and grimly, "gave the map to his son for safety before he went to the mines of Moria. Your father went away to try his luck with the map after your grandfather was killed; and lots of adventures of a most unpleasant sort he had, but he never got near the Mountain. How he got there I don't know, but I found him a prisoner in the dungeons of the Necromancer."  
  
"Whatever were you doing there?" asked Thorin with a shudder, and all the dwarves shivered.  
  
"Never you mind. I was finding things out, as usual; and a nasty dangerous business it was. Even I, Gandalf, only just escaped. I tried to save your father, but it was too late. He was witless and wandering, and had forgotten almost everything except the map and the key."  
  
"We have long ago paid the goblins of Moria," said Thorin; "we must give a thought to the Necromancer."  
  
"Don't be absurd! He is an enemy far beyond the powers of all the dwarves put together, if they could all be collected again from the four corners of the world. The one thing your father wished was for his son to read the map and use the key. The dragon and the Mountain are more than big enough tasks for you!"

It should be immediately apparent that the reference is entirely and utterly apt (surprising though this may be to those who have neglected _The Hobbit_ in the mistaken belief that it is merely a light children's book, undeserving of attention.)

 

 

Chronology of the Geste:   
    (taken from the Silmarillion, the Lay of Leithian, and the Grey Annals)

455/56 The Dagor Bragollach takes place at midwinter, winding down somewhat in spring of '56. Of the lords of the northlands, Fingolfin, Hador Lórindol, Angrod, Aegnor and Bregolas are all killed, with massive allied casualties and loss of territory. Finrod saved by Barahir, joined by Orodreth, with Celegorm, Curufin, Celebrimbor, and surviving followers driven from Aglon and Himlad, regrouping in Nargothrond.

458      Tol Sirion lost. (The Haladin protect Doriath and Húrin and Huor are separated from their cousins, then rescued and taken to Gondolin by the Eagles.) Subsequently the situation in Dorthonion worsens; Lady Emeldir takes surviving civilians westward in search of safety — no exact time frame given.

459     (Húrin and Huor are given special conduct to leave Gondolin and return home to Hithlum via Eagle.)

460     Sauron comes to settle the rebels in person. Gorlim captured; Barahir and the other Outlaws killed. Beren continues his personal war alone.

462      (Morgoth attacks Eithel Sirion, Húrin's father Galdor killed there. Cirdan brings a fleet to Fingon's rescue.)

463      (Easterlings arrive en masse in East Beleriand, ally with Maedhros, Maglor and Caranthir.)

464      Beginning quarter, during winter, Beren leaves Dorthonion, crosses the dead zone and enters Doriath, taking up residence in the northeastern quadrant of Neldoreth. (Also in the early part of the year, in Dor-lomin, Húrin marries Beren's cousin Morwen.)

            Around midsummer Beren sees Lúthien for the first time and is smitten.

            (Towards the end of the year, Túrin is born in Dor-lomin.)

            Through autumn and winter Beren haunts Neldoreth, occasionally catching sight or sound of Lúthien, but unable to approach or talk to her.

464/5   At midwinter Beren sees Lúthien celebrating in the snow.

            Spring arrives, and the "spell of silence" on Beren is broken. Through the next few months their relationship develops, overwatched unknown to them by Daeron.

            Around midsummer Daeron betrays them to Thingol. Beren is assigned the Quest and departs westward for Nargothrond. Lúthien mourns at home and gives her family the silent treatment.

            Early autumn he arrives Nargothrond, the coup takes place, and "on an evening of autumn" Beren, Finrod, Edrahil and the other nine leave the City in the divided possession of Orodreth and the sons of Fëanor.

            After indefinite days of travel northward, they are picked up at the border of Anfauglith and taken back to Tol Sirion by Sauron's patrols. Duel, defeat and imprisonment.

            Simultaneously in Doriath, by psychic means, Lúthien discovers the truth and plans to attempt a rescue. Betrayed to her father again by Daeron and imprisoned in Hirilorn for indefinite days before escaping. Arriving environs Nargothrond is intercepted and taken hostage by Celegorm. Escapes with Huan after indefinite days imprisoned there. Arrives Tol Sirion late autumn/early winter.

            Joint battle and defeat of Sauron, rescue of Beren and other Elvish slaves employed at Tol Sirion. Burial of Finrod there. Ex-thralls travel to Nargothrond with Huan, while Beren and Lúthien wander around for an indefinite while sightseeing and arguing about what to do next, heading generally towards Neldoreth.

            In Nargothrond, counter-revolution results in the eviction of the sons of Fëanor. Their eastward route between Nan Dungortheb and Doriath intersects with Beren and Lúthien's trail north of Brethil. Attempted shooting of Lúthien, Beren shot, Huan defects to their side. The following day after Beren's healing they begin a debate/journey back to Doriath, taking an unspecified number of days.

            Meanwhile in Doriath proper, Thingol receives Celegorm's "offer of alliance" and responds with an army, but en route is obliged to detour to cope with an invasion of Orcs, and after taking care of that, sends Beleg in to Nargothrond to infiltrate and gather intelligence. Learning that Lúthien is gone who-knows-where, and that the sons of Fëanor have been sent packing, he gives up on that and returns to Menegroth to plan new rescue efforts. No exact timeline for these events.

            Winter, early a.m. Beren sneaks off on Curufin's horse and rides back west and north to the Anfauglith. Later same day Lúthien convinces Huan to take her along, they detour briefly south to Tol Sirion, pick up Huan's stashed trophies and go north to catch up to Beren at the border of noman's-land at nightfall. (Could have been _not_ that same day but the next — but maybe not, given the fact that the steeds were respectively a proto- _meara_ and an Immortal.) Huan leaves to go talk to Thorondor and other lawful animal species, after scolding Beren. That night Lúthien transforms them, at midnight they begin the crossing of the burnt plain.

            About two days travel broken by rest periods to get to the Gates of Angband (midnight through the following day and night, arriving at the foothills of Thangorodrim the next morning, and the road that led through the rough tailings to the Gate where they rest through the afternoon before continuing down it to arrive at the Gates by evening) followed by the attempted infiltration of Angband and The Duel, followed by the removal of the gem, the messed-up escape plan, Beren's maiming, and the extraction from before the Gates by Thorondor, Gwaihir and Landroval, with evacuation to the starting point in northern Doriath where Huan is waiting. 

466      Through the end of winter Beren is comatose, cared for by Lúthien and Huan. Meanwhile Carcharoth is rampaging madly around the northeast, as much a menace to Morgoth's own forces as to anyone else, and Thingol has sent an embassy to demand damages and assistance in finding Lúthien from Himring but the emissaries are intercepted and slaughtered by the Wolf, with only Mablung surviving the attack.

            Spring arrives, Beren recovers consciousness but not hope. Return to Menegroth end of spring/beginning of summer. The hunt of the Wolf. Beren & Huan killed.

467        Lúthien dies, no season of year given, and goes to Mandos to appeal on Beren's behalf.

468        Maedhros decides he could certainly do a better job than they managed and starts planning his own invasion of Angband.

469        Beren & Lúthien return to Middle-earth, no season of year given, and after an unspecified time leave Menegroth, wander for a while, and end up in Ossiriand. Sometime in the next five years Dior is born.

 

* * *

 

 

 _Sulilotë_ : "windflower;" Quenya, constructed name, after the fashion of _Ninquelotë_.

 

Act 4: SCENE IV.xiv

 

Finrod's brothers refer in their self-critical remarks to the statements in _Silm._ that they were eager to be off and among the first to step forward at Fëanor's behest — not surprising, if they were close friends to his sons and presumably close in temperment as well.

Finrod on the other hand is invoking the family issues of the preceding generation as a negative model and reproach, reminding them of the destructive consequences of their uncles' sibling rivalry for their grandfather's attention and approval — not a comparison which would be at all welcome, particularly given their centuries'-long role as elder guardians of mortals.

His attempt to console Aegnor and the latter's response connect with the matter of the "Athrabeth," Aegnor being no more willing, in this envisioning, to accept such a tenuous hope than his true-love was.

 

Act 4: SCENE IV.xv

Not enough consideration has been given, it seems to me, to the resulting familial stresses that would follow from the decree of banishment that has been discussed in Act III, whereby the Noldor refused to allow those who had been captured by Morgoth to return, because of the likelihood that some (or all) of them had been turned and were released only under a compulsion. I also wanted to point up the complications of interrelated Great Houses — and their interrelated followings; a historical fact in our earth, and equally so in Arda.

 

 

 _Time problem_ : the discussion of how time is measured and defined, and even perceivable, has been a hotly-debated philosophical as well as scientific issue for as long as people have been watching the stars and noting the regularity — and variation — of their movements. The need to abstract one' self from assumptions, to consider scientifically what is taken for granted (that is, the present standards of measurement, both on a small and a large scale) and the difficulties thereof are something I have personally experienced when trying to reassure high-school students as to the mystic-non-significance of "Y2K" and the reasons for not believing in it: one tool I used was an old Chinese New Year card made by Hallmark, which did very concretely what chalkboard diagrams of the solar system had not succeeded in doing — conveying the fact that a "year" is a segment of time whose start and stop are determined by _people_ , not the Universe itself, and when we choose to do so entirely arbitrary and variable.

 

 

 _Crossings of Teiglin_ : the place where the southern road which leads from Tol Sirion towards Nargothrond traverses the river Teiglin; this is the particular location the Haladin were specifically charged to guard against Enemy incursions as the "rent" for Brethil forest by King Thingol — which at the time of its granting was hardly a heavy challenge (or foreseeably so), given the amount of allied traffic that must have traveled this main north-south corridor between the domains of the Noldor, the Fortress standing squarely athwart that road, and the Leaguer serving to maintain a perimeter even farther north. For most of the Long Peace it must have been a very busy locale, as well as a slightly inconveniently-splashy one in times of heavy traffic, given that it was after all a ford.

 

 

"not very biddable" — Maiwë is referring here to their shared Valinorean past, and one of Melkor's main arguments in seducing the Noldor to strife and rebellion: the idea that Men, according to the will of the Valar, "might come and supplant them in the realms of Middle-earth, for the Valar saw that they might more easily sway this short-lived and weaker race, defrauding the Elves of the inheritance of Ilúvatar. Small truth was there in this, and little have the Valar ever prevailed to sway the wills of Men, but many of the Noldor believed, or half believed, the evil words." _(Silm.,_ "Of the Silmarils.") It is also noted rather dryly earlier in the same passage by the chronicler that "little he [that is, Melkor] knew yet concerning Men, for engrossed with his own thought in the Music he had paid small heed to the Third Theme…" — an oversight which would cost him dearly, but which he would swiftly move to rectify, with not insignificant success.

 

 

 _bastard_ : one important theme in this act (as in the _Silmarillion_ itself) is that of communication — what are the basic assumptions, cultural contexts, and inherent traits that shape our understanding, so that language itself can become an obstacle, as well as what potential lies in overcoming such barriers. A thoughtless (to most of us, at least) insult serves as one way of illustrating the vast gulfs of understanding not simply between Men and Elves, but between the cultures which have been separated now for almost half-a-millenium, and whose experiences have diverged so radically.

Since Elves (with the world-shattering exception of Finwë) bond with a single partner, and conception follows from a voluntary act of the parents' will, bastardy _cannot_ be an Elven concept in its origin; there is no way for it to enter the vocabulary except through contact with mortals, as the observation of nature would only yield the fact that different _kinds_ of creatures follow different rules for social organization, including those concerning mating. Not until encountering sentients so similar in outward appearance and yet so different on very fundamental levels would, it is reasonable to assume, such a thing even occur to the Eldar — and, it is equally reasonable to deduce, be very troubling to think about. (Angrod and Aegnor, having been in close contact with Men for so long, understand the word superficially at least, enough to use the insult with meaningful intent.)

Nerdanel, however, being as wise, is likely to cut right through the social confusion following the _faux-pas_ of the unmeant corrolary of such an insult (i.e., her presumed infidelity) and to see the crucial facts of such a psychic difference, and their implications for recent events.

 

 

"a good thing" — Nerdanel's somewhat disturbing remarks (since encompassed in them is the fact of his death) follow naturally enough from the view that it is better to suffer wrongs than to do them.

 

 

Beren's amusement at their eviction from the Powers' discussion refers both to Beren's own experiences and those of House Finarfin not simply in Nargothrond but also in Doriath previously.

 

Act 4: SCENE IV.xvi

 

Miriel's death indeed preceded the release of Melkor, q.v. _Silm.,_ "Of Fëanor," where it is stated that while Indis' sons were still growing up, Melkor came up for parole and was released from Mandos after his case was considered.

 

Act 4: SCENE IV.xvii

 

The Sea-Mew's reaction would likely be typical of Elves to Lúthien's imprisonment, given its anomalous character and the _amply_ attested independence of the Eldar both in Aman and in Beleriand, and not merely the result of youthful empathy.

 

 

"defensive perimeter" — this dark-humoured remark is an allusion both to Leaguer and to the Guarded Plain protecting Nargothrond, where Beren was observed and arrested on his approach.

 

 

Again, more invocation of Montague-Capulet interactions in this section.

 

 

"minion" — a reference of course to their disguising themselves as Orcs.

 

 

The problem of interior mental attitude and moral guilt is not an abstract question, nor a matter of airy metaphysical speculation, as I have heard declared in college ethics classes, but a very real and material one: it is the difference between manslaughter and Murder One, and between different classes of assault even when no death results, and even when no assault is successfully carried through — with vastly different sentences corresponding to each.

And no, I don't think that there would be any Hollywood moment for Maiwë here, no "my hero!" exclamation and dazzlement overwhelming all rational doubts and self-interest at an act of violence undertaken (at least in part) on her behalf, given who she is, the culture she comes from, and what happened to her.

 

 

The interaction between Nerdanel and the Fëanorian lords reflects the fact that, as members of her husband's following, they would of course have been known to her before the rebellion, and in fact answerable to her as Lady of the House before the couple's separation.

 

 

"damnéd archers" — the problem of archers taking all the fun out of battle, so to speak, and levelling to a much greater extent the playing field, so that mere physical brawn and swordsmanship (or spearmanship) and courage no longer were the only elements (along with Fate) which determined the outcome of a battle, goes back at least to the _Iliad_ and probably earlier. (This is the same problem which the samurai found themselves confronting in the Renaissance, leading to the outlawing of firearms at a time when artillery and ballistics were being refined in Europe; this equalizing effect can be seen demonstrated in Kurosawa's incomparable epic _The Seven Samurai_ , where a primitive musket is employed against a ravaging warlord's forces with demoralizing results, despite its inefficiency.)

 

 

 _chess_ : Maiwë's query reflects the fact that I think it _highly_ unlikely that chess originated in Valinor (though remotely possible.) Personally I suspect it to have been originally a Dwarvish invention, and modified first by the Elves and subsequently by mortals to add new elements of challenge (or alternately to reflect reality more closely.) It is in my opinion equally probable that it was first introduced to Doriath by the Dwarven architects and artisans who worked there, and from there brought to the other Noldor realms via the Finarfinions, as that it might have been "discovered" by Finrod first while working with the Dwarves on Nargothrond and thereby introduced to his cousins — who might have replaced archers with cavalry to give it a shape more familiar to us at present. Or it could just be that the _tafl_ style version, with all players equal in ability, as if on foot and armed only with hand weapons, was the original and the elaborations and specializations we are used to might be the later developments of the game.

 

Act 4: SCENE IV.xviii

 

 _Melkor's parole_ : Nienna (who was at that point thought of as the sister of Manwë and Melkor, not of Namo and Irmo) taking his part is mentioned in _HOME:LR,_ "Quenta Silmarillion", as is the fact that Tulkas and Ulmo didn't trust him despite his display of benevolent reform, Tulkas clenching his fists whenever the pardoned rebel went by.

 

Act 4: SCENE IV.xix

 

Before Cirdan was introduced into the mythos (or rather, his existence uncovered by the historian), Finrod (then known in the texts as Inglor, if you weren't confused enough already) was in fact posited as King and overlord of the coastal Teler as well as of Nargothrond, so his father's question is not _entirely_ unwarranted, nor the idea implausible. ("The Quenta," _HOME:Shaping)_. In the absence of a strong leader of their own, the folk of the Havens might well have adopted this outgoing, efficient young kinsman from the West who helped them build up their defenses and improve their shipyards, just as many of the Elves of Beleriand made his cousin Turgon their lord.

 

 

That there was an expression of familial rivalries on a very low-key level between the branches of the House of Finwë, in the unusual extent of each family, is entirely my own suggestion; the _HOME_ timelines indicate a wide spacing of the children of Finarfin and Eärwen, (some sixty-odd years overall, but whether these are Valinorean years, which differ from Sun-years rather in the way that a "year" is not the same on every planet, or have already been converted to current dates, I'm still not sure), but I have not found any corresponding dates for the Feanorions or Fingolfinions to verify this conjecture. It isn't _entirely_ improbable, though, I think.

That having more children than one's sibling would be understood more in the nature of being a prolific artist — and a collaborative one, at that — rather than in any notion of male sexual prowess, comes from _HOME: Morgoth's Ring,_ "Laws  & Customs" where it's made clear that according to Elven thought, having children is one among many skills and talents, like painting, sculpture, writing, fibre arts, music, and so forth; that it's one complete process, throughout which _both_ parents are fully involved (if in different ways) and that the father's part doesn't begin and end in bed, nor the mother's part begin in pregnancy (take that, Aristotle!) and that one has no business indulging in the begetting if one doesn't plan to stick around for the childrearing part. Though like all analogies this is a limited one, because the Elvish sages also believed that while parents contribute psychic energy to the developing offspring (one reason why fathers need to be around, literally lending psychological support) the newcomer is not in any way "part of" the parents' souls, but a unique and different person, independent of others, not a mere extension of the family, certainly not property — even, or especially, in the case of those who are reincarnated.

 

 

The contrasts between present-day chess and _tafl_ are used here, as in Act III, to make a point, but now the emphasis is slightly different, not on the fact of the unequal contest and difficulty as a metaphor for the struggles against the Enemy in Beleriand, and specifically equating Finrod to the namesake kingstone, but instead more strongly on the contrasting ways in which the two games are won or lost.

 

 

The complex and dynamic questions of how life shapes language shapes thought shapes sentient life are barely beginning to be systematically explored in a dispassionate way (i.e., not to "prove" cultural superiorities) by cognitive science researchers uniquely suited, by virtue of their own multilinguality, to ask the right questions.

 

 

Finrod's kingdom was not limited in its height to merely the capitol and its environs. All those lands held in vassalty by his brothers, and in turn let by them to their own lieges, belong to him as surely as the Shire belongs to Gondor. Thus the whole of the Sirion Valley and the northern border up to the Pass of Aglon is his, forming an L-shape or shallow "C" around Doriath, leaving the east side to the apathetic rule of House Fëanor and the largely uninhabited south uncertain as to what alliegiance, if any, was acknowledged by its nomadic inhabitants. (It also encircled, though unawares, the compact realm of his cousin, Turgon, along with the dead zone of Nan Dungortheb between Doriath and Dorthonion.)

The political importance was even greater, as was the "sphere of influence," because of the fact that Finrod alone communicated with all the Free Peoples of Beleriand, serving as the bridge between the factions of his family in the northeast and northwest, with the Teler of the seacoast and the Sindar of Doriath, (and safeguarding the renewed contact previously broken by Morgoth between them),  with the wandering tribes of the Lindar in the East, and with those who were entirely Other as well, the Dwarf-Lords and mortals. Nargothrond controlled the main north-south traffic corridor, the Sirion valley, and also had what no other Noldor house had — a safe, quick, route east and west through Doriath, and a vast source of free information through Elu's messengers. No other Elven King had the same level of access to places and news, not because of pre-eminence of birth or military power, but because of interest and involvement — no one else was a xenophile, to put it another way. Family connections only get you so far, and nowhere at all with people who aren't related to you in any degree. The rapid disintegration of what remains of organized resistance in Beleriand after Finrod's exile cannot all be ascribed to the military might of the Dark Lord, nor should it be facilely ascribed to the curse of the Silmarils, as if dooms operate in a vacuum, rather than working on, and through, the available materials.

 

 

Elu's counselor refers both to the sons of Finarfin being kicked out over the Kinslaying revelation, and the later situation with the Haladin described in Act II:III, as well as other unknown arguments which may safely be presumed to have taken place over the centuries on matters from politics to advanced theology, given the respective parties involved.

 

 

Regarding Finrod correcting himself before speaking of Glaurung by kind: somewhat patronizingly, perhaps, but also considerately, he doesn't assume that people here are familiar with what he's talking about that is outside of their direct experience.

 

 

The Warden of Aglon's words echo Caranthir's to Angrod and Aegnor:

But Caranthir, who loved not the sons of Finarfin, and was the harshest of the brothers and most quick to anger, cried aloud: 'Yea more! Let not the sons of Finarfin run hither and thither with their tales to this Dark Elf in his caves! Who made them our spokesmen to deal with him? And though they be indeed come to Beleriand, let them not so swiftly forget that their father is a lord of the Noldor, though their mother be of other kin.'     _(Silm.,_ "Of the Return of the Noldor")

 

 

"birdcage" — this jibe invokes the speech of Fëanor in the great square of Tirion, where with flaming torches in hand he proclaims, as recorded in a fragmentary poem, where his hot words are forebodingly uttered against the background image of the frightened Sea-elves wandering on the beaches or huddled on the ships, calling for each other and wondering what catastrophe has darkened their world:

"…the Gods' jealousy,    who guard us here   
to serve them, sing to them     in our sweet cages,   
to contrive them gems     and jewelled trinkets,   
their leisure to please     with our loveliness,   
while they waste and squander     work of ages,   
nor can Morgoth master     in their mansions sitting   
at endless councils.     Now come ye all,   
who have courage and hope!    My call hearken   
to flight, to freedom     in far places!"  
  
(LB, "The Flight of the Noldoli From Valinor")

along with the fact that Valmar, the city of the Vanyar, was known for its golden architecture and its many bells whose notes filled the air around it.

 

 

Aglon's slightly ribald remark provoking the Barad Nimras comment in return refers to the statements in _Silm.,_ "Of Beleriand and its Realms," about the Enemy never invading from the Sea. This is, in retrospect, obvious given the antipathy between the Powers of Water and Morgoth, but of course hindsight is always perfect, and neglect of defenses based on assumptions a dangerous thing.

 

 

 _yearsick_ : literal translation of Engwar, "the sickly ones", an epithet conferred by the Eldar on mortals, refers to sickness caused by the passing of time, rather than pestilence or injury.

 

 

"twilight" — harking back to her people's time on Tol Eressëa, of which it is said, "There the Teler abode as they wished under the stars of heaven, and yet within sight of Aman and the deathless shore; and by that long sojourn apart in the Lonely Isle was caused the sundering of their speech from that of the Vanyar and the Noldor," _(Silm.,_ "Of Eldamar") and in another rescension, "Ossë followed them, and when they were come near to their journey's end he called to them; and they begged Ulmo to halt for a while, so that they might take leave of their friend and look their last upon the sky of stars. For the light of the Trees, that filtered through the passes of the hills, filled them with awe." _(HOME:LR,_ "Quenta Silmarillion".)

 

 

"quarter Noldor" — this is in fact the case, as Finarfin is half Vanyar, and Eärwen presumably entirely of Teler descent.

 

 

 _the Ex-Thrall's story_. it's extremely possible that there were female POWs at Tol Sirion, given that Morgoth was an equal-oportunity enslaver, and that the bastions of the Noldor were not merely forward military base camps, but fortified installations of long-standing, like the Roman _castrae,_ or medieval castles. Given what it says about Elvish gender roles in "Laws and Customs" (HOME: _Morgoth's Ring),_ she would not have been impossible nor even implausible, far less so than the very real aristocratic women who went into the field in WWI driving ambulances, and were occasionally casualties there. (This is reflected in the fictional account of the narrator's lost, enigmatic mother in _Brideshead Revisited;_ but that such drivers were not only courageous but also known at home for being somewhat reckless of speed limits, and sometimes came back from the War with decorated, titled husbands met in such chaotic circumstances, comes firsthand from the non-fiction pages of a crumbling 1919 newspaper in my personal possession.)

"two years" — to cross-reference, it will be recalled that this is when the situation in Dorthonion becomes untenable, and the extraordinarly-dangerous step of removing surviving civilian population willing to leave across that now-enemy-held area, through the mountains, is undertaken by their Lady.

Little Ease (& other horrors): her ordeal is not as "modern" as it seems, in large part because Tolkien himself anticipated many of the horrors of the 20th century years before they became fact, which in turn reflects the fact that the totalitarian excesses of the last century were but the outgrowth of those which preceded them, the police state well-known throughout 19th and 18th century Europe, the labour camps of Siberia merely continuing the traditions of the Czarist regime, the actual and virtual slavery of disenfranchised laborers, whose protests put down with such violence on the continent resulted in so many emigrations to the New World, and the infamously-hellish working conditions of mill and factory which have only moved to places where there is less regulation and oversight (or enforcement) these days. Angband's work environment is described in LL1, Cantos XII-XIII:

"They woke, and felt the trembling sound,   
the beating echo far underground   
shake beneath them, the rumour vast   
of Morgoth's forges…

…the thunderous forges' rumours grew,   
a burning wind there roaring blew   
foul vapours up from gaping holes.   
Huge shapes there stood like carven trolls   
enormous hewn of blasted rock   
to forms that mortal likeness mock;   
monstrous and menacing, entombed,   
at every turn they silent loomed   
in fitful glares that leaped and died.   
There hammers clanged, and tongues there cried   
with sound like smitten stone; there wailed   
faint from far under, called and failed   
amid the iron clink of chain   
voices of captives put to pain."

And of course the systematic employment of brutality to control one's fellow-sentients, and by those who by innate temperment and/or bad upbringing find it an enjoyable diversion, is at least as old as recorded history. The confinement of political prisoners in an enclosure too small to lie down or stand up in was known to the jailers of Elizabethan England as "Little Ease," and the "divide and conquer" method of dealing with resistance well-known to the Romans. However Orwellian it might seem, this sequence is actually inspired more by Dante and the sources from antiquity that he drew on (along with the Lay itself, obviously.)

How bad could it have been? There is a tendency among fans to mistake _reticence_ for _naivete_ on the part of Tolkien, (which does not seem to take into account the facts of the Great War, for one thing) based on contemporary decades' explicitness in describing fictional torture and atrocity, often with a tone which indicates relish rather than real horror on the part of the authors. (Eddings, Jordan, Goodkind all leaping to mind.) But in one of the rescensions of the Fall of Nargothrond, when the dying Gelmir commands Túrin, he orders him to go and rescue Finduilas if he can — _or kill her_ , if he cannot. Gelmir knows what he's talking about — if _he_ , a veteran of four centuries' worth of warfare and the Crossing of the Ice, thinks the Halls of Mandos are a better alternative to surviving as a thrall, we can be sure that it was every bit as bad as anything described by Solzhenitzen or other survivors — and worse: after all, the thugs of 20th century labour camps and prisons were not supervised by telepathic Darkside overlords. The following description of Húrin's "softening-up" in Angband dates from around 1926:

Said the dread Lord of Hell:      'Dauntless Húrin,   
stout steel-handed,      stands before me   
yet quick a captive,     as a coward might be!   
Then knows he my name,      or needs be told   
what hope he has     in the halls of iron?   
The bale most bitter,      Balrogs' torment?

Then Húrin answered,      Hithlum's chieftain—   
his shining eyes     with sheen of fire   
in wrath were reddened:     'O ruinous one,   
by fear unfettered    I have fought thee long,   
nor dread thee now,     nor thy demon slaves,   
fiends and phantoms,     thou foe of Gods!'   
His dark tresses,     drenched and tangled,   
that fell o'er his face     he flung backward,   
in the eye he looked     of the evil Lord—   
since that day of dread     to dare his glance   
has no mortal Man     had might of soul.   
There the mind of Húrin    in a mist of dark   
'neath gaze unfathomed    groped and foundered,   
yet his heart yielded not     nor his haughty pride.   
But Lungorthin    Lord of Balrogs   
on the mouth smote him,    and Morgoth smiled:   
'Nay, fear when thou feelest,     when the flames lick thee   
and the whistling whips    thy white body   
and wilting flesh    weal and torture!'   
Then hung they helpless    Húrin dauntless   
in chains by fell    enchantments forged   
that with fiery anguish    his flesh devoured   
yet loosed not lips   locked in silence   
to pray for pity.   Thus prisoned saw he   
on the sable walls    the sultry glare   
of far-off fires    fiercely burning   
down deep corridors     and dark archways   
in the blind abysses     of those bottomless halls;   
there with mourning mingled    mighty tumult   
the throb and thunder   of the thudding forges'   
brazen clangour;    belched and spouted   
flaming furnaces;     there faces sad   
through the gloom glided     as the gloating Orcs   
their captives herded    under cruel lashes.   
Many a hopeless glance    on Húrin fell,   
for his tearless torment     many tears were spilled.

This scene — with the emphasis of _helplessness_ and _anticipation_ being employed as simultaneously the stripped, brutalized Edain leader is set up for an example to the other prisoners (mostly Elven) and their hopeless state kept in front of him to make sure that he knows there is no way out — and the following, wherein Morgoth plays good-cop next, offering Húrin not only healing from from his burns and floggings, but a high place of rank in his armies—

"I am a mild master      who remembers well  
his servants' deeds.      A sword of terror  
thy hand should hold,      and a high lordship  
as Bauglir's champion,      chief of Balrogs…"

—if he will only betray Gondolin's King to him, follows classic past and present interrogation tactics.

Add to that the fact that those Elves on whom the Dark Lord expended direct effort to break, _remained_ pyschically broken thereafter, and — yeah, it would have been that bad. (Think of the mindflaying power of the Great Eye in LOTR.) The worst accounts of Primary World abuse always involve a level of consent, of the tyrant (small scale or large scale) forcing the victim to cooperate in their own degradation, and particularly by betraying companions, which both is the political end in itself, a way of maintaining the hold over the mind _in absentia —_ and just plain _fun_ for the kind of person who willingly gets involved in these activities. And yes, they're real, and they're not few, and they're far scarier than the hyped-up, eroticized serial killers of popular fiction, and they're not limited to any nationality or chronological period. You've probably encountered them in school already. All they need is organizers willing to use them against their enemies, and you have the Mob, the classic "police state" — or Angband.

 

 

Nerdanel's remark about hounds loving to sing reflects both Primary and Arda traditions; the lore of hunters talks of the sweet voices of the pack, and having a clear and beautiful call (as such things are reckoned) is a desirable trait in a hunting hound — but it is also present in the etymology of Huan's name (which is indeed a title as well — he is _The_ Dog, like a Scots laird's honorific) from the root "khug" meaning _to bark_ or _to bay_. It's his _job_ , so to speak! (It also happens to be the simple truth, that it's canine nature to make loud noises.)

 

Act 4: SCENE IV.xx

 

 

Aulë's reluctance to go to war is described here:

"Oromë tarried a while among the Quendi, and then swiftly he rode back over land and sea to Valinor and brought the tidings back to Valmar; and he spoke of the shadows that troubled Cuiviénen. Then the Valar rejoiced, and yet they were in doubt amid their joy; and they debated long what counsel it were best to take for the guarding of the Quendi from the shadow of Melkor. But Oromë returned at once to Middle-earth and abode with the Elves.  
  
Manwë sat long in thought upon Taniquetil, and he sought the counsel of Ilúvatar. And coming then down to Valmar he summoned the Valar to the Ring of Doom, and thither came even Ulmo from the Outer Sea.  
  
Then Manwë said to the Valar: 'This is the counsel of Ilúvatar in my heart: that we should take up again the mastery of Arda, at whatsoever cost, and deliver the Quendi from the shadow of Melkor.' Then Tulkas was glad; but Aulë was grieved, foreboding the hurts of the world that must come of that strife…"  
  
 _(Silmarillion,_ "Of the Coming of the Elves")

The suggestion that he might have been reluctant to do so for fear that it would harm the unawakened Dwarves follows naturally from the concerns of the Valar in the earlier Ages that their battles might injure or destroy the Children they knew of from the Song, but whose place of Awakening was unknown to them:

"In the confusion and the darkness Melkor escaped, though fear fell upon him; for above the roaring of the seas he heard the voice of Manwë as a mighty wind, and the earth trembled beneath the feet of Tulkas. But he came to Utumno ere Tulkas could overtake him; and there he lay hid. And the Valar could not at that time overcome him, for the greater part of their strength was needed to restrain the tumults of the Earth, and to save from ruin all that could be saved of their labour; and afterwards they feared to rend the Earth again, until they knew where the Children of Ilúvatar were dwelling, who were yet to come in a time that was hidden from the Valar. Thus ended the Spring of Arda…"  
  
 _(Silm.,_ "Of the Beginning of Days.")

"And it is said indeed that, even as the Valar made war upon Melkor for the sake of the Quendi, so now for that time they forbore for the sake of the Hildor, the Aftercomers, the younger Children of Ilúvatar. For so grievous had been the hurts of Middle-earth in the war upon Utumno that the Valar feared lest even worse should now befall; whereas the Hildor should be mortal, and weaker than the Quendi to withstand fear and tumult. Moreover it was not revealed to Manwë where the beginning of Men should be, north, south or east. Therefore the Valar sent forth light, but made strong the land of their dwelling."   
_(Silm.,_ "Of the Sun and Moon.")

 

The validity of such concerns is shown by looking at the map of Beleriand in conjunction with the passages which follow the first quotation given above — or by comparing the map of Beleriand with that of Third Age Middle-earth.

 

 

 _Ossë_ : this Maia of the oceans was lured to rebellion against his own lord, Ulmo, by Melkor (for whom the uncontrollable quality of the Sea was a challenge and a threat) but through the good efforts of his wife Uinen and family friend Aulë was redeemed and remained thereafter a passionate defender of law and order (while paradoxically remaining a fan of chaos, responsible for destructive storms) — which lawfulness even more paradoxically brought him into occasional conflict with that lord in a later Age when the situation grew more complex. _(Silm.,_ "Valaquenta,"  & UT.)

 

Act 4: SCENE IV.xxi

 _Arda Envinyanta_ : "Arda Renewed" - this is what I have termed "the Heresy of Felagund," the belief in an Eschaton in which the Marring will no longer damage the cosmos, which is seen in its fullest expression in the _Athrabeth_ , the "Debate of Finrod and Andreth," but which appears in glimpses elsewhere throughout the Arda mythos. This is the "Second Music" spoken of in the _Silmarillion,_ "Ainulindalë" in which the Children will be co-demiurges of the world with the Ainur, making the Great Song as it should be without discord. It is also there in the later, Second Prophecy of Mandos, when the entire world will grow old and weak enough that Morgoth can break into it again and destroy the Sun and Moon in terrible battle, before being defeated by none other than the mortal Túrin fighting at the side of the Powers, after which, as in the Scandinavian myths of Ragnarók, the world will be remade.

One remarkable implication of all this is the fact that Arda Renewed will not be Arda as it would have been without the Marring, as if Morgoth had never rebelled, any more than it is simply a patched-up version of this present universe. Another is what it says to possibly contradict the Elven certainty that unlike mortals, their lives are limited to this world only, with no hereafter — the Professor's dramatic re-envisioning of an old European folk-belief, which, unexamined, simply declares that the deathless ones of the land and sea, Fair Folk and mermaids, have "no souls." This belief, which is what the Eldar traditionally hold, and which is the meaning of the "sundered fates" and the tragedy of mortal-Elven love (and equally, of Ainur-Elven love), is revealed to mortals in the _Athrabeth_ , a complicated philosophical work set like a Socratic dialogue or Anglo-Saxon debate (but unlike most 20th century philosophy) into a "real-world" context of individuals and problems personal, societal, and metaphysical.

The _Athrabeth_ _cannot_ be understood without considering it in the context of the Geste. It doesn't make sense apart from the full stream of events retold in _Silm.,_ neither for its irony nor for its implications. It isn't something tacked on to the mythos, either, as some have declared, but the natural outgrowth of the issues which the Geste, and the other three central stories of Elven-Edain interaction, the Narn, Gondolin, and Earendil, create and embody, but do not examine. They are, after all, stories — there is room for some reflection in them, but not much, without stopping the action dead. But during all those long years before, after, and during the crises which get stories told about them, the characters of the _Silmarillion_ were thinking and talking and writing about what was going on around them and how they were reacting to it. It's just that most of the lore, as we are repeatedly told throughout _Silm.,_ of the First Age was lost in the course of the War and subsequent disasters. _Athrabeth_ is one fragment which wasn't.

The setting, which in the context of the _Athrabeth_ only unfolds gradually, and is revealed as the argument progresses, (significant spoilers, I'm afraid) is sometime not long before the Dagor Bragollach, of which coming disaster Finrod has vague premonitions, sharing with his brothers the certainty that containment of Morgoth is not the best strategy, but with no more knowledge than that future warfare is the inevitable result of the present stalemate. And a little while longer ago, one of his younger brothers, Aegnor, fell in love with a noblewoman of the Bëorings' tribe, and wasn't able to deal with it. Knowing that not only was she going to become old and feeble, but also that after she died they would be separated for eternity, he took the classic commitmentphobe's way out and stayed away from her for the rest of her life. The _Athrabeth_ itself is the discussion of mortality, immortality, and Eternity by Finrod and the now-elderly, embittered mortal sage Andreth, wherein and both of them learn surprising things even after all these years about each other's peoples, and Finrod is hit with another vision, in which he starts seeing how these contradictory impressions and beliefs about the universe might actually all fit together and work out ultimately.

It's long, it's complicated, it touches on high-level metaphysical issues that Plato, Aristotle, the Vedas, Anselm of Canterbury, Dame Julian of Norwich, the Talmud and Lao Tzu all wrestled with, to name a few, and taken together with the Second Prophecy and the Second Music, undoes one of the most devastating _facts_ of the Arda mythos, the idea that Elrond and Galadriel and all their people will just _cease_ , as if they had never really mattered at all, except as preparation for human beings, and that this is somehow balanced out, as the Elven sages believed, by their own earthly immortality. It needs to be read in full, not once, and like every serious work of metaphysics I've ever encountered, can't be summed up simply, or understood the same way on each reading.

But a few things stand out from it, which can be easily remarked on (aside from the signal fact that Finrod will shortly die for one of Andreth's nephews aiding and abetting a relationship which he once considered fundamentally ill-advised): that he is willing to _consider_ the worst possibilities — namely, that Evil is ultimately stronger than Good — while rejecting that claim; that he himself is at ease with the thought of his own finiteness, his own ultimate mortality, though grieved for the parting of friendships between their races; that only a "Great Doom" will make a mortal-Elven relationship work (which if you think about it, is really the same as saying that they have to be very unusual people to overcome the obstacles); the unpleasant consideration of those obstacles, not only the ultimate tragedy of separation, but the mundane and wretched problems of one spouse aging, the other _not_ , and the fact that the Eldar don't think it's good to have children when the father is likely to be away or at risk in war, because of the importance of _parental_ , not merely maternal, nuturing in early years; that the Eldar are not willing to risk things any more, and prefer to take the safe route of permanence over the harrowing risks of the future; that both the Firstborn and the Secondborn are meant to teach, enrich, and heal the other.

Thus the counter-arguments of his perturbed compatriots — that Finrod is grasping for _everything_ (as would the Dark-seduced Numenoreans in the Second Age), or that he therefore doesn't regard suffering and destruction as serious in consequence, or that he's being hubristic to claim that he, a mere Elf, has glimpsed what is beyond the ability of even the Valar to know — are for the most part invalidated by the Athrabeth, valid though such objections are against some (or many) Eschatalogical arguments which I have read. The concept of Arda Envinyanta is unfathomable, but it doesn't simply dismiss past traumas as irrelevant compared to future goods, any more than Arda as it is is held up as "the best of all possible worlds." It isn't a wish for personal continuation that underpins Finrod's struggles to formulate his theory, but a conviction of the universal Justice as guiding force in the universe, that ultimately Good is, and cannot be destroyed — as a Greek poet put it, "—if the gods are evil, they are not the gods—" The role of the Followers in recreating the cosmos isn't just an adopted parent's enthusiatic belief in his own protegés, but implicit in the very Themes themselves.

—Whether or not claiming to know better than the gods themselves how the Song goes overall is _arrogant_ , is one of those internal states of mind which can't be judged from outside — but it's a dead certainty it would look that way to most people. It is entirely in keeping, however, with his historical connection to Ulmo (more on that below). —Note, however, that the Powers themselves are depicted in Act IV as singularly blasé about ranting Eldar uttering defiant, radical, irreverent claims (or apparently-defiant, radical, irreverent claims) that others might think impious or blasphemous, which also comes from the _Silmarillion_ and elsewhere. That the Weaver is more worried about damage to her house and tools, and her husband more worried about her being upset, isn't just for humorous effect. —After all, it isn't as though Finrod is doing anything wrong (being annoying doesn't count), like, oh, cutting down _trees_ for no good purpose…

 

 

 _ice_ : this example of Melkor's earliest efforts to thwart the power of Water in the conceptualization process of the Elements, and his inability to do so, is found in _Silm.,_ "Ainulindalë".

 

 

 _myth_ : Beren and Amarië are referring to the subject matter of _Silm.,_ "Of Aule and Yavanna." I think one's attitude towards myths would be rather different if one were personally acquainted with the deities involved in them.

 

 

Concerning the arrival of the Edain in Beleriand, incorrectly believing that Aman was somewhere in Middle-earth — the reader may have guessed already what it is that Finrod (vainly, as it will turn out) is trying to keep from coming out about that event.

 

 

The only _known_ time wherein Finrod actually loses control to an extent due to anger is the moment of Exile in Nargothrond, where he slams down his crown before the people and challenges any of them to follow him, so these others are my conjecture, containing as this example does elements of personal betrayal, attack, and danger to those under his protection in some degree. This comes from the fact that mere personal hostility is demonstrably not enough to get the eldest Finarfinion to reply in kind, when clarity is lacking, as demonstrated in the circumstances surrounding their temporary exile from Menegroth. Thus the Doriathrin counselor is understandably shocked to witness this outburst coming from _Finrod_ , not Angrod.

 

 

Beren speaking of their last words is referring to Finrod's lines in _Silm.,_ "…it will be long ere I am seen among the Noldor again; and it may be that we shall not meet a second time in death or life, for the fates of our kindreds are apart" —  from which "may" I originally took the conceit of this Act, and the implicit possibility of its alternative, before I knew about the existence of the Athrabeth — but which was followed by, in the version of the Quenta from which CT edited this redaction, the line _"Yet perchance even that sorrow in the end shall be healed"_ — ! (HOME:LR, emphasis mine.)

In the original version of the _Silm.,_ as in the Geste itself, the seed of hope, that doubt of the ultimate futility of everything, was always intended to be there: even as Finrod believes himself bound for a long stay in Mandos, the poet of the Lay and chronicler of Doriath who tell of it _know_ that he is already free in Valinor; even as it seems that his friend's love is doomed to be eternally unfulfilled, he affirms that tenuous certainty which their unhappy kindred rejected in _Athrabeth_. _This_ time around, the Elven lover dares to grasp heartbreak, the mortal lover to keep faith, and they _do_ change the ending of the story.

 

 

One reason Amarie is so particularly annoyed with Finrod over this matter of visions is that she is Vanyar, and he's only quarter-Vanyar, and _her_ people are the ones who all along were closest to the Powers in terms of friendship and affinity, way before the malice of Melkor started turning the Noldor against the gods, so there's a bit of rivalry in operation going on here on top of everything else, a bit of spiritual jealousy at this passing-over (if it's really real) for a rebel who's hardly Vanyar at all!

 

 

 _banshee_ : a regrettable but irresistible joke, due to the fact that it is literally true — banshees are not ghosts, nor evil spirits, as is commonly believed, but only mourning female relatives of the soon-to-be-deceased, who happen to be immortals. "Ban" is Gaelic for woman, "shee" the phonetic rendering of "Sidhe" — the Fair Folk, those who dwell "beneath the hills" and within the woods. So it _exactly_ describes the current situation, since the traditional banshee keens for the mortal scions of her own house, whose existence is due to just such long-ago romances.

 

 

 _Islands_ : see _Silm.,_ "Of the Sun and Moon," for the story of the defensive screen of islands and time-trapping web of dreams (similar to the Girdle around Doriath) set up to protect the coast of Aman against a renewed invasion from Middle-earth (along with the expansion of the mountain-barriers and the maintenaince of a round-the-clock watch on the only pass to the interior of the continent) which actually ended up catching those Noldor sailors who succeeded in getting that far in defiance of the Ban.

 

 

"Not before you're ready" — the obvious explanation for this, and all the exchanges referencing this fact about the Halls, would be that it comes from "Laws and Customs," and specifically the "Statute of Finwe and Miriel;" however, I didn't actually _read_ the Statute until this scene was finished, and only once, briefly, skimmed the earlier parts of L &C before writing Act IV to this point. The simple basis for it is the high priority placed throughout Tolkien's other writings on personal liberty, the value set on individuality, and healing — the fact that regardless of power or authority, no one can coerce another's will and still be a good guy. And that no one is compelled to do what they ought, regardless of how "practical" it would seem — that even self-binding via oaths to a good cause is discouraged, for instance, by Elrond; and that those who do not wish to come to Aman are not forced to do so by Oromë.

So it wasn't really surprising at all that the problem of those who wish to remain however inconveniently dead may do so for as long as they wish, and ideally should be free of pressure from family members to hurry up and make the decision (whichever way), so that a significant length of time is mandatory and must elapse before any permanent commitment can be made. No one is forced to return to life who does not wish to, and no one is allowed to compel another either to leave before their healing is complete, or to stay there so that the spouse of a deceased Elf can remarry. The rights of the Dead are forcefully upheld by Námo and Vairë, even when they consider the decision to be a bad one, as in the case of Miriel.

(The rights of the individual to self-determination is specifically upheld by the Weaver, who denies the beliefs of the other Valar that poor Miriel didn't know what she really wanted and was rushed into things by Finwë (who was a selfish lout for giving up on her so quickly) and wasn't up to making the decision, even after all those years had gone by for her to reconsider: Vaire points out that she's worked with Miriel for a very long time now, knows her pretty well, and since it's a safe bet that Finwë also knew his soul-mate very well, it's also safe to assume that he _knew_ what Vairë has noticed about Miriel — that she's one of the stubbornest people in Arda, and not weak-minded or weak-willed at all. —Oh, and before you guys go slamming Finwë, wait till one of us Valier leaves you here, stuck with the Children to mind, and _you've_ got to go through the rest of Time all alone…!)

But it was pleasant, I admit, to discover that the issues had been discussed in detail and so articulately, and that Námo was just as adamantly fair-minded as I had assumed the Lord of Justice to be, and that the Weaver has canonically a tart manner when she gets ruffled.

(It can be seen by this that Amarie is seriously pushing the limits, here — _technically_ she hasn't done anything "wrong" by asserting that she just doesn't want to have anything to do Finrod for the next hundred-forty-four years, but she and everyone else knows perfectly well that she's breaking the _spirit_ of the law against telling your spouse to stay dead…)

 

 

 _Ulmo_ : his role as Finrod's patron is longstanding, and comes from the sequence wherein Finrod and his cousin and close friend Turgon are travelling along the Sirion together, and receive simultaneous but separate dream-warnings to seek out and reinforce safe havens for their followings, which inspiration results in the building of Nargothrond and Gondolin. What exactly this means, and why the other powers find it so exasperating, comes from his role as Loyal Opposition in the Ring of Doom (when he bothers to come at all — he doesn't find it easy to limit himself to the kind of material, land-bound form that his fellow demiurges enjoy) and elsewhere, arguing against the idea of bringing the Eldar to Valinor in the first place, and constantly working to counteract the power of Morgoth — and the doom of the Noldor — throughout Middle-earth wherever his power over water is not completely overwhelmed by pollution.He finally gets a chance to explain in full what he's trying to accomplish and how, to Beren's as-yet-unborn cousin Tuor, the one who in Beleriand most clearly hears his call and is willing to help, and does so to an extent that no one else in Beleriand, Man or Elf, has shared, as he commissions the mortal as his prophet before sending him to warn Turgon and the Noldor of impending crisis. (All of which is set forth in the fragmentary chronicle, "Of Tuor and his Coming to Gondolin," _UT.)_ But, in brief, it's his _job_ to argue, defy, and subvert, because monolithic unanimity without dissenting opinions isn't good for any ruling body, celestial demiurges or not. After all, he's the Power of the Deeps, and that's what water _does_ , as well as to heal, purify, provide easy communication and transport, quench thirst, and sooth the soul…

—But if it weren't the case that Ulmo had chosen Finrod to carry out his work in Middle-earth first, then it would be very natural to assume that Tulkas was his particular patron, (rather than Aulë by default of his Noldor heritage.)

 

 

 _Taliska_ : as remarked in earlier acts, this, the native language of the Bëorings, was derived like that of the people of Hithlum and Brethil from the Elven dialects of the eastern Moriquendi who befriended the ancient Edain and taught them, but these dialects, which survived in part to become incorporated in what would become eventually Westron, are very different from both Quenya and Sindarin. That Finrod could intuitively comprehend their speech and learn it by first mindspeaking with the tribe of Balan is indicative of his unusual abilities in this area (due no doubt in part to the fact that unlike most in Aman, he came from a bilingual family to begin with.)

"Barbarous" is a linguistic joke, but also fairly apt: the word _barbarian_ refers to those foreigners who did not speak Greek as their native tongue, and thus were obviously "not from around here" nor civilized. (Literally, it means people who go "bar, bar, bar," instead of speaking "real" words; the nearest American equivalent to this Classical jibe would probably be "spic.") Thus, what his friend (who earlier, recall, did not say "there's nothing wrong with your accent," but "you can't _help_ your accent," which isn't the same thing — but the Dead must speak truthfully) in essence says is —Yes, you're a hick, and you talk funny — now, are you going to let that stop you?

 

 

Námo is the avatar of Justice in Arda. Justice is not sentimental. (Nor is _giving consolation_ the proper function of that office.) The fact that other people have and will continue to fall down on the job does not in and of itself make it so that Beren's _not_ failing in his own duty ought to be rated higher in consequence. (Justice doesn't grade on a curve, so to speak.) The Doomsman is not mean. He's just not _nice_.

 

 

Regarding the attempted _rescue_ of other Silmarils: in fairy-tale terms, it's inevitable — that whatever it is that shouldn't be done, which will arouse the guards of the sought-for entity on the quest, will happen. Prince Ivan takes the gorgeous bridle, not the rope halter, because it is more fitting for the finest horse in the world, and the spell of sleep is broken in the quest for the Firebird. Murphy's Law is always operative, such stories would seem to remind us. But the specific rationale is not my own invention. Although this complaint has bothered me ever since I encountered it on Usenet, and the obvious corollary never seeming to be asked — so, having come this far, with all the history lying behind, _you'd_ just leave the others there without trying? Really? (And if so, what's _wrong_ with you?) — the two key words themselves are there in the original texts: _save_ , and _free:_

 _"Again he stooped and strove afresh_   
_one more of the holy jewels three_   
_that Fëanor wrought of yore to free._   
_But round those fires was woven fate:_   
_not yet should they leave the halls of hate…"_

in the first rescenscion, and in the second,

 _"Behold! the hope of Elvenland,_   
_the fire of Fëanor, Light of Morn_   
_before the sun and moon were born,_   
_thus out of bondage came at last,_   
_from iron to mortal hand it passed._   
_There Beren stood. The jewel he held,_   
_and its pure radiance slowly welled_   
_through flesh and bone, and turned to fire_   
_with hue of living blood. Desire_   
_then smote his heart their doom to dare,_   
_and from the deeps of Hell to bear_   
_all three immortal gems, and save_   
_the elven-light from Morgoth's grave._   
_Again he stooped; with knife he strove;_   
_through band and claw of iron it clove._   
_But round the Silmarils dark Fate_   
_was woven: they were meshed in hate,_   
_and not yet come was their doomed hour_   
_when wrested from the fallen power_   
_of Morgoth in a ruined world,_   
_regained and lost, they should be hurled_   
_in fiery gulf and groundless sea,_   
_beyond recall while Time should be…"_

That the Silmarils are alive, and in some sense yearn for their native elements, derives from _Silm_. itself:

"Yet that crystal was to the Silmarils but as is the body to the Children of Ilúvatar: the house of its inner fire, that is within it and yet in all parts of it, and is its life. And the inner fire of the Silmarils Fëanor made of the blended light of the Trees of Valinor, which lives in them yet, though the Trees have long withered and shine no more. Therefore even in the darkness of the deepest treasury the Silmarils of their own radiance shone like the Stars of Varda; and yet, as were they indeed living things, they rejoiced in light and received it and gave it back in hues more marvellous than before."

They can be described in a sense as being "cuttings" of the Two Trees, in that they are independent of the parent organisms the way that botanical life can reproduce (though not in a natural manner), and capable of surviving (so to speak) thus detatched; but there is a sense in which they are more like _artificial seeds_ , since, imprisoned in their unbreakable crystal shells, they do not grow and change the way the Trees did, but remain perpetually limited and _in potentia,_ while beautiful in themselves.

So — greed and stupidity, or foolhardy selflessness? Your call — but read the words. But it's clear from the texts that it _isn't_ a punishment, (as I have read one essayist declare), a sort of divine cause-and-effect wherein the Valar hit Beren with the loss of his hand as a penalty for the arrogance of trying to take all of them. (For one thing, the Powers don't have that kind of clout, quite apart from whether they would.) It's just destiny — which is a fancier way of saying "stuff happens, bad and good, and sometimes things work out and sometimes they don't."

 

 

 _revenge_ : the pledge to avenge Barahir if it took him to Angband itself, mentioned in Scene II, as recounted here in LL2, Canto III:

 _"There Beren laid his father's bones_   
_in haste beneath a cairn of stones;_   
_no graven rune nor word he wrote_   
_o'er Barahir, but thrice he smote_   
_the topmost stone, and thrice aloud_   
_he cried his name. 'Thy death,' he vowed,_   
_'I will avenge. Yea, though my fate_   
_should lead at last to Angband's gate.'_   
_And then he turned, and did not weep:_   
_too dark his heart, the wound too deep._   
_Out into night, as cold as stone,_   
_loveless, friendless, he strode alone._

—which is significant not simply for being fulfilled in a way the maker never could have imagined, but for the fact that Beren's response to his father's death is described in the exact terms of his later emotional state following Finrod's killing.

 

 

 _Endymion, Tithonus & Utnapishtim_: these three mythical characters are very much present in the audience, nodding knowingly from the gallery at the arguments and counterarguments. Both of the first two were Classical figures, mortal men who were loved by celestial women, and whose situations are not exactly enviable. Utnapishtim was a Mesopotamian folk hero who received immortality and found it a very ambiguous gift. Endymion is the most famous, but his fate hinges on that of the less fortunate Tithonus, a royal scion of Troy, who caught the fancy of Eos, goddess of morning, (made famous by Homer as "the rosy-fingered dawn.")

Eos apparently was cursed, by none other than the inconsistent Aphrodite, for helping Ares to cheat on her (with whom the goddess of love was cheating on her husband Hephaestus.) Her doom? To always fall in love with mortals, whom she was thus bound to lose. One of these was the well-known hunter-hero Orion. Tithonus never got a constellation, because technically he isn't dead — after a number of these short-lived love affairs, Eos had the brilliant idea of asking Zeus to give her latest inamorato the gift of endless life.

Unfortunately, it didn't occur to them that endless life and endless youth are not the same thing, until it was too late. Tithonus got older and more decrepit until Eos couldn't stand to be around him any longer, though he remained living (such as it was) in luxury in her palace for centuries. Eventually Prince Tithonus grew so bent and withered that he was changed into a grashopper, and became an Olympian cautionary tale against falling in love with mortals.

Selene, the sister of Eos and charioteer of the moon — who may or may not be supposed to be identical with Diana in this story, being real mythology, it isn't very clear all the time — also spotted a handsome young man asleep on a hillside one night while she was doing her rounds. This was Endymion, who was either a shepherd, a king, or both, and who received a slightly different, but no less ambiguous gift, from the moon-goddess. Remembering the Tithonus disaster, Selene asked Zeus to give him a sleep of eternal youth, thus ensuring that he would always be handsome, healthy — and, as it happens, helpless to leave, argue, or complain. The ideal dream-lover, so to speak; true, he can't _do_ much, but Selene had thought out the pros and cons before making her decision and factored it all in…

Utnapishtim was the Mesopotamian "Noah-figure" of their Flood story — which differs somewhat from the Biblical version in that people aren't in trouble because they've done anything specific like engaging in continuous warfare, but simply because they're noisy and get on the nerves of the Elder Gods. (It also differs in that the Elder Gods are a bunch of drunks, who frequently get each other snockered as a way of pulling fast ones on each other, and many of the inherent flaws of humanity are due to the fact that the rival goddesses who shaped people were doing shots at the time.) However, the counter-agent-figure of Mesopotamian mythology, who doesn't agree with the plan of wiping out people, and finds a sneaky way around the classifcation order, is none other than Enki, Lord of the Waters, who tells the plan _not_ to his friend Utnapishtim, but to the _walls_ of Utnapishtim's house. The construction of a huge ship and Flood follow, Men survive, the other Elder Gods relent, and Utnapishtim receives immortality as the due of his wisdom and efforts.

However, this turns out to have been a dubious gift — if it was meant that way at all. Gilgamesh, seeking immortality himself, encounters Utnapishtim in his wanderings, as an ancient, decrepit figure all alone, having outlived all his family, and eternal life not being able to counteract the natural aging process of mortality. — _Not_ a pleasant prospect. (I say nothing, nothing at all of _bread_ nor insufficiencies of _butter_ —)

Thus, when later another mortal hero gets in trouble for busting the wing of the West Wind, and Enki tells him to answer the summons to the Gods' mountain, but also how to get out of the charge with a successful defense, he counsels Adapa against eating or drinking anything there, because it will cost him his mortal life.

Now there are two ways of looking at it: Enki (aka Ea —!) is an ambivalent god, generally benevolent, but unpredictable or at least jealous enough of divine status to try to cheat Adapa out of what is offered him by lying to him that he will die if he sups with the Gods. — _Or_ , alternately, he saw what happened to Utnapishtim and realized that _eternal continuation_ without eternally-renewed strength is not something that is good for anybody. The myths, of course, don't say one way or the other. Most commentators on the Adapa story interpret it the first way — but none of them seem to consider the myths as a unity, in the light of both the friendship of the Lord of all Waters with the Ark-maker and Gilgamesh's encounter with his ancient progenitor. Taken all together, it becomes far less simple and clear-cut.

(And yes, JRRT was familiar with Near Eastern mythology, too.)

 

 

Question of mortality passing faster, or seeming to go faster, in Aman: this comes up much later, in the growing determination of the descendents of the Edain to "have it all," challenging the Eldar over their faith in mortals' eternity and demanding that they be allowed to sail West as well as east. Whether or not, as the chronicles speculate, the too-powerful ambiance of Valinor would overwhelm mortal physiology and cause Men to burn out faster there, or whether it might merely _seem_ that way, due to the fact of there being no "time markers" such as we are used to in a harsher climate and history, that a mortal lifespan would seem to fly by like no time at all, the problem of being the only sentients which aged in an ageless paradise is a real one. Would there be less resentment, or more? These future events chronicled in _Silm.,_ "Akallabeth," play as strongly into this scene and themes of this act as events of the First and Third Ages and the Before-Time of the Song.

 

 

"Fëanor himself, maybe, wrought them, in days so long ago that the time cannot be measured in years."(LOTR:TTT, "The Palantir")

The need to convert times points up the fact that _everything_ was different in the Time of the Trees, in a way which can hardly be comprehensible to someone born under and knowing only the Years of the Sun — and vice versa. The Sea-Mew, killed in darkness, has never seen either the sun or moon, or experienced time as it now runs, "swiftly," in the world outside the Halls, and has no frame of reference by which to make an equation; Beren, who has never known anything but the present state of things, also has no way of understanding the relative measurements, so it must fall to one of the returnees who _has_ experienced both modes to render it comprehensible for both of them (or rather, to give Maiwë the equations necessary for her to be able to do so.)

 

 

 _Gildor_ : that Gildor of the Outlaws was named after the same Gildor Inglorion who speaks to Frodo on the road in LOTR:FOTR is not a far-out assumption. Gildor the Elf is one of those from Aman, originally part of Finrod's following. The Edain names are all either known to be those of real Elves, or of Elvish derivation linguistically, and it isn't unlikely that Gildor, Barahir's mortal follower, was named after another notable of their common overlord — perhaps for a friend or comrade of the man's father or grandfather, from whom the name was borrowed. This exchange also points up one way that Gildor-met-in-the-Third-Age might have plausibly gotten to the lands east of the Ered Luin before that time, though there could be others — but more importantly, that niggling little historical fact that everything has to get from one point to another somehow, some _concrete_ how, (though it may be lost to us) whether it be name or object or news or person.

 

 

 _cousin_ : there's no way of knowing how many living cousins Beren had during his own lifetime, given the number of siblings his parents had, and the tribal connections of the Edain, but as in the earlier story I have taken the liberty of positing interactions in peaceful years with those two younger ones unfortunate enough to be known to history. Morwen and Rían had to learn their wilderness survival skills somewhere to begin with, after all.

 

 

 _hamsoken_ : a medieval English legal term reflecting the conviction that it is worse to come onto someone else's property and attack them in their own home than to simply get in a fight in a public place or commit highway robbery — adding insult to injury, as it were.

 

 

 _Eldar_ : Per _Silm_., Orome called _all_ the Elves at Cuivienen "Eldar," the People of the Stars. Some of them later decided that it _only_ applied to those of them who'd gotten to Aman. I feel pretty sure that the rest of the Umanayar, the people who _didn't_ get to Aman, would have strongly disagreed with that attempt to corral the name and lay claim to the symbolic stars thereby, and that the Valar, for whom language and names were clumsy things necessary for interfacing with material dimensions, would have thought it all pointless and silly divisiveness.

 

 

Beren's demand for answers, and The Meaning of Life is, of course, a re-envisioning of the climactic scenes of another work of literature — _The Book of Job_. It also comes completely out of the _Silmarillion_ : if his words are familiar, that's because he's invoking, somewhat consciously, but even more so _without_ conscious recollection, Fëanor's words to the Powers at the Darkening, and voicing as well the unconfronted doubts of Bereg, which continued to simmer even among the faithful Edain, voiced in later generations by Andreth and Morwen. That the dangers in demanding direct revelation from the gods come _not_ from the likelihood of being zapped with a thunderbolt for "impiety" but in the problem of not being able to cope with that much unshielded creative power can be found in myths like that of Semele, or the accounts of seers being left catatonic after encounters with the Divine; that the consequence of getting what you demand from the reluctant gods can be a cautionary tale shows up in Aesop, and elsewhere. "He who asks questions cannot escape the answers," goes an old African proverb, tellingly.

 

 **Gamma's Note** [**:** Scene V.xix](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11749854/chapters/26580093)

The various plans Luthien references discussing with Huan come from LT2, _the Tale of Tinuviel_.

 

SCENE: V.xxix

Luthien's statement about not calling anyone who thinks "I have to go to Angband and get killed because your father will never approve of me" sane is not quite giving credit to the power of oaths in this setting. Beren's exact words, as taken from LB, the great argument that has been quoted in part above, are:

"for never more to Doriath  
can Beren _find_ the winding path,  
though Thingol willed it or allowed;  
for to thy father there I vowed  
to come not back save to fulfill  
the quest of the shining Silmaril  
and win by valor my desire."

The emphasis on the word find is entirely my own, but it's use and implications are interesting. Is Beren simply being a stubborn idiot who refuses to accept defeat and is being moved by greater powers than he? Or is he caught in a Oath of his owon making, that binds him from making it into Doraith? The text implies the latter. This is made more interesting by the original scene in Menegroth, which includes no such oath, simply in the _Tale_ : "nay but 'tis too small a gift to the father of so sweet a bride. Strange nonetheless seem the customs of the woodland elves that thou shhouldst name the gift unoffered, yet lo! I Beren will fulfill thy small desire," which holds an impled, 'and I won't come back untill I do', but still...

In LL!, the claim is virtually identical, but in verse:

"for little price do elven-kings  
their daughters sell - for gems and rings  
and things of gold! If such thy will,  
thy bidding I will now fulfill.  
On Beren son of Barahir  
thou hast not looked the last, I fear."


End file.
